1: Wait
You wake up.
You think: is today the last day? You've been thinking that for three weeks now. Every morning, you think it. It could be today.
He's still here, though. He's still next to you, a hot, slightly damp living blanket to wrap yourself in and breathe in and wallow in. You pull his long, sleep-limp arms tighter around you, press your nose into the crook of his neck, smell his sleep-smell. He needs a shower. You don't mind. The sex was athletic and enthusiastic. You can still smell it on him.
He's nineteen, he's healthy, he's in murderously good shape: sex will always seem like a good idea to him. But he's pulling away, you can feel it. You knew it, you suppose. That's why you haven't broken up with Dani yet, even though you've been fucking Justin 'til your eyes bleed every night for three weeks.
You wonder if it's karma. That seems like a way too pat explanation, though. Shit happens, and sometimes you make it happen yourself.
Despite all the brooding you have time to do, you love these early-morning moments. When he's still asleep, and you've only just woken up and you're too sleepy to get up. When he's not distracted, or annoyed, or afraid, or anything but a pliable, warm, softly snuffling shape next to you, and you can touch him any way you want, and he only stirs lazily and presses closer. You've noticed that he smiles in his sleep when you touch him. You wonder what he thinks of.
Then he wakes up and frowns, like he's trying to remember who you are and what you're doing here. He came to me first, you remind yourself, but you're not convincing.
"Takin' a shower," he mutters and crawls over you. You let your hand slide over his stomach and side as he gets out of bed. Then you flop back on your back and try to think about something else.
You're taking him out tonight. You've been telling him about this gig for a week. You're excited, all the way through your budding depression. You saw Hard Core Logo play the CBJB when you were eighteen years old, and now Billy Tallent just happens to be playing a club right here, right now, today. And you're taking Justin, because you want him to know something about what you felt when you were his age.
And then Dani calls you, when everyone's there, and before you take yourself and your phone aside, Justin looks up from his video game and gives you a look, one of his patented you'll-pay-for-this looks, and you think today might be the day, after all.
When you get back, JC is staring at you. He's looking at you like he really sees you, and you want to tell him to mind his own business. But when he loses interest and turns back to the magazine he's reading, you feel like you might have wanted to talk.
2: Knock me out
It's a club, a rock club, and it's somewhere in fat, happy middle America, and no one knows you from Adam. That's a pretty reassuring thing. Everyone here is well over twenty-five, too, and that's another reassuring thing. The next band is already playing. You wonder what a guy like Billy Tallent is doing, playing a dive like this. Jenifur's been defunct for a year, but he still has the name. The band he's touring with now - Ragweed - is good, solid, angry rock, and should be doing better than this.
Justin, who doesn't really like rock, said, "cool," and refused to comment further. You have no idea whether this meant anything to him. During the gig, he seemed furiously concentrated, standing very still next to you, making sure not to touch you, his eyes intent on Billy and his guitar. You don't know if he was fascinated with Billy himself or the music.
The crowd is moving to the insistent, thrumming bassline like seaweed in a light squall, and people brush and bounce against you as you weave your way through the room. Justin is nowhere to be seen. He announced his intention to go backstage half an hour ago, and you have been expecting him back already, him next to you, put out and puzzling over how his celebrity status won't fly in a place like this.
But he's not back, and you're starting to wonder if maybe it flew anyway. There's another option, of course, the one that you don't really want to think about too much. You did smuggle his underage ass in here, after all. And you know exactly what he can do with a smile and a sultry glance. You go look for him.
Backstage is oddly quiet and empty. No crowd of fans, no giggling groupies. Just a bunch of bored roadies and a chubby, tattooed guy who leers at you and nods towards the dressing room door when you ask about Justin - 'tall, curly hair, good-looking' - and you feel cold, but you go anyway.
It's almost a relief - not quite, but getting there - to get things confirmed, cleared up, out in the open, done with. You experience a short moment of disorientation when you think you might punch Billy Tallent in the face, but that fades.
You've seen Justin come before, of course you have, but you've forgotten, somehow, that he'll make the same face when someone other than you is doing him. He looks just the same: a little surprised, a lot happy about it. You're pretty sure Billy Tallent gives great head.
You remember watching Justin with someone else before. You felt like this then, too: frozen in place, turned on and turned off at the same time. You weren't quite this angry then, though.
Justin sinks to the floor, just like he always does. He's boneless after he comes, always. He'll fall heavily on top of you, or lean his head against your chest, or just flop back onto the bed and lie still and just breathe, his cheeks ruddy and his eyes glazed over. He looks like that now, and you want to kick him.
They're adjusting clothing, getting everything tucked away, and you almost say something pathetic, like maybe Justin's name in a voice you know will crack. Instead, you choke it down, and they hear you.
Justin isn't looking guilty enough, and you know, you just know he wanted you to see this. You've pulled shit like this yourself. Just to get something over with.
Billy knows what's going on, too, and he kisses Justin, a slow, porn-kiss, and it's both a show-off and a kiss-off. You know you won't throw your Hard Core Logo records away: just because he fucked your boyfriend in a dirty dressing room doesn't mean he stopped being a brilliant musician. But you pretend that you will. You think about setting them all afire. He grins at you when he leaves, like he knows what you're thinking. Fuck, he probably does. You have a transparent face.
Justin gets to his feet. He's still afterglow-radiant. You want to kiss him like nothing else in the world. You want to punch him so hard his lips split over his teeth and his nose breaks and he'll have to spend three days in hospital. Maybe get reconstructive surgery. You don't. Instead, you back off a couple of steps, put your hand on the doorknob.
"Sorry," he mutters, but he doesn't mean it.
"I'm sorry, too," you say, and you do mean it. You leave the club and he follows you. You expect him to say, 'let's just be friends,' but he doesn't. Yet.
You don't speak anymore that night. Justin plays cards with Joey and cheats shamelessly. You watch him through the corner of your eye while you pretend to talk to JC. Finally, you admit that you haven't heard a word and go back to your own room. You punch the wall beside the door, but it doesn't make you feel any better. The physical pain doesn't make a dent in the real pain. You can't believe how stupid you are. The wall isn't Justin, you don't really want to hurt him, and this was all your own fault anyway.
3: Dry-cleaning
You take a chick-flick moment: watch Little Women alone in your room and eat about half a gallon of Rocky Road. You think the world might have ended when you weren't paying attention. You're almost confident it'll start over.
Three days later, a Jenifur song comes on before you have time to turn off the radio. Justin fucks up the game he's playing and swears loudly and inventively. Everyone looks at him and misses how you're standing frozen. Your hands shake, but you think you'll live.
You know that if Justin were to look up, you could meet his eyes.
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