"It's one of them, isn't it?" Her voice is tight, like a rich woman's face that's been lifted twice
too often. Or like the voice of someone trying very hard not to fall apart.
He doesn't know exactly how to answer. With the truth, of course. But he doesn't know exactly
what that is. "It's all of them."
She's sitting up, curled over her knees and staring at the tiny movements of her toes under the
sheet. "Screw you," she says, but sadly, like she hates to have to say it to him. "I thought we
talked about this. The job, the tour -- I *know* you're not going to be around much. Hell, you
never have been. I'm fine with it, I told you that."
"Maybe you shouldn't be fine with it. Maybe you could--"
"If you tell me I could do better, I'm going to slap you, Chris, I really am." She laughs raggedly.
He can make her laugh without even trying now. He thinks the first thing he fell in love with was
the way she laughed. *I'm not laughing at you -- I'm laughing in your general direction.* That
was one of their running jokes. No one else will ever really *get* that one. Not like she does.
Now he can't even face in her general direction. He just lies there, arms under his pillow, looking
out the window, away from her. He hears her light a cigarette, and he doesn't say *I thought you
were quitting,* because it's none of his business anymore.
Not if he's breaking up with her.
"There's nobody else," she tests.
"No. Not like -- that."
"But there's Justin."
He's been worried for weeks, maybe months, not knowing which direction it's coming from, but
feeling sure that everything's getting screwed up between him and his best friend. What he hasn't
been sure about, though, is whether it's Dani or Justin.
Too late, he realizes he's waited too long to answer.
"You're an idiot," she tells him.
*You love me,* he usually says, when she calls him an idiot. He can't, now.
She puts her hand on his shoulder like she's tugging at him, like she wants to physically drag him
back, or maybe just shake sense into him. "I don't want you to do this. I don't want to see you
throw everything away just to make it easier for him to fuck you up."
"Justin's my friend. That's all."
That's true. He's never lied to her, never once, and he isn't starting this morning.
Who the fuck breaks up in the morning, anyway? He is an idiot. It's just that last night was the
first time it was really strange between them. The first time he couldn't put everything else out of
his mind for as long as she was with him.
"You and one-point-five million fans think he's going to dump Britney and marry you--"
"I don't think that."
"-- and it's never going to happen. It won't happen for you, Chris."
"I don't want it to."
That's true. Justin is so fucking intense, ambitious in every possible way. It terrifies him to think
of being Justin's 24/7 other half. Nobody can handle that, except maybe Britney, on account of
being exactly the same way herself, and never actually being around anyway.
They make fucking rotten boyfriends. All of them.
She kisses his hair, down where it's coming in its natural color. "It's more about everything else,"
he promises. "You said yourself -- I've never been around for you. Don't tell me you're willing
to settle for that. I wouldn't let anyone I cared about get away with just...settling."
He's been around for Justin -- for all of them. Albums, concerts. Lawsuits, hospitals. Binges,
breakups, awards, graduations. They've always been in it together, and settling for less should
not be an option. Not for her.
She could do better.
She seriously would slap him if he said it.
With a soft sigh, she lies back down, stretched out behind him. She's still not crying. Maybe she
will, but somehow the thinks probably not until after he's gone. She hates crying in front of other
people, says it makes her face puffy and gives her a headache and makes her feel like a stupid little
girl.
Two nights ago, he stopped by to pick up some CDs he'd loaned to Justin. He was sitting cross-
legged in the middle of his living room floor, the living embodiment of superstar degeneracy with
his ashtray -- mostly full - by one knee and his bottle of vodka -- mostly empty -- by the other.
His hands were full of papers, stacks of them, folders of them.
Justin held them up for display. He recognized a lawyer's letterhead on the top page, and the
name that nobody was allowed to say in interviews. The Fan. The Plaintiff. "She hates me,"
Justin said, his voice very small, uncomprehending. You would think the lawsuit would have been
a big clue, but he said it like he'd just found out that night. "She hates me."
"She's a psycho."
"Doesn't matter," he said, very seriously. And of course, to Justin, it wouldn't.
He stayed the rest of the night, holding Justin on the floor while he cried himself empty, holding
him after he passed out.
Dani never cries, and neither does Chris. That was another thing he fell for; she doesn't bitch and
moan like a lot of women do. If she doesn't like something, she jumps in and changes it, exactly
the way he does. They made a good couple -- in the public eye, and in each other's, too. How
rare is that? To work in both worlds.
"How do you know? I mean -- what makes you think this has something to do with...him?"
He really wants an answer to this, because there's a lot he doesn't know. If he wants things from
Justin, other than the things he has already. What those things might be. How this happened.
How much is possible.
"I guess...I guess it was when he'd call. Christ, he was *always* calling when we were together.
But I guess it was what he would say when he'd call."
For an endless, freefall second, he thinks, What did Justin say to her? Something stupid -- selfish
-- something terrible? He feels like a thin razor of betrayal is splitting his skin down the middle.
He can't handle that, an open conflict, Dani vs. Justin. No, he cannot be having that. "What did
he say?"
"Same thing. Every fucking time." She pitches her voice into an eerily accurate parody of
Justin's inflections, his world-famous voice. "'Gimme Chris, yo. I need him.'"
He relaxes. That's not awful. That's just how Justin talks. Demanding, but not in a cruel way;
he never intends any harm. "That doesn't really -- you know. It doesn't mean all that much."
She laughs. Not at him, not in his general direction. Maybe in her own. "Not to me. Not to
Justin. But tell me it *doesn't mean all that much* to you, and I'll call you a liar to your face."
He's never lied to her, never once. He used to think that's what love was.
But now it's not so clear. He's made a fortune singing about love to children who've never felt it,
and he doesn't even know what his own songs are about. Doesn't know who he loves, or how
you can tell.
Only that there's a woman he can trust with his life, a woman he can say anything to, who only
ever wanted him to be himself. And a man who needs him, has always needed him, will never let
him go.
He rolls over and burrows down, putting his head on her stomach, wrapping his arms around her
ribs.
She holds him while he cries and cries.
end
Bettythoughts (from the original posting, July 2001): So, I get people all the time saying to me,
"Betty, I love your stories; they're so funny and charming, and your guys act like real guys and
the dialogue is sparkly and clever. Write more!" Naturally, for some totally perverse reason, this
seems to have driven me to write an angst-fest with boys who weep and practically nobody
talking at all. In other words, this is an experiment -- as in, a story which is bound to irritate my
audience and alienate my fan base. Don't worry, it's not going to be a habit; I just wanted to see
what it would feel like to write, and then I figured, hell, post it, what's the worst that could
happen? On another, more trivial note, I had just a heck of a time coming up with a title for this
story, which is unprecedented for me; I always come up with the title simultaneously with the
bunny, and write with that in mind. I don't even know why I finally settled on this one, except
that the story was done, and I had to call it something. It is pretty, though not as chock-full of
meaning as my titles generally are; it's mostly just sad-sounding. And now that I have you all
thrilled about reading this....