People Like That
by Amber

I. hey yeah

You started sleeping with JC because he liked eggs.

The morning after Justin dumped you, you woke up and wished you were somewhere else. But you weren't. You were still with Justin, still staying in the same hotel he was, alone in one bedroom of his six-bedroom suite. You were there for him and you couldn't leave, had to face fans and cameras and smile like nothing was wrong because now wasn't the time for that kind of press for you. Or for him either, although you didn't want to care about that. You did anyway.

You ordered two eggs, sunny side up, and two forks and a pot of coffee. The eggs came and you dumped the coffee all over the contents of Justin's suitcases, walking down to his empty bedroom and listening to coffee hiss as it hit the fabric of his shirts, his pants. He had a t-shirt he loved, old and faded blue, and you made sure to pour coffee all over it, a dark brown puddle soaking into the fabric. You hoped you'd ruined something for him.

You went back to your room after that, looked at your eggs while you drank one of the three protein shakes you're allowed to eat during the day. You wanted the eggs so badly you could almost taste them. It had been a long time since you'd eaten eggs. You broke the yolks with a fork and stared at the yellow tinged metal of the tines, then put the fork down and had another sip of the shake. It wasn't bad. The chalky sweet taste was familiar.

JC didn't say hello when he came in. He forgot things like that a lot. Justin said it was because JC was always in his own place, in his own head. You thought it was that he couldn't be bothered.

"You look tired," JC said, and sat down next to the room service tray. He took a fork and picked at the eggs, glancing at you. "You ok?" he asked. You shook your head. You look pretty when you cry, except for when you really cry, when your nose runs and your eyes swell. JC watched you weep while he ate.

When he was done eating there were traces of yellow and white on his lips. You opened your robe, looked down at the long tan lines of your stomach, your thighs. Justin had never needed to tan; never had people tell him he was too pale, too fat, too blond. JC's hands were smaller than Justin's, bonier and warmer. He fucked like he was running a race, straining for something just out of reach.

It wasn't bad, and you weren't crying by the time he'd finished. He asked if you were ok again and this time you managed to nod and say,

"Yeah."

A love story:

Justin was sweet and funny and gorgeous and always took time to talk to you, even when you were a seventeen-year-old with baby fat clinging to your ass like it was never going to let go. He said you were beautiful and you believed him.

He bought you cards and flowers and jewelry and your mother loved him and he fit in when you went home; knew how to wash dishes and hugged your little sister when she was right on the edge of pitching a fit. He let you decorate the house in LA, said "Baby, it's ours." He said he loved the shirts you bought for him and held you when you cried over the articles that said you were fucking up every little girl in America and didn't you feel bad about it? He wrote you songs and sometimes snuck Twinkies to you when he came to visit, licking the crumbs off your fingers and saying 'almost as sweet as you,' smiling so perfectly, so easily.

He said, "I love you" and you think he might have even really meant it. You said, "I love you too" and thought that was how things worked; I love you and you love me equals nothing is going to stop us.

Except for the time he said, "Baby, you know I love you," and meant it's over. And then he had to tell you it was over because you didn't get it, couldn't read between the lines. Not too bright, people would snicker right to your face and you put up with it because what did they know and--

So maybe it wasn't such a love story after all and maybe you fucking should have seen it all coming.

II. here's my heart

You called Lance because you were going to surprise Justin, wanted to be there waiting when he walked off stage.

"Sure," Lance said and paused a little before adding, "maybe wait for him at the hotel?"

"No," you said. "The arena, totally. I've been there before."

"Ok," Lance said slowly. "But you know how it is after a show. All the people to thank and--"

"I don't mind waiting, silly," you said. "He's my boyfriend."

"See you soon," Lance said. His voice was warm and low, like a hug. You knew that the next morning Lance would be in the hotel gym the same time you were, and you'd talk about everything and nothing while you ran on the treadmill. He was always so easy to talk to.

You called Justin next. He said he missed you like crazy. You loved the way he said 'I love you'; the way he always said it before you hung up, like you might forget if he didn't say it. Justin sang the word love beautifully, but he said it better. Quieter, just for you.

You called Lance three days after the breakup. He asked how you were. You started to cry and then felt stupid, stopped and said you were fine.

"How is he?" you asked.

"Ok," Lance said. "I'm looking out for him. Taking him out, talking to him. You know?"

"Yeah," you said and poked at a bruise on your thigh with one finger. JC had held on to you tightly, like you were going to try to get away. Where else would you have gone? At least then you'd been near Justin. He'd had to see you, talk to you. Now he didn't have to do anything.

And he didn't.

You got to the stadium late because the airport was busy and then the limo was late and then a few girls spotted you and asked for an autograph. They were clutching their mothers' hands nervously. The mothers looked excited too, but you saw the way they eyed the shirt you were wearing, the line of skin that lay between the hem of your shirt and the low rise of your jeans. You started to push the straps of your thong down, but then remembered that you weren't supposed to care about things like that, that you were comfortable with your body, with people watching you with slight puzzled frowns on their faces.

The girls were named Sheri and Terri and they said you were pretty, so pretty. You looked at their chubby little faces, the lank strings of their hair. "Not as pretty as you," you said, and smiled.

Jamie could look like those girls, maybe, but your mother looked out for her the same as she did for you. The girls blushed and you signed pieces of paper for them and walked off, turning back to wave once. The mothers were still watching you. You hoped they told their girls how beautiful they were sometimes.

Everyone needs to hear lies now and then.

You ran into JC at a charity thing, two weeks after he'd looked at you with egg on his face and then gripped your body with his hands. He hugged you and asked how you were doing. You'd been drinking so you didn't lie.

"I feel--I feel like shit," you said, and told him you were flying home to see your mother, your family.

JC was wearing an orange shirt so bright it made your eyes hurt. He stared at another girl's ass while he said, "Do you want me to come by and see you later?"

"No," you said firmly, but changed your mind an hour later when someone whispered to you that Justin had made the gossip column of every newspaper in New York, visiting strippers and having a great time. "So sorry to hear about you two," you heard, and stopped listening after that.

JC came over wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt colored pastel-hued and ripped around the hem. He took everything off as soon as he walked into the room. He didn't stay the night; he had a plane to catch. He was still running the same race, all his muscles straining for something that appeared to be just past you. He said your name a lot, like he wanted to make sure both of you remembered it. You thought he was a real ass and were glad he and Justin were such good friends.

"Doing ok?" he asked before he left.

"I'm fine," you said, and he smiled. He had a nice smile. But then so did Justin and you knew how *that* went.

You called Lance later, after you got tired of sitting around wondering what the odds were that JC's plane would crash. Probably pretty good if wishes counted in odds making.

"You heard?" Lance said, and you said you had.

"It's not true," Lance said. "We went out, and one girl wanted Justin to lick whipped cream off her. I did it for him."

"Oh," you said. "I thought you meant the thing with the strippers."

"Oh," Lance said. "oh. I didn't know about that." His voice was tight, strained. You told him not to worry about it, thanked him for looking out for you.

Someone--a reporter--showed you a copy of the whipped cream story later, pressed it into your hand. You smiled and said you were excited about your upcoming trip to Japan. You were wearing a really low cut shirt, and the reporter stopped asking questions to try and look down it.

Justin wasn't in the dressing room, and Lonnie shrugged when you asked where he was, gesturing down the hallway and talking into a walkie-talkie. He said "Bird" three times and you looked at him, wondered if he had a nickname for you. He sometimes called Justin funny little nicknames. You walked down the hallway, didn't see Justin anywhere. You turned down another hallway and then one more and then you were in the corridor right off stage, packed in with the crew and people waiting to meet the guys. You said hello to the people you knew and smiled at the ones you didn't. You ran into JC, who hugged you and said, "Justin's back in the quiet room. Come on." His hand was warm, almost hot, against the hip of your jeans, his fingers curling into the fabric.

"No-" you said, because you saw the back of Justin's head, way down at the other end of the hall.

"He's coming though," JC said and tugged on the waistband of your jeans. One of his fingers slipped under, brushed against your skin. He was smiling down at you.

You pushed past him and headed towards Justin. You lost track of him in the crowd, walked down another hallway. This one was mostly empty except for a few security guys. You waved at them and they smiled, eyes crinkling up, and laughed hellos to you. There was a corridor branching off the end of the hall, and you heard voices.

There were girls lined up against the wall of the corridor. They were all tiny but tall, standing on sharp wedges of heels, dressed in bright tight clothes. You could smell their scent of sex and hairspray and want from where you were standing. Joey was talking to two of them, one hand resting on either of their hips. His smile was broad and eager. He slid a hand under the side of one of the girls' halter tops and you watched that girl's eyes close, saw the other one press in closer, turning her body towards Joey's other hand.

Justin was there. He was talking to a girl too. She was dark-haired and tall, her skin a lovely cocoa brown. Her eyes were wide and deeply lined, her mouth painted a dark glossy red. Justin had one hand on the wall, resting beside the girl's head. He was smiling down at her. The girl's hands were pressed flat back against the wall but her hips weren't. They were brushing against Justin's. Nothing obvious, just a slow, gentle nudging. As you watched, Justin slid his hand down to rest on one of the girl's hips, pulling her closer. Lance was standing behind Justin, frowning a little. He put one hand on Justin's shoulder, leaned in to say something. Justin shook his head, turning back to glance at Lance with a smile on his face.

Lance looked up and saw you. Nothing moved on his face, but you saw reaction in his eyes. He said something to Justin again. Justin shook his head tightly, quickly, and pulled the girl in closer still. They walked down the hall together, heading into the darker corners. She was almost as tall as he was, their mouths turning towards each other, her straining in, Justin still smiling. You leaned back against the wall. In a moment Lance was there.

"Britney--" he said, and put a hand on your arm.

"It's ok," you said. "I'll just wait in the quiet room."

"He didn't know you were coming," Lance said. "I should have told him--"

"No," you said. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

III. I see what's really going on

Justin liked to make love in the morning, smiling down at you, brushing the hair back from your face. JC fucked, flying to see you for an hour, half a day, circles under his eyes and his hands firm as he pushed you back against walls and onto floors and into beds, always saying "You'll be ok."

Justin used to call and say he loved you. JC never called and didn't know your voice, always said, "Oh. Britney. What's wrong?"

Justin never asked for blowjobs, blushed and mumbled when you asked him about them. JC pushed your head down (and not gently) and moaned a lot. You and Justin had always done it face to face, watching each other. JC would roll you onto your stomach and lift you up, one hand on your hip.

JC didn't ever want to talk about Justin, would look at you blankly when you mentioned him, say, "You really shouldn't worry," as if that was supposed to fix everything. He would drink the protein shakes you'd been given to eat and didn't apologize for it. He sang loud stupid songs in the shower.

"Do you even like me?" you asked him once. His head was resting on your stomach and moving lower, his hair trailing over and around your belly button. Your voice was breathless and high, like it sounded after they'd run filters on it in the studio.

"Of course," JC said, lifting his head up. "How are you feeling?" His eyes were heavy-lidded, far away.

"I don't really like you," you said. JC looked stung for a moment and then smiled at you, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.

"You're feeling better," he said, and crawled up your body.

You always knew that there were others. Justin never lied to you about it, not really. He blinked a lot and looked at the floor and said he loved you when you asked if he'd touched anyone else.

Lance got you a cup of tea and sat in the quiet room with you, told you how his mother was doing. He was dating someone new, some dancer named Roger, and you listened, resting your head on his shoulder. When Justin came in, he smiled and hugged you and said you were the best surprise he could hope for. He smelled like sweat and stage makeup and a little like expensively cheap perfume. You told him you loved him and smiled at Lance when he touched your arm and walked away.

What could you do? You loved Justin. You knew what fans were to him. You knew how it felt to have people look at you with utter adoration and trust and lust. You knew love meant sacrifice. It was worth it.

You were sure of that.

"You know I love you," Justin said and you smiled and said, "I know."

"No," he said. "You know I love you."

"I know," you said.

"No," he said. "I mean I can't do this anymore. I love you."

"Oh," you said. "wait. You can't? oh. But you love me?"

"Always," he said.

You threw things and he hugged you and told you he loved you. You called him a lying cheating bastard and he said he loved you. You told him you were going to make him pay and he said,

"Oh, Britney. You know I love you."

"What does that mean?" you said.

He fell silent, and looked at the floor for a minute.

"Don't come back," you finally told JC. "I'm not doing this anymore." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looked at you. There was a bite mark on his neck. He didn't mind if you bit him. Justin had never liked it.

"Ok," he said. "But I'm here if you need me."

"What does that mean?" you said.

He fell silent, and looked at the floor for a minute.

"I don't know," Justin said. ¹  

"It means I just want you to feel better," JC said. ²  

Translation ¹:

Iloveyouloveyouloveyloveyouloveloveyouloveyou. I said it. Didn't I just say it? Isn't it what you wanted to hear? It's what I wanted to say until I didn't want to say it anymore. It's like that song, you know the one I mean, right Brit? Right?

Translation ² :

Sex fixes everything. Because, see, it totally is this thing, this experience that like reaffirms existence, and the message it sends is really positive and you know? It makes you feel better, makes everything ok, and so yeah, you know what I mean, right? Britney? Right?

"I'm so fucking stupid," you said.

Neither of them said anything in your defense.

IV. you're not the only one

"I need a favor," Johnny said and you smiled because he'd been really great about the press, not asking you to say anything, which was good because you weren't ready, knew you'd have to come up with something other than 'my boyfriend dumped me and it really hurts and I still cry when I think about it' because that's what people wanted to hear and would think anyway.

"Would you be willing to go out with Justin again? Nothing major, just out to dinner with him, maybe a few candid shots for the tabloids. You know I wouldn't ask but Justin --"

"What did he say?" Justin was bad at apologizing. After your very first fight, when you asked about the way he'd disappeared at a party and returned glassy-eyed and reeking of sex, he'd stopped calling for a while and then sent four dozen roses to you every day for a week. He'd never actually said he was sorry, but it was close enough, and when you made up he said, "I love you" for the first time and that was special. That was the best. You'd thought it meant everything.

Johnny cleared his throat.

"He didn't say anything," he said gently. "There's some--speculation. We need to keep it out of the papers."

"Oh," you said. "But if he's dating someone else--it's that dancer, what's her name, right? She always really liked him and I--"

You'd wanted to rip her hair out but instead had smiled at her and made friends, made sure to keep an eye on her, listened to her talk about her boring problems and her more boring life. People like her were so easy. They'd take the tiniest crumbs of anything.

"No," Johnny said. " Lance and Justin. Someone saw them leaving a club, they'd been drinking--you know how it is. I told Justin... I said, if things with Britney got messy, how much worse would it be with Lance? But you know how Justin is, and Lance--well, once he's got his mind made up..."

Once you cut your legs shaving. The razor had slipped, dug into the skin behind your knee. You hadn't thought anything of it at first and watched blood trickle out, a thin stream that grew wider and wider. You'd cried when the blood had soaked through a washcloth, stared helplessly at the tiny pink razor in your hand. You hadn't known it could hurt you like that. You hadn't thought about it. You've gotten your legs waxed ever since, prefer the sharp stinging burn of pain you know is coming to the horror of what you don't see.

"Lance?" you said. "Lance? and Justin? But that's...?" Your voice sounded small and far away. Johnny shook his head and chuckled, then saw the look on your face.

"Oh honey," he said. "I know. But it's just a dinner, some photos, a few write-ups in the papers. You'll be fine. It'll be easy."

He didn't say he was sorry about Justin breaking your heart. You figured it was implied. Or at least you pretended it was.

V. it's a lesson to be learned

You watched the guys get ready to pile onto the bus. You were almost done with your tea. Justin had one arm slung around you, grinning at something Chris was saying. JC wandered by, smiling at Justin over your head. There was a smudge of dark glossy red on his neck, right below his ear. You leaned closer to Justin.

"You know," Lance said as he walked by, leaning in towards Chris and swatting Justin's ass with a towel, "Timberlake is looking almost hot these days. What's up with that?"

"I'm always hot," Justin said, and laughed. "You just never noticed before."

"Oh right," Chris said, "Like anyone is going to notice you when Britney is around." He winked at you.

"You're right," Lance said. "Britney is way hotter. Better keep an eye on her, Justin."

Justin laughed and kissed your cheek.

"I will," he said. "You gonna keep an eye on me, Brit?"

You took one last look around the arena. Justin was already on the bus. There were still some fans around, waiting, watching, hoping.

"Everyone's gone," JC said. "Before, with Justin. The girl he--"

You threw your cup in the trash. "I don't care. She's nothing. People like that..."

JC touched your arm, his face drawn into a frown. "People like that are the only people here," he said quietly. "You know what I mean?"

"Sure," you said. "I know."

And eventually, you did.