gone

“Bet you he hung up a while ago and left her looking stupid.” Kendall mumbled, fingers brushing through her hair to add volume to her flattened mane. “I would.” Pursing her lips, words you can’t decipher in your current state of mind leave her Kylie-Jenner-lip-kit-kissed brims a few moments before she locks her phone and puts it away.

Hailey’s refusal to lower the pillows doesn’t budge and exasperated, you stumble out of bed and venture further into Kendall’s bedroom, toward her walk-in closet, where she’s sliding off her bracelets and neatly placing them in their respective drawer. 

Naturally, you move behind her and endeavour to help her remove her necklace, though your fingers keep shaking and render the attempt futile. “I got it.” She pats your hands gently, her nimble fingers replacing yours. The room begins to sway a little and you realize you’ve been on your feet (which still hurt like hell) too long. You sit down on one of the cushioned stools she keeps by her open display and decide to nurse your headache in silence… though, you soon realize, there is apparently no such thing as silence in a room full of young socialites.

The second your hear Been That Way, your heart sinks and it doesn’t matter that Kendall, who is always one step ahead, steps out of the walk-in closet and reprimands Hailey on her song choice, “you idiot”, ‘cause the memories are there and they flood each corner of your mind — like a room full of water; each tiny crevice completely filled.

“What?” Ignorance laces Hailey’s voice but regardless, it doesn’t influence Kendall’s course of words. “Alcohol sure makes you stupid!” The brunette snaps. Bryson’s voice is cut abruptly and though silence rings in the room, there’s a bittersweet taste clinging to the air. “That song’s a big fucking no, especially when Y/N’s drunk. Have you lost your damn mind?”

There’s a faint gasp, followed by staggering steps and soon, Hailey’s head’s popping in, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. She’s in the process of taking a step forward, seeming almost wary, but retracts when you shudder, a whimper, though indistinct, traveling past upturned lips. “Baby…?”

The small distance between the both of you doesn’t impact or weaken the quality in which her voice projects and pronunciation doesn’t seem to play any role… yet, you don’t hear her. You don’t hear anything besides Justin, Justin, Justin. Glistening eyes flicker upwards but instead of taking in a blonde worrying her bottom lip and an approaching brunette, you see Justin’s smile; the undefined dimples and the crinkling eyes that prompt the emergence of sweet laughter.

“Shit.” Hailey mutters and she shares a look with Kendall. “Y/N, sweetheart? It’s all good. Get up, honey. Let’s get you up and moving. Wanna go skinny dipping out back in the pool?” A beat. “Shit, shit, shit. Ken, go get Chantel.”

And though she doesn’t like being bossed around, ‘cause she does the bossing best, she hurries out of the bedroom in search of the girl in question. “Hails… I want Justin. Let me, I need to talk to him.”

“No, no, baby, trust me, you don’t. These feelings are just triggered by that song, your song. It’s temporary… I-I promise.” She keeps checking behind her, as if some invisible force is bound to materialize and lend her a helping hand. It’s Kendall and Chantel that show up instead.

“I leave you two with her for ten minutes and you get her in a mood.” Chantel’s voice hasn’t lowered and the irritated undertone confirms Kendall’s and Hailey’s suspicions; she’s still seething from her conversation with her good-for-nothing ex-boyfriend. “Y/N? What’s the matter? I know you ain’t thinking about Justin’s crusty ass.”

“Chantel! Jesus fucking Christ!” The horror on Hailey’s face is priceless, though it doesn’t faze her. “Y’know what you need to do?” She continues. “You need to put on something cute and go fuck him. Get this disturbing obsession you have with him out of your system once and for all.”

The thought of you laying down, satin bedspreads caressing your skin while Justin’s larger hands feel every single inch of your body, white teeth entrapping his bottom lip to keep from moaning, doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

“That’s the worst advice you can give her. So fucking useless, thanks.” Kendall snaps once again, pushing past both girls to get to you. “I’m about to give you some tough love, babe, you ready? Justin is just a little boy who’s still wet behind the ears. He doesn’t know what it is to love a woman. Whatever you had with him… Whatever’s left of it. It isn’t worth the pain, the tears and the million questions. Hails will tell you… back me up on this, bitch.”

“Don’t remind me I almost dated the guy.” Hazel eyes roll to the back of her head, disgust painting her face green. “But yeah, basically.”

“What she needs is a good fucking. Shit — it doesn’t even have to be Bieber. What about that other kid… Zen? Zayn? He’s cute. If his stroking skills are as good as his vocals… aye.”

“He’s dating Gigi, you thirsty ass bitch. Let her hear you said that.” Hailey chides. “Besides, you’d know this if you hung out with her once in a while. You’d think she’s the Grim Reaper the way you avoid her.”

“I don’t fuck with the Hadid sist—”

Dark eyes cut through trivial words, demanding attention and undoubtedly receiving it. “Not the time, girls.” Crouching down to your height, Kendall adopts a more austere countenance, the same one you’ve witnessed Kris acquire with her one too many times. “You’re drunk. Whatever’s brewing inside that heard of yours can’t be good. You’ll regret it.”

“You know what they say, nothing good ever happens after 2:00 AM and it’s currently,” pausing to glance at her watch, Hailey adds. “Ten past three.”

An exasperated sigh deflates from within you as you prepare for the backlash you’re about to face. It might be the alcohol talking and you might regret this come morning but that pull, that suffocating desire to be beside him, to touch him, hear his voice… it won’t leave. “I need to see him.”

The groans are simultaneous; Chantel all but leaves the room, Hailey palms her forehead and (probably) returns to her pillows, while Kendall squats there, head hung low in disappointment. “I’ll call you an Uber.” She says after a long period of silence.

The ride is quiet and uneventful. You stare out the window, at the ever bustling streets of Los Angeles, the unnecessarily excessive lighting and the occasional police patrol cycling down the street in shorts. The phone in your hand’s bound to leave indentations where you’re tightly holding onto it.

You can always come to me. You’re my girl, always. 

That’s what he said the day of your mutual breakup. It all made sense back then. You thought that somehow, that was his way of saying you’ll find a way back to each other, one day, that it wasn’t goodbye. And for some time, it seemed real enough. Your friendship (if you could call it that) thrived above all else and shamelessly, you bought into the false sense of security. Until his renewed relationship with ex-girlfriend Selena became the number one topic of conversation in every tabloid magazine imaginable. The reality check came crashing like hostile waves against an unsuspecting shore and you remember your hands itching to claw, destroy, ruin. 

You also remember the ever-present feeling of guilt skulking just below the surface, threatening to tip your friendship with her (because despite the media’s incessant desire to pit you two against each other, all it took was two encounters (the first one didn’t cater to the best of circumstances) to form a bond) over the edge and over a line you couldn’t come back from.

Selena is a sweetheart — she’s a breath of fresh air among malevolent smoke. How could you blame Justin’s adoration for her? Can you blame your own? Yes, he’s never come out and admitted the pair were rekindling their relationship but that doesn’t mean much. He’s like that. He doesn’t like labels. And he doesn’t like elaborating on his feelings, he simply expects you to be on the same page.

You’re surprised when the gates open automatically, legs heavy as you trudge up his driveway. It might as well be Mount Everest you’re climbing, and by the time you reach the mansion, your face is glistening with perspiration. You’re not sure what to make of his sudden presence; Justin’s standing by the arched door frame of his front door, his face impassive. He’s holding his cellphone to his ear — you recognize the silver casing, it’s the same phone that holds hundreds of pictures of the both of you — and you catch the last bit of his conversation as you near him.

“—she’s fine.” The slight furrow of his brows documents the first indication of emotion. Justin’s eyes glance downward, his body tense. “And need I remind you she’s here with me and not you?… Guess I’m what she needs.” That last sentence seems to be directed at you — a silent reminder — despite the evident presence of another person on the other line.

A burst of embarrassment colours your cheeks dark and suddenly, it all seems silly. The — how did Chantel put it? — disturbing obsession with Justin can easily be seen as detrimental and a bit pitiful, and who’s to say Justin doesn’t agree? You’re a burden that carries woes upon woes on your shoulders and proceed to continuously subject him to the same things that prompted his need to romantically disassociate himself from you. Even so, one couldn’t tell it bothered him (presuming your assumptions are indeed factual and not the fruits of years and years of self-loathing and insecurities).

Carefully mounting the half dozen steps leading to his portico—Justin doesn’t need to know about the countless drinks you consumed at the club and in the car on your way to Kendall’s apartment, and he patently doesn’t need to know where those drink originated—you start to regret every decision that single-handedly led to this moment.

The steps hold your attention long enough for Justin to rub a hand over tired eyes, mumble something inarticulate and end whatever conversation’s dampening his spirits. “Was that Kenny?” You ask, eyes shifting upwards to stare into soft brown ones; the immediate warmth it elicits temporarily disrupts whatever progress you’re making up the steps and one misstep later, you’re stumbling.

Justin touches your waist, his fingers pressing into your side, but the momentum is gone, though the embarrassment is very well alive, yet, you feel but a smidgen of it, the alcohol masking most of it. “Yeah. Wanted to make sure you made it here, I s’pose.” He shrugs.

You’ve gotten good at spotting his half-truths and while the intentions behind each lie remain an enigma, the discernment between his brazen dishonesty with others and his occasional deceptive behaviour with you (to which he proclaims is in your best interest) begin to blur; becoming almost impossible to pick apart. “I-I know it’s late.” You state as though the sun is emitting light behind you, the fib taking on the role of referee between two possible outcomes: reception and rejection.

He withdraws his hand but doesn’t leave you room—not even a millisecond—to crave additional physical contact for he laces your fingers together and leads you inside, past the foyer, and into the spacious kitchen. “Want a change of clothes?” Justin lets go of your hand, bringing the warmth with him, and retrieves a bottle of water from his refrigerator, twisting the cap open (and you smile, recollections of all the times he’s made fun of you for having such a hard time with caps and lids in general painting a more serene layer to an almost strained atmosphere) and slides it across the kitchen island toward you.

Nodding your gratitude, you make an effort to take a few sips, but otherwise, the label makes for a great makeshift stress reliever, each rip easing some of the anxiety presented by the current situation. “I’m not s-staying.” You refuse to look up from the bottle, to deal with the aftermath of your misleading—you realize—comportment. “I shouldn’t.”

You feel him advance rather than see him, his feet coming into sight, followed by his hand, calloused fingers tilting your chin up so you’re staring into patient eyes, and you can tell he knows. And you know better than to play innocent, those big dark eyes of yours (with gleaming specks—oh that spellbinding gleam—dancing around wide pupils, how its come in handy in the past) having lost effect somewhere along the second week of meeting each other.

Words spoken into a void, Hailey had said. It was right after her first “date” with Justin, and multiple yawns and—fuck, who are you kidding?—a bottle of wine (because watching Law & Order reruns unaccompanied and heavy-lidded and sober while waiting for a certain blonde that left hours ago rambling about spending time with “Justin fucking Bieber” on her way out the door, ran its course quite promptly), she staggered back into the shared apartment, face drooping with fatigue, and all but fell into your arms, mumbling about a dislike for dates, then went on to complain about his lack of attention—all the while pointing out your own, though in your defense, you were semi-drunk—and his “spontaneous” trip to a skate park in the middle of the night.

“A skate park, Justin?” You remember asking him.

“Spontaneity.” He’d said matter-of-factly and a little preoccupied as he attempted to twist your hair into braids—”you’ve seen Jazzie’s hair, I do it to her all the time. You’re talking to a professional, baby, now sit your ass down,” was his line of defense to your reluctance—“Khalil told me girls love that shit.”

“And you took that to mean ‘bring her to a skate park at eleven at night’? In hindsight, she probably thought you were picking out the perfect crime scene.” A shriek scratched past your throat as a sudden pull brought you backwards, and whether or not Justin yanked your hair on purpose, you forgave the offense the instant you glimpsed at your reflection in the mirror that evening.

“Yet, you’re still here.” Your attention is redirected back to him, and you don’t remember him being so close, though you don’t take a step back, and you don’t flinch back when he brings a hand to your face, thumb and forefinger attentively liberating a fiber of hair sticking to your eyelash. Up close and personal. God, you’d forgotten the feelings the sight of him evokes; Justin’s a walking canvas, colours adorning and bringing him to life, like the morose blues in The Starry Night, the mute greens in A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, the evocative browns in The Persistence of Memory, the benign yellows in Cafe Terrace at Night and the prominent oranges in Garçon à la Pipe. 

A true masterpiece.

Leaning into his touch, the crimson red of your lips leaves smudges inside his palm and down his wrist, where his Cartier bracelet scintillates in accordance with the overhead kitchen lights. Pulse quickens against stained lips and you lift your eyes just in time to catch the pink of his tongue recede from view. The trail progresses up his arm and by the time you’re kissing the conjuncture between his shoulder and neck, his hand’s pressing against the small of your back, pushing you forward until your chest restricts any further movement. Something within loosens and permits an easier intake of breath, whatever was weighing heavy on your chest dissipating into thin air.

For the first time since hearing Been That Way earlier, you’re mildly aware that everything is going to be fine, that you’re no longer struggling to come up for air, hands blindly grappling around for a lifesaver of some kind. For the first time in weeks (around the time you began going into town to drink and dance on other boys’ laps in order to forget), the distance between the both of you seems to have diminished considerably.

“I am.” A double entendre.

It’s red where you last kissed him, the skin stretching and retracting as his Adam’s apple bobs. “This isn’t a good idea.” Perhaps, it’s not. Perhaps, it’s overdue. Either way, you’re way too intoxicated to give a fuck. Eager kisses are peppered along his jawline and up the curve leading to his lips. Justin’s holding you at arm’s length the next second, his indicative actions eliciting a pout of your own.

“I won’t tell Selena.” You blurt out.

“Selena?”

“I promise.”

“Why are you bringing Selena up?” You sense confusion; furrowed yet slightly arched brows, an increase in his timbre and the subtle squint of his eyes. But your brain fails to recognize the emotion and act on it, instead, it formulates an interpretation of its own.

“…You’re right. God! Justin, I’m so sorry. If you couldn’t already tell, I’m drunk out of my mind.” You’re flustered, mind racing and concocting denouements that each highlight your heinous character. “Can’t believe I tried to encourage you to cheat.”

What follows doesn’t aid the situation. If anything, outrage, revulsion, surprise fit a more plausible reaction to such revelation, not laughter.

“Cheat? Who am I gonna cheat on, Y/N? My right hand?”

The genuine lack of understanding depicted on your face only seems to foster more laughter.

“I don’t understand. She broke things off with you?”

“More like there was never—wait,” his features harden into a more stern countenance. “She broke things off with me? So, hypothetically speaking, of course, in a scenario catering to your first assumption, if we were dating and decided to go our separate ways, you think she would dump me? Honey, I do the dumpin—“

“Hypothetically speaking?”

He sighs. “Selena and I are friends.”

“Friends? But...” Cards begin to fall into place. It explains some of the somewhat inappropriate topic of conversations with Selena (the ease in which she’d gush about another man’s attraction or “look at the firm butt on that one---I need me a man that can take care of himself, girl, effort isn’t one-sided.”) that left a vague belief of a ‘trouble-in-paradise’ sort of supposition on your part. “I read the magazines. I saw the candids, the hand-holding, the many outings.”

“Keeping quite the tabs on me, hm?” You’re far too engrossed with the evident cryptogram at hand to feel mortified about the accidental confession. “But you know better than to speculate. We’re good friends.”

“So... why the cold shoulder? I mean, you don’t text, you don’t call. Some of your fans have taken to dming me, asking if we’ve had a fallen out.”

Discomfort paints a frown on his face. “You moved on. I didn't wanna come between that so I gave you your space.” Removing his hands from your waist, Justin goes out of his way to run a hand over his buzz cut and dip a hand under his shirt, keeping them busy enough to avoid any further physical contact with you.

“Moved on?” Your heart’s in your throat.

“I know about... y’know.”

“About what?”

“Come on, don’t make me spell it out.” Justin laughs a humourless laugh.

You take a step forward only to have him take a subtle one backwards (and it hurts more than his supposed rekindling with Selena). “Who told you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Kenny. It’s Kenny. Perhaps, Hailey, too.

“Maybe I was trying move on.” The pain shooting up your calves urges a moment of respite. Leaning against the kitchen island, some of the pressure subsides but nonetheless, a dull ache remains stagnant except for the lethargic pulsing.

“Yeah? How’d that work out?”

“I’ll have you know I was doing just fine up until...” Up until Bryson’s stupid honey-like voice triggered certain feelings, arousing them from a long hibernation. Feelings you worked unrelentingly to steer clear of.

“What? Up until you thought Selena and I were back together? How do you think I felt about the guys you were picking up at those clubs? It drove me fucking crazy.”

Justin’s recent behaviour begins to make a little more sense. You were two passengers in the same boat but on opposite ends. A big disastrous misunderstanding. A miscommunication. He didn’t wish to stand in the way of your recovery and you, despite the pain it induced, wanted to support your best friends’ attempted renewal.

You sigh. “Nothing happened... I couldn’t do it.” Keeping eye contact becomes a burden, an impossible task, possibly rendered difficult by the stinging tears brimming your eyes. “I kept telling myself to go for it, to finally cut the thread I was hopelessly hanging onto, but...” You take a deep breath. “I saw you in every single one of them. Then the comparisons came and they just...”

“Weren’t enough,” the insinuation brushes against an old wound rather than inflicts a fresh one, because though a minute ago, you were certain about his unequivocal linking to Selena, the retraction canceling your previous speculations gave you the time necessary to come to a finite conclusion; Selena’s absence provides a vacant opening for the next girl and the next one after that and the next one after that. Despite the conspicuous deduction, the imagery adds another layer of melancholy to an already soaking canvas of darkness. “I know.”

A small time frame---one of ten seconds, or however long it takes someone on the verge of a breakdown to inhale and exhale a quivering breath---is all the time imperative for Justin to position himself mere inches from your trembling frame, those damn heels on the verge of giving out, and place both hands on the island, trapping you.

“Do you?” There’s a noticeable shift in your breathing, a shrinkage of the esophagus prompting a more laboured quality, perhaps originating from the strenuous task of sauntering about in six inch heels or the sudden heat of Justin’s hands on your waist, thumbs digging into your hipbones. Perhaps both. There’s a rising pressure stemming from Justin’s grip and conscious of his will to spare you further discomfort and sit you against the island’s countertop, you feel the need to interrupt him. The symptoms of a bruised heart don’t include temporary paralysis. Yet, the requisite exertion intervenes with your desired course of actions and compels an alternative method. Defeated, you wrap your arms around Justin and allow him to lift you onto the kitchen island.

“I do. I can relate. I haven’t hooked up with anyone else, not in the way you assume. To be honest, I don’t want to.” He whispers, the sound of his voice potent enough to kiss some of the restless doubts into a state of oblivion. “And I know it’s been a game of cat and mouse between us and that my actions don’t always speak louder than.. well, you know how the saying goes. But there’s an inexplicable  implication, an undertone, woven in this maddening inability to be apart.”

“These past few weeks without have been difficult, yeah.”

“I missed you.” 

“Missed you, too.” A feeling of relief washes over you and the overwhelming sense of appeasement that follows almost gives actuality an unrealistic aura. As if each moment leading up to this “reconciliation” has been the product of an hyperactive imagination. Craving confirmation, balled fists twist into the rough material of his shirt and as he inches forward, a mutual hankering for intimacy creates an unbreakable bond with a pull adamant on centering and aligning the both of you at the core of everything that simply is.