Scissors

You look across the room and see him looking at you again. This time you catch his gaze before he can turn away, and this time he doesn’t. You smile, and he smiles. You shake your head and look down, your eyes crinkling at the corners, and return your attention to the honey you’re stirring into your tea.

Suddenly he’s beside you. "Can I talk to you?" he asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s taller than you, but somehow he still looks like the twelve-year-old kid who followed you everywhere like a lost puppy all those years ago.

Your spoon clinks against the mug and you stop stirring to look at him. You taste the tea without breaking eye contact and decide it needs a dash more lemon.

"I was wondering if—if you could maybe, sometime if you have time, help me on this thing I’m working on? Maybe?"

You wonder why he’s so anxious. His eyes are wide and hopeful and you can’t help smiling. "Sure." You taste your tea again.

"Really?" he all but squeals.

You furrow your brow a little, then smile again and nod. "Tomorrow okay?"

He relaxes and flashes one of his dazzling grins at you. "Definitely. Tomorrow." His name is being called by someone across the sea of people, so he darts away, throwing one last glance over his shoulder at you.

You get lost in thought, not an uncommon occurrence, as you sip your tea. You remember when you first met him. He was such a little twerp, seeming eons younger than you when you were sixteen and he was twelve. He had floppy curls, then, and big blue eyes that made telling him to knock it off and quit following you around impossible. His thousand-watt smile had won over millions of hearts, including yours. You were, for all practical purposes, the big brother he’d never had.

While the rest of the world watched him grow up through a fishbowl, you watched him through a magnifying glass. You saw the details he managed to hide inside the fortress, literal or metaphorical, that the public had simply been too far removed to catch on to. Even nowadays, as he stands a few inches taller and a few muscles bulkier, he retains a little bit of that innocence and twerpiness. You find it endearing.

 

J

You drive home slowly. You’re starting to wonder why you asked him over. It isn’t much of an excuse, really, the song you’ve been working on. You pretty much know what you want it to sound like, and he’s just going to want to add more synthesizer or take out some of the background beat, and you’re picky about your music. So is he.

When you turn into your driveway, you see his car already parked there. You knew he’d beat you; you’d taken the long route to give yourself some time to think. You’d thought about his smile and the way he doubles over when he laughs. You’d thought about his floppy curls and the way he’s sometimes so lost in thought that he’s embarrassed when he snaps back into reality. You’d thought about how you’ve grown up together, the two of you, and how he’s always there for you. You always want to be there for him, too. You didn’t really spend the time thinking about what you should have been thinking about.

He’s sitting on your porch swing. That dumb swing that reminds you of home and of your grandma’s house, and feels out of place on the front porch of a twenty-one year old millionaire, even to you. He stands when he sees your car, and the swing comes back to bump him in the backs of his legs. He ducks his head and waves, and you turn off the engine.

He follows you into the house and you offer him food, drink, anything. Mi casa es su casa, you think. He declines and smiles, rocking back on his heels. Probably wondering what you were so excited about yesterday. Your stomach tightens looking at him, and you mentally kick yourself for it. You lead him over to your keyboard. The music is still sitting out, scratched notes and scrawled words that even you have a hard time deciphering sometimes.

He lowers himself elegantly onto the couch, and you turn on the keyboard. You find the saved file and play it. He reaches for the music and follows along. You wince at your reproduced voice, but he’s smiling. His head is bobbing and his smile widens as the song continues.

"I know it’s rough," you say. "I was hoping you could, I don’t know, figure out what it’s missing."

He reaches over and plays it again. He’s got that look of concentration etched onto his face, and his tongue is sticking out the side of his lips. You force yourself to look away.

"Here," he says, standing. He changes the drumbeat slightly and adds a descant over the melody for the third verse. You stare at him open-mouthed. You’d been happy with it before. It had been an excuse to hang out with him. But now, now it’s wonderful. You can’t help the excitement bubbling in your chest.

"That’s it!" You jump off the stool and replay the song. "That’s perfect! Thank you!" You throw your arms around him and press your lips to his before you realize what you’re doing. You pull away sharply and cover your mouth with the back of your hand.

 

C

You’re in shock. There’s no other way to describe it. He’s standing there in front of you, looking like he’s about to run, or cry. You want to say something, but there are no words. So you smile. "Glad you like it," you say.

He mumbles an apology, something about having been so excited. Then he laughs and the blush in his cheeks starts to disappear. You listen to the song a few more times, tweak it a bit more. He looks happy with it, so you squeeze his arm and tell him you’ll see him tomorrow.

When you go home, you let things start to sink in. Justin kissed you. Granted, it was just a little kiss, he was excited, and he seemed embarrassed afterwards. Maybe it was because he was embarrassed that it worries you. You feel all kinds of brotherly affection for him, and you honestly had never thought to feel anything but that. You feel your heart beating against your ribs as you replay those milliseconds in your mind. The soft pressure of his lips against yours, his breath brushing across your skin, and then the look of absolute horror that flashed into his eyes as he’d realized what he’d done.

You’re touching your lips with your fingertips without even realizing it. You shake your head and start upstairs to get some sleep.

 

J

You toss and turn, the sheets tangled around your legs. You’re not sure what happened to the pillows, and you think you might even be sideways on your bed. It’s dark and you wonder what time it is. The disorientation of sleep starts to disappear as your eyes search for the clock and focus, and you immediately want it back. With clear vision comes a clear mind, and you suddenly remember kissing JC. Your stomach instantly turns into a pretzel and you squeeze your eyes shut and flop back onto the bed.

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes and rub. So stupid, so stupid. You’ve wanted to do it for a long time. You remember the first time you thought about it, about kissing JC. You were at a cast party for MMC, and you wandered into the basement where the older kids were. They were playing Truth or Dare, and one of the guys got dared to kiss JC. You don’t even remember the guy’s name. You stood in the doorway and you remember the squeals of "eww!" and "Do it, do it!" and "Oh my goodness, he’s gonna!" from everyone in the circle, and you thought what if that was you?

The thought had scared you, then. You turned and quietly made your way upstairs and out to the back yard. Britney was sitting on the edge of a planter, and you sat down next to her and asked her if she’d ever kissed someone. A week later, outside the dressing rooms, she kissed you.

You straighten yourself out on the bed, disentangle your legs and pull the blankets back up to your chin. You find a pillow and tuck it under your head. You force yourself to think of Britney. Your ex-girlfriend. Your first girlfriend, your first kiss. The first love you allowed yourself. You close your eyes and try to fall asleep without thinking about JC. The more you try not to think about him, the more he creeps into your consciousness. You hope that your consciousness slips away into sleep, and fast.

* * *

You can’t help it. You’re avoiding JC. Even Chris notices, and he’s usually so preoccupied with cracking jokes and being Chris that Lance has to nudge him in the ribs.

Chris is your best friend. You’re kind of glad he noticed on his own, because that means he really is paying attention to you. He sits down next to you during lunch, a week and a half after. After that night. "What did JC do?" he asks, his face close to yours and following your line of vision to where JC is eating a sandwich, alone.

"Nothing," you mumble with a shrug.

"Then why haven’t you been talking to him all week?"

You take a bite of your sandwich halfway through Chris’s sentence to give yourself a little more time to think of a convincing answer. JC doesn’t seem bothered by it, you think. He hasn’t acted any differently. He still smiles sheepishly at you through crowds of people, still punches you lightly in the arm when you nail the high note, still bumps his shoulder against yours when he sits next to you on the couch. Same old JC. But you haven’t been talking to him. Your return smiles are shorter than usual, and you can’t make yourself stay on the couch with him for more than a minute before you have to get up and get a drink of water or make sure you don’t have something in your eye or tell Joey that new joke you heard.

"J?"

You forgot Chris had asked you a question. "Huh?

"Why are you ignoring JC?"

"I’m not. Want some more chips?" You flash your famous smile as you get up and head to the buffet table, looking back expectantly at Chris. He shakes his head and you shrug, digging your hand into the Tostitos bag.

 

C

You’re not sure what to do. You’ve tried the only thing that seemed natural – acting like nothing happened. You’re not sure why one little kiss should freak him out so much, or you. You guess you weren’t freaked out by it so much as surprised. He’d really taken you by surprise. You’re the kind of person who sometimes forgets to look for new developments among familiar things, because there are so many new things fighting for your attention already.

You decide that maybe you should talk to Joey. Joey’s the one you always go to for advice, and you have a feeling that everyone else does, too. He’s holding up the wall over on the other side of the room, waiting. Waiting for someone to talk to him, waiting for lunch to be over, waiting for things to start up again. "Hey, Joe," you say, "can I talk to you?"

He smiles and pushes himself off the wall. "Sure! What up?"

You look around the room. There are so many people doing so many different things that you wonder how you ever concentrate. You’re putting on another benefit concert and it’s happening in less than a week. It feels like an ant colony, all the worker ants scampering this way or that, all having very specific jobs, but the whole thing looking like chaos.

You’re not sure where to start. "Um… have you, I mean, has anyone ever done something that throws you completely off guard, and then, like, you never get to talk about it or anything?"

"You’re going to have to give me a little more than that to go on," Joey says with a small smile. His eyes are twinkling. They always twinkle. You think it’s because he’s a dad now, and his whole life is filled with joy, even the sucky parts.

You look at the hem of your shirt. It’s starting to fall out, and that makes you sad because it’s your favorite shirt. You see Joey move in front of you, trying to make eye contact with you, so you make it easy on him and look up. "Has Justin been acting weird?"

"What did Justin do that threw you off guard?" Joey’s a quick one, you think. Your heart is pounding in your chest and your mouth is dry. You don’t know why talking about this is making you so nervous.

"He, um…he kissed me."

"What?!" Joey laughs, a big, hearty laugh. Then he stops. "Really?"

You nod, suddenly miserable.

"Wow. Was it, like, a big, passionate kiss, with tongues and everything?"

"Joey!"

"Sorry." He ducks his head.

"No, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t a big deal, really." You shrug helplessly. "It’s just, now it is. Because he won’t talk to me."

"Then you gotta talk to him, man." Joey’s right. Joey’s always right. You think it’s that wisdom that automatically goes with being a dad.

* * *

You ease your car into the driveway. His car is there, parked inside the garage, but the garage door is still up. You cut the engine. Your insides are in knots and your throat is tight, and you wonder when you ever felt this anxious before talking to your best friend.

It’s not right, being nervous to see Justin. That’s why you’re doing this. You’re afraid that things are changing, and not in a good way. You keep telling yourself he’ll get over it and things will be normal, because dude, it so wasn’t a big deal, but it’s been almost three weeks, now, and he still isn’t really talking to you. You sigh and shut the car door.

Even though it’s close to midnight, there are still lights on inside. The porch light is on, too, but you think that might be on a motion detector that was activated when you pulled into the driveway. You knock on the door. Even though he’s the only one home, somehow the doorbell seems too intrusive for the middle of the night.

He opens the door a minute later. He’s in jogging pants and no shirt. You suck your breath in quickly. "Hey," you say. You can tell he’s surprised to see you standing there. He opens the door wider without saying anything, and lets you in. You set your keys on the table by the door.

He doesn’t question your presence. He goes back into the living room and drapes himself over the couch, a position you’re almost positive he vacated seconds earlier just to answer the door. He’s watching a Cosby Show rerun.

"Can we talk?" you ask.

"What about?" he replies, turning the volume down but not turning the television off.

"You know what about."

He looks at you, and you figure that’s as much confirmation as you’re going to get.

You take a deep breath and begin. "My mom always used to tell me, ‘relationships are like scissors. You have to be able to cut the problems between you without cutting each other.’ That never really made sense or hit home until these past couple weeks." You’re proud of how coherent that statement came out, because right now your insides are a big old mess.

Justin sighs and looks away from you. You’re a patient guy, so you just look at him until he turns his eyes back to yours.

"What’s wrong, J?" you ask. He still doesn’t say anything, so you decide to go on. "Come on, Justin. God, I’ve known you forever. For almost half your life, even. You can talk to me. You’re like my little brother—"

"Don’t say that."

You blink at him.

"Don’t say that," he says again. "About being my brother. You’re not. We’re not."

You can’t help the confused look you’re giving him. "I know, I just meant, you know, we’ve known each other a long time. We should be able to talk."

He looks positively miserable. He wraps his arms around himself, and you’re sure he’s wishing he was wearing a shirt. He looks at you and all you see is that tagalong kid. And he looks scared. Intimidated, even. Your breath catches in your throat and you move to the couch, touching his arm gently. "Are you okay?"

He nods and rubs his nose. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m being such an ass. I—I can’t help it."

"It’s okay, J, it’s okay." You rub his leg, hoping he’ll snap out of this and tell you what’s bothering him. You’ve almost never seen Justin Timberlake look intimidated. He’s on top of the world, in control. And it’s you, sitting here in front of him, causing his distress. You’re concerned now.

"No, it’s not. It’s not." He swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, even though there are no tears, and you can tell he’s struggling for words. "I just, I freaked out a little. You’re my best friend and I didn’t want to mess anything up. I always mess everything up. I don’t want that to happen again."

You think, isn’t that what you’re trying to prevent? You sit back against the couch and leave your hand on his leg. "So tell me what’s wrong." Your eyes are begging him.

"You really want the truth?" he asks, peering into your face. You nod, and squeeze his leg a little in reassurance. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I don’t want to lose you," he whispers.

"You won’t lose me," you say. "No matter what." You have no idea where this is coming from, but maybe it’s best to just sit back and listen.

He looks so young and small all of a sudden. Scared. You reach over and pull him into a hug, and he feels warm and solid against you. He’s shaking a little, though, and you pull back just enough to study his face. His eyes are so big and so blue and they slide closed as you try to see into them.

The next instant you’re kissing him. You’re honestly not sure which one of you initiated it, but warm lips are gliding across warm lips and your chest is tight and your stomach is fluttery and your head is light and your hands slide up his chest to hold onto his strong shoulders because you’re afraid that if you don’t anchor yourself, you might tip over.

He breathes into your mouth and it sounds like your name, and his hands are in your hair and running down your back and holding your waist and your hips and his tongue is pressing against your lips and you can’t breathe and you can’t think and you don’t want to think. You come up for air, just for a second, and then you cover his mouth with yours again. Everything is clicking into place, feeling right.

You’re glad you came over tonight to sort things out.

 

J

You’re kissing JC. You’re kissing JC. Oh, god, you’re kissing JC. Oh, wait, he’s kissing you. That’s even better. When you taste his tongue, you stop thinking altogether.

You finally pull back, even though every nerve in your body is screaming for more. You think you’ve freaked him out enough in the past month, and maybe you better take things slow. Your lips are cool with the absence of his, and you watch him as his eyes slowly open.

"J," he breathes, and you notice again the way the shadows fall across the angles of his face. He reminds you of an ancient stone carving, from Egypt or something. Perfect.

You chew your lower lip and cock your head to the side.

"What’s this about?" he asks, but he looks content. Happy, even. The confusion that’s clouded his eyes for the past couple weeks has cleared. You hadn’t really even noticed it was there, until now. Until it’s not, anymore.

You shrug and duck your head. "An apology?" you offer. He reaches out and takes your hand. His thumb rubs circles over your skin, and you know you are forgiven for being a Jerk Extraordinaire the past couple weeks.

"Next time," JC says, "talk. Remember the scissors." You think that’s the dumbest analogy known to man, but somehow, coming from JC, it makes sense. You bob your head and smile. Not your thousand-watt smile, but a small, private one, reserved just for him.

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