Don't
by Scotty

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Justin was still mildly drunk, just enough to buoy his courage, but not enough to deaden the pain, the one sitting right in the middle of his chest. He let the cell phone drop on the bed and then rolled toward the wall, burying his face in the pillow. His eyes leaked badly, the tears following gravity across the bridge of his nose and into his right eyebrow. Breathing hurt, so he gasped in shallow pants. Alcohol was not a good idea. Too much control slipped away. He retrieved the phone from the mound of covers and punched in another number. When a voice answered, he didn’t bother with hello.

“Where is he?”

“Justin? Jesus, where are you? I’ve called your house non-stop for the last two days.”

“Where is he?

When Chris hesitated, Justin disconnected the call. He didn’t need another lecture. He needed information, and anybody who couldn’t provide that was just wasting his time. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Maybe if he got laid, he’d forget. He pursed his lips in thought, chewing again on the inside of his lower lip.

He used the speed dial one more time and when there was still no answer, he used the keypad to dial another, less familiar number.

-::-

The girl had been smart enough to leave early. Mornings-after with Justin Timberlake were never romantic.

He rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up slowly. The phone had rung a couple of times already, but he hadn’t picked up. That’s what voice mail was for. He pushed himself up out of bed and walked to the bathroom, cracking his neck, first left then right. His back was tender and his head ached. He hadn’t shaved since Sunday and today his face felt rough. Uneven.

He pushed his body against the ceramic tile, letting hot water stream over his face. Maybe his mother was right and what happened was meant to be. The group was nothing to him now and the hype that went with it, was nothing more than that. Hype. He didn’t give a shit. Chris was okay. For a while. But you ride motorcycles and hit PlayStation to get away from life. Those things had nothing to do with Justin’s real existence. Fatone and Bass had lucked into a good thing and now the free ride was over. He didn’t want to hear about it.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and pushed a tooth brush into his mouth. So what was today? Wednesday. He looked at the clock by the bed and realized that he should probably have been in the studio by now, even if just to work on the tracks they’d already laid down. JC would be pissed.

He reached for the phone and then stopped. There was no JC. Not any more.

-::-

He was flipping through a stack of mail in the kitchen when the phone rang again.

“Yeah.”

“It’s Joey.”

There was a moment of awkwardness, then Justin spoke, falling into a familiar banter that no longer meant anything. It was out of his mouth before he realized he was saying it. “I’m late, right?”

“I’m not your babysitter anymore, Justin. Wherever you’re supposed to be doesn’t mean jack to me.” When Justin said nothing in return, he went on. “Stop fucking with him, okay. He’s married now. Leave him alone.”

Justin stared at the calendar on the wall. The circled date. It had been almost a month now. He was squeezing the phone, making the muscles in his hand hurt. He thought briefly about the pain, then tightened his grip again. Joey's voice had gone up an octave.

“You’ve got somebody, Timberlake. Remember? The one in the magazines?”

Justin could hear ragged breathing. Maybe from anger. Maybe something else.

“You fucker. If I’d have known you were at it again, I’d have kept him away somehow.”

Justin used the same tone he always did with people who had outlived their use in his life. Indifference.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right. You know what? Just give me a reason to kick your ass. I’m right here.”

Before Justin could respond, Joey cut the line.

-::-

Lance sat nearby watching JC push the pain around. Same restaurant, same booth. “Just give yourself some time.”

JC nodded slightly. Lance wasn’t sure if he was responding to what he had said or just to the sound of another voice.

“It’ll get better, I swear. And she loves you. Really loves you.”

JC's eyes narrowed slightly and Lance filed that away, not to use the word love for a while. He could do that. After all, he'd gotten used to avoiding the other one. There were two words to avoid now. They were synonyms, words that for years had basically been interchangeable. JC was avoiding the other one now, choosing a pronoun instead.

“He just wants to talk, Lance.” JC’s voice was soft. Fragile.

Lance pushed the coffee that had once again gone cold to the side and took both of JC's long, slender hands and held them.

“Just a couple more days. It’ll get easier. I promise.”

JC pulled one hand free and fingered the tiny phone that lay between almost tenderly as if it might break. Lance smiled sadly and once again pushed it away. He waited until JC looked up again, then breathed more than said the word he'd been using over and over for almost a month now. A word they both knew well, that had nothing to do with love, that meant so much more than not doing something.

It meant not having it.

And not having him. Ever again.