The Law of Excluded Middle

The Law of Excluded Middle
by Mare J
uneasyneighbour@gmail.com
August 2001

**

A long time ago you could see yourself falling in love with Justin, if only because everyone had done that at least once.

Everybody loves Justin, and Justin is always willing to give. He has something special for every person interviewing him. He's always sincere, is always telling 'secrets', is always ready to give away a part of his life. A tiny personal detail, but a treat none the less. Justin always has a lot of special secrets wrapped up in colourful details and ready to share. He prepares them carefully before each interview.

You stayed away from Justin until you figured it all out. He isn't perfect in your eyes and he isn't a threat anymore.

Joey is as straight as an arrow and you're not into striving for impossible things.

JC's got a girlfriend, an on and off one, but he loves her, you can tell. He got excited when Bobbi would come visit during the last tour, and he was pretty upset when she'd leave. You don't really know her. You don't think you want to.

Dani, on the other hand, was cool. She played a mean game of poker and you had hard time figuring out what she saw in Chris. You mostly felt sorry for her when they broke up. It was really hard to feel sorry for Chris when all he did was holler at everyone, and made fun of anybody who'd tried to talk to him till they gave up and sometimes a long time after that, just because.

Bobbi isn't interested in hanging out with all of you, and when she is around JC spends time with her and you only see him during rehearsals and meetings. You don't miss him, but you miss the atmosphere of haphazard joy that he seems to create.

JC is gentle and kind and he likes you. He has genuinely liked you from day one, when you were just a strange new kid with weird eyes. Back then, Chris quipped about you having the eyes of a serial killer, Joey laughed, and you didn't think it was funny at all. JC helped you with the routines and he didn't mind that it took you a while to get them. He always talked about working hard, about the importance of making everything perfect.

***

You are thinking of buying a house, but you hate real-estate agents. They lie and you can tell when they do. They mostly talk about swimming pools and the number of bedrooms, then curve their mouths in a condescending smile when you ask about property taxes. It pisses you off that they think they can actually fuck with your head--you've seen better liars. They always think you're too rich and too young and too stupid to know anything.

You knew Lou was lying when he stopped complaining about empty rows in amphitheatres and how it wouldn't meet the costs of touring and staging shows. You asked him about it and Lou just smiled without really looking you, said, "I'll take care of all that, Lance. Do your thing and let me worry about accounting stuff."

"Stuff" was what really got to you. He didn't even bother to dress his lies into long complicated words, didn't expect you to understand any of it. You had a show that night and you were glad you did. You needed to give yourself a few hours for your blinding rage to pass, to let it be replaced with cold anger that made your palms clammy and your whole body shiver in anticipation of proving yourself right.

It was three o'clock in the morning when you barged into JC and Joey's hotel room, ignoring Joey's "Lance? What the fuck, man?" when he opened the door, puffy eyed and half naked, pushing by him to look for JC's watch which you knew had built-in calculator.

JC loved things like that; he owned a cappuccino machine even though he never drank coffee. He said he liked things that had buttons and flashing lights, he said there was music in them.

You sat cross-legged on your bed, ignoring everyone's questions and cursing because JC's watch was the worst calculator you'd ever seen and you kept pressing the wrong numbers, your fingers too big for the tiny buttons and your eyes too tired to read the display.

You felt sicker and sicker with every passing second, realised that everything was gone and you'd been screwed. But when the final totals were staring you in the face, you couldn't help but feel somewhat satisfied and strangely excited that it was you who figured it all out.

You went out and bought your own calculator and a laptop next day; used your mother's emergency credit card for the first time in years.

Now you wish you could do it yourself; drive around, find something that you wouldn't mind calling home, put numbers in neat columns, see if what you're spending is worth what you're getting for it. You wish you could do that, but you never have time because FreeLance and the upcoming tour occupy every second of every day. You stay at JC's house instead.

***

You are glad JC offered to let you to stay with him; you got along great during the last tour and he is the only one who doesn't think that reading is a pastime inferior to playing video games. It is easy to do your own thing with JC.

One day you get caught in the rain.

The rain is so heavy that you sit in your car in JC's driveway hoping to wait it out, knowing that you'll get soaked in the seconds it would take you to make it to the front door. You went grocery shopping with JC and the two of you have paper bags with lettuce, celery, and other greens that JC always insists on buying in the back seat. It looks like tropical forest has taken over the car; paper bags mere continuation of trees, barely seen through the thick wall of water.

JC is looking out the window, transfixed as usual, and you want to touch him, get him out of his stupor. You've always thought that JC looks like a huge insect. He freezes up sometimes, as if he's forgotten how to move and stares into nothingness, as if his eyes are multi-faceted and can see the world differently from human eyes. You know that he definitely hears differently, can hear something in what is just silence to everyone else.

You mostly think he hears things that simply aren't there.

You turn to him, lean in, just a little, and notice how his eyelashes flutter. You open your mouth, still sure you just want to say something. You lean in even closer, too close maybe, and your lips brush over the corner of his. You kiss him.

You don't know how and why you do it, but it doesn't change the fact that you kiss him first.

He opens his mouth instantly; there's no awkwardness in his acceptance, and your tongue is sliding over his teeth. He turns to you and his fingers, strong and unyielding, are pressing into your arms, as if he has done it a million times before. As if you have waited for this for a long time, which you most certainly have not. You are touching his face, his neck, his collarbone. His hands slide down your arms, pull you in closer. When his hands are on the zipper of your shorts, you pull back. He smiles at you.

"We should go inside," you say.

"We'll get wet." He is still smiling.

"yeah."

You run to the door. He fumbles for his keys, and you are getting soaked. You look at his white arms with dark wet hair on them and think that he looks like a fly. You think that he isn't attractive at all.

Once you're inside the two of you don't even make it past the hallway. He isn't as gentle as you thought he would be. You realise that you have thought about it before, but then his fingers press into the skin of your thighs, and you forget. When he's inside of you and you are facing the wall, watching ochre patterns on the beige background dissolve into an orange blur, he whispers something in your ear and you think that he is right, that there is music in everything. His words, hushed by the rain, make sense to you, have harmony in them.

You never thought you'd end up sleeping with JC, but you figure it's okay. JC is safe; he won't expect anything from you.

***

It's the last weekend before the tour starts and everybody is at JC's when Chris announces that he's going to "make tongues for you motherfuckers."

Chris is relentless in making everybody try different kinds of food. You're an easy target, you feel kind of bad when Joey says "hell no" or when Justin says "eww, man, that's just gross" and nobody has even tried to talk JC into tasting something yellow-green and smelling like curry. You give in and eat Chris's experiments and sometimes they are good. Most of the time, you don't know if they are good or bad at all. You just swallow and pray to god above that you don't burn something really valuable in your mouth, then throat, then intestines and then, oh shit, you hope it comes out of your body soon and with minimal damage.

Chris calls everybody wusses and pretends not to look at you while you eat, but you sometimes catch his curious glances. They mostly piss you off, and you ask for more hot sauce. You never mention that you like your food soft and generous with a lot of mayo spread on pretty much everything. That belongs somewhere in the past, to the part of you that you long to forget, that belongs to a child who didn't know what he wanted and even when he did wasn't quite sure how to get it.

This time you at least refuse to go to the grocery store with Chris, actually put your foot down and say that there is no way in hell you're going shopping for tongues. Justin is already at the door, yelling that he "can't fucking believe it's taking you fucking losers so fucking long." Justin swears a lot these days, now that his mother is not around every second.

"I'm going to kick the shit out of him one day," Joey says and gets off the couch.

"Wait in line, dude," but Chris smiles when he says that.

You hear Justin fighting Chris for the car keys and you wonder, briefly, how he goes from being in complete and sometimes terrifying control on stage to turning into a whiny infant when Chris is around to baby him. But JC has a hand under your shirt, hovering his fingers just above your skin, barely touching the ends of the tiny hairs on the small of your back, and you don't want to think about anything.

You lean into his touch, stretch out on the couch and turn your face downward, feel rough denim against your lips that are somehow already tender and swollen long before you actually push yourself up and press your mouth into JC's smile.

***

Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night.

Sometimes you get scared because you can't hear JC at all and you're not sure if he's alive. You lie in the dark and listen.

He is a very quiet sleeper; he never snores and you have to hold your own breath and listen to the tiniest sounds of air leaving his parted mouth to make sure that he's actually breathing. He hardly even turns in his sleep and often wakes up with a cramp in his shoulder. Sometimes he wakes you up, embarrassed and blushing, and asks you to rub his back. You don't mind that even if it's six o'clock in the morning on the weekend.

Sometimes you wish he would do it more often.

You think that you kind of owe him for taking care of you when you first met and for letting you stay with him now.

***

"C'mon, Bass, we're leaving without you."

Yes, please leave, you think.

You have no intention of getting out of bed. None. You can hear Justin stomping up the stairs-- he's the only one who covers the whole staircase in two strides--and you pull the comforter over your head. Maybe he'll go away if he thinks that you're sleeping.

"How long is it going to take you to get dressed?"

"I'm not planning on getting dressed," you mutter, not sure if he can hear you or not.

"Fuck man, Johnny is going to be pissed...oh"

He's probably looking at the pile of clothes on the floor. Your clothes mixed with JC's clothes. There's no plausible explanation for what JC's clothes are doing on the floor in the guest bedroom, your bedroom, other than the obvious one.

You wish that JC wasn't so damn adamant about going to the studio every day. You wish that he was here right now and you could nuzzle into his neck, smell his skin and maybe bitch, a little, about being awfully uncomfortable lying on his bony shoulder.

You almost forget about Justin until you hear, "oh," again and then, "you okay, Lance?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Go away, Justin."

"Sure, man, sure. Just..." You hear him half-whisper something about being careful and something else about your heart that according to him might get broken. Whatever, you think, it's not like you're in even love with JC. That's not part of your plan, and you always follow your plans. Always.

Justin, of course, can't keep his pretty mouth shut to save his life and everybody knows by the end of the day. It's a good thing that the tour is about to begin and there's no time for questions. Besides, all you seem to be able to think of is how many new songs there are, each one with a multitude of new dance steps for you to forget.

You really have no time to think about JC at all. Not until very late at night when his hands are on your shoulders, when your hands are in his hair, when all you smell is him and all you feel is his lips tracing your skin.

***

Tonight's show was a good one and you're happy, blissfully happy, following JC as he walks backstage. Then you feel your face go rigid, happiness flying sideways from the corners of your mouth. You manage to freeze your smile, hold it there long enough to almost get away. It's only a few feet to your dressing room. But the speed of sound is faster than you--his voice catches you half a step away from the door.

"I'm calling Bobbi. Wanna talk to her after?"

Nope. You really don't.

"Of course," you mumble and stay. You say "hi" to her and then "great" and then you hang up, grateful that she doesn't expect anything else. You're pretty sure that talking to you isn't her idea of fun either.

Still, when Chris looks at you, his head cocked and his stare flat, impossible to avoid, and says, "It never works, you know that, right?" you just shrug and smile at your shoes.

"Don't be a goddamn mother hen, Chris," you say. "You're more of a fucking child than I have ever been."

Sweat is dripping off your hair, trickling down your collar, getting into your eyes. You rub them but they still sting anyway. You need a shower.

"And did it ever occur to you that that might be your problem?" he says.

Then Justin calls Chris, demands his opinion on something or other and Chris yells back, swears that he'll punch Justin's stupid face if he doesn't leave him alone because he's fucking tired. Justin hollers back, calls Chris "an old fart" and then they are both on the floor and maybe you could call what they are doing wrestling, because Chris is sitting on Justin's chest, his knees parted and pressed into the floor on both sides of Justin's body, but his palms are gently splayed across Justin's face, his thumbs tracing Justin's perfect cheekbones.

You think that Justin is not as weak as he acts and he could put up a better fight if he wanted to. You look at Chris's face again; his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light of the backstage, and think that Chris probably doesn't know that.

***

Halfway through with the first leg of the tour and shows don't do it for you anymore.

You don't get excited before them and you don't get that godlike feeling of exaltation when the crowd cheers at the end. It's mostly a blur and you feel tired all the time. Even more tired than usual, because you know that once you get backstage JC will be all over you and it should feel nice, it really should, but you'll be thinking about later, counting minutes till you come, till he comes, and then when it's over he'll pick up the phone.

You will be pressing your chin into his bony shoulder harder and harder, catching yourself wishing it would hurt him, make him feel, make him know you're here. You'll be looking sidewise at his beautiful, beautiful, sweaty face, his closed eyes, and picture him only seconds later talking to her, his eyes open and a shiny happy smile curving his mouth.

Still you wait for him backstage. You never expected your universe to shrink to one face, but it has, somehow, and you wonder if you actually have enough air in your lungs to blow the balloon of your world up to its normal size again. You're pretty sure you do, you're pretty sure that you can stop at any time.

You just don't want to, not yet.

You grab a towel and rub it over your neck, shivering, suddenly cold because there are no lights directed at you anymore. Then you practically feel Chris staring at your back; you turn on your heels and glare back at him. Chris is really good at this game, because you break first and blurt out the question you didn't know you wanted an answer for.

"Why the hell not?"

You expect Chris to be baffled; it's been weeks since he brought it up, but all he says is, "Man, you're not telling me that you, you of all people, thought that it would work."

"You didn't answer my question. Why the hell not?"

"Because it never does. It never fucking works." Chris's face seems to be split in two, somehow. His mouth is curved in a bitter scowl, left corner of his lips turned downward and trembling, a little, as if he is fighting to push it up, to pretend that it's some sort of smile. "And you're not stupid enough to think that it can."

"I'm not in love with him, if that's what you mean."

"Sure you're not." Chris smiles at you now and you're pretty sure you don't like his smile

"I'm not... I'm not Justin; I don't need you taking care of me. And you know what? Justin doesn't need it either."

Chris winces when you say that.

You're stubborn, and you want to know exactly what he means with his 'sure you're not.' You feel like you almost get it, but something else, something that goes beyond the actual meaning of his words is sliding away from you, disappearing in the sounds of the screaming crowd. So you ask him again, "Why can't it work? It's not like I'm hurting anybody, it's not like I'm going to fall for him or anything. It's not like he's...it's not like he's falling for me."

And you catch yourself labouring the last words, catch yourself push them out of your throat, catch them not wanting to come out. You realise that you're lying then.

"Listen," he says, "just listen to me. You're going to...all of you are going to lose. And C...fuck, he'll probably be worst off."

You wish you could come up with something sounding more intelligent than, "Why?" but you really can't.

"He's up there right now, riding this wave, thinking that you love him, that Bobbi loves him, thinking that he loves you both, and he's too dumb and too fucking happy to know that it isn't enough. He's probably telling himself that you're all gonna end up one big fucking happy family. He's not going to give you up. He's not going to give her up either."

"I'm not in love with him." You bite your lip and try to believe your own words.

***

A short break before the second leg of the tour begins and of course there's no time for house hunting and you stay at JC's house again. JC smiles at you and touches your face and makes phone calls from his bedroom. You pass the closed door quickly when you hear him talking and try not to think about where he goes every other night. He calls you when he's away for more than four hours and you hear the smile in his voice.

You sleep in his bed and you're almost happy again.

***

It's really hot and you're outside, by the pool.

Your back itches a little. Tiny pools of perspiration collect on the marble underneath your shoulder blades and your thighs. You shift slowly, scratch your back over the thinnest lines of grout--barely seen, but still there--between the tiles. You should probably turn over, work on that even tan that you're supposedly getting, but that would be too much effort.

The sun is licking your face.

This is how you think about it, not kissing, not burning, not caressing. Licking. Licking with its huge rough tongue--you picture it as maybe a lot like a cow's tongue, enormous greyish taste buds on thick dry rosy skin. Joey always calls you a farm boy. It's sort of funny how you never argue with him, let him assume things about your childhood, let him tell people made up stories. He's pretty good about making up his own New York stories. The truth is, you have never seen a cow from the distance close enough to really know what its tongue looks like.

The house is empty and cool when you go inside. You drink cold water in the kitchen and think about taking a shower. You stare at JC's new juice maker, with its rows of lights and buttons. JC has never used it.

You don't get up when you hear the keys turning in the door. You think JC is back from wherever he went this morning and a smile begins to form on your face. Then you hear the clickety clacking sound of high heels hitting the hardwood and your heart skips a beat. Or two.

You don't have keys to the house. You don't need them. You usually leave when JC does and come back with him. You never asked what he did with the extra set that he sort of gave you when you moved in. You left it lying on the counter and you thought JC put it away.

"Hi," Bobbi says, then pauses for a second, leaning on the kitchen door. She's taken her shoes off, you notice, there are red marks left by the straps of her sandals on her feet. Then she adds with a sigh, "Lance."

"He's not home."

"Yeah, I figured." She doesn't move and shifts her eyes from you to the juice maker. She smiles, but her smile looks bitter. You wonder what your smile looks like to her.

"He's never used it. I think he just likes the lights and the sounds it makes. He says it's like music." You really don't know what else you can say.

"He does say that. Everything has music in it, according to him."

"Oh." You know that jealousy over some words JC has said to her isn't even remotely justified.

"I think... I think I'm going to go," she says, still looking at the juice maker.

It was easy to think of her as a cold bitch, you realise. It was easier not to think of her at all. But here she is, with red marks on her feet and tiny freckles sprinkled on her nose that she obviously tries to hide but her make up has melted in the heat. JC has freckles too but you have be really close to see them.

"So, yeah, I'm going to leave," she says again. But different.

"Can you?" And why, why, why are you asking her that? Why can't you just say that yes, maybe she should, or say nothing at all and just let her go?

"I don't know, but I can try. It's just that... why am I even fucking talking to you about this? I just---he looks so happy now and when I try to tell him that it can't go on like that his...his shine or something-- it seems to go away. I'm so tired of him and of...of you--*you*--and of all this...this fucking...mess."

You think that it would've been better, better for you, if she were this rude from the start. But something tells you that she didn't plan or even wanted to be nice. None of that makes you feel any better.

"He's a space case," you say, not sure why you do.

"He is."

"He's...he's perfect."

"He isn't. I know you know that."

"You love him."

"Everybody fucking loves him." She makes a sharp move, throws her purse on the counter and rummages through it, its contents splashing in sparkly waves of make-up cases, brushes, condoms. Something rolls off the counter and falls on the floor. She doesn't pick it up. Neither do you. She gets a pack of cigarettes out and says, "I'm having a fucking cigarette in his fucking perfect little kitchen and I am not going to use an ashtray. Let him clean the damn ashes off the floor."

"Can I have one too?"

She looks at you, says, "You don't smoke, Lance."

"No," you say.

She gives you a cigarette then, lights it for you and smiles, a little, when you almost choke on the first drag. The ashes on the floor make a horrible mess, but grey looks kind of neat on the white tiles, makes a peculiar pattern.

"Maybe," you say and get up, and oh god, you must be really desperate, "maybe if we...if all three of us..."

You expect her to tell you to go fuck yourself. She kisses you instead. Puts an arm over your shoulder still holding a cigarette in her fingers, and you worry, a little, that she'll burn you. Her breath is full of smoke and desperation. She throws her cigarette into the sink and grabs a condom from the colourful mess on the counter.

Hurry, you think. Maybe if you do it fast enough, if you both get through it, maybe it will be better. Maybe, you think, it will get easier. She must be thinking the same thing because she pulls her t-shirt and bra over her head in one move. You lower your head and suck a nipple into your mouth and she winces, but doesn't say anything. After a while, her hand pushes you inside her.

You're not used to this, not anymore. You haven't been with a girl in a long time. You haven't been with anybody but JC in a long time, you realise. She has her legs wrapped around you and she is light and feels unexpectedly tiny in your hands. Fragile, almost, and you've never thought that she could be.

Her eyes are shut and she's biting her lip, not making any noise at all. You can't even hear her breathing.

She comes. You were most certainly not expecting that, but she shudders and her body pulses in rippling waves around you. She opens her eyes, looks straight at you. You continue to push into her hard, looking for pressure that you know isn't there to find, and then you come and you never thought that it would feel good and so fucking painful at the same time. Mostly you feel empty.

"This is never going to work," she says, and closes her eyes.

"Yeah," you agree, and she slides away.

After she leaves, you clean up the kitchen. You don't say anything to JC.

You don't think she does either.

***

You're at a charity event, and you are all posing for a photo. You go to a lot of charity events now, and they should make you feel good-- they used to-- but somehow they don't. JC looks serene and content.

Last night you got tired of pacing and not looking at the closed door of his bedroom. You ended up reading in the kitchen, bumping your leg on the chair. You tried very hard not to listen to his soft pleading voice talking on the phone. You couldn't really even hear him; you just know what he sounds like when he wants something. He found you later and rested his chin in your hair, said that tomorrow was going to be a good day and that he was so happy to have you around, was so glad that you understand.

There is an awkward moment right before the picture is taken, when all of you are lining up. You watch Justin and Britney's matching smiles and notice that Chris pushes Joey to stand between him and Justin, says that Joey's "gotta keep the lady entertained." Justin flutters his eyelashes, looks like a lost puppy for a second, but his smile is back and ready in time for the flashing camera.

JC puts his arm around you, and you notice that his other arm is resting on Bobbi's shoulder. JC looks happy, really happy, and you feel your own lingering hope disappear when you look at her face. She can't even muster a smile for the picture. Your eyes hurt and you say so. She reaches into her purse and gets her sunglasses out, hands them to you.

JC sighs and you don't think you have ever seen him so happy.

You step forward a little, hoping that JC's hand will slide off your shoulder, but his fingers are digging into your skin, pinning you down.

***

Family Celebration. That's what the charity event was called, but you don't see the irony in the name until Joey drops a magazine off so you and JC can see the picture.

You don't really get it, not until you look at Chris's face. Then you understand it all, and it frightens you. You know that Chris has learned to smile no matter what, just like you have. You try to think it through, make a plan, just like you always do, just like you have always done. You know that you don't want your face to look like Chris's or hers. Ever. You don't love JC that much.

You simply love him too much.

You pick up the phone and call Johnny. The thank-you notes for "Celebrity" were due a week ago, and you had them done on time, but now you tell him to add Bobbi's name to the list of people you are thanking.

You are glad that you are doing it over the phone.

***

If you were an irrational person you'd scream and leave. You are not an irrational person, and you still stay at JC's house, pretend that nothing has changed. You don't think that JC has even noticed. It would be nice to think that it isn't your fault, but you know better.

Everybody is around--Justin and Joey occupy the entire floor in front of the tv. Chris is pretty much everywhere and you try not to look at him--his constant moving is giving you motion sickness. You sit down on the couch with JC; there are really no other options.

He puts his hand on your shoulder and you freeze for a second to figure out just how obvious it would be if you shake it off. Too obvious and the hand stays. You watch Joey flipping channels until your eyes hurt. You close them then, but even through your closed eyelids you can see the flashes of the screen. Your eyes still hurt. JC's hand is heavy and you shoulder feels numb, but it's all in your head, you keep telling yourself. All in your head.

The phone rings, and you hear a smile in JC's voice when he says hi. A little nudge on the shoulder comes a few second later. You knew it would. Not that knowing made you ready for it. Knowing hardly ever prepares you for anything these days, but you don't like to think about that.

"Here, baby, she wants to talk to you." JC's voice is gentle but it seems to resonate off your eardrums, his words are a million ringing silver bells--a cacophony of very little sense that makes your eyes burn and almost water. "She wants to say thank you for mentioning her name in the credits. " He smiles at you, his bright sunshine smile, and you shake your head violently to stop the noise.

You will a smile to appear. It works, of course it does. You can feel it stretching your face--years of the spotlight didn't go to waste after all, you're a well-trained monkey--then you realise that you can't really hold it in place for long.

You bolt. Or you think you're bolting, when in fact you slide slowly from under JC's arm, give everybody a glance, hope the smile is still there, still on your face, wave your hand and walk towards the door. In your head you're running.

Outside you lean against your car, face against hot metal, and wish for the rain.

"I fucking told you so."

"Go away, Chris." You bang your forehead a few times on the metal, as if it would help and actually make him disappear.

"He's gonna be fine," he says instead of disappearing and you think you've had it.

"Yes. Chris. He will be. But you know what? So will Justin." You choose to ignore the sound that Chris makes, his gasp for air as if you actually hit him in the gut. "Justin is a fucking cat, he'll land on his feet no matter what, you're the one who's getting fucked over by all this...this mess."

He chuckles almost, but it sounds too close to a choke. "A fucking cat, huh? Cat? You've been hanging around JC way too long, Lansten."

"You can't joke your ass out of it, Chris."

"And you can't rationalize yours out either." Now it's your turn to gasp for air.

He touches your shoulder then, gently, says, "It's okay. You'll be fine. Everything will be fine."

His hand on your back and you don't feel any better. His hand on your head and you probably feel worse then, because you taste the tears that you were almost successfully holding back, in your mouth. You turn around and slouch a little, rest your face on Chris's shoulder. Your tears soak through his shirt and rain doesn't fall; you think they promised a clear sky for the rest of the week.

He hardly moves, but somehow his body adjusts to your size almost moulds around you. His hand brushes your hair slowly and he says, "it'll be okay, you'll be fine," again.

And then, to your own surprise, you think, maybe.

end