Love to Hate You

Chapter Six

A couple of days pass quite normally. Justin seems to return to his usual happy-go-lucky, cocky self. The other boys continue on like nothing ever happened and nothing is happening. Sean seems largely disconnected from the rest of us, though. Mostly because he’s no longer welcome anywhere near Justin’s home.

 Since a lot of my day seems devoted to being with the Heartbreakers, I find it hard to even get around to talking to Sean unless it’s over the phone. Sometimes he calls to talk about song lyrics, but mostly he likes to call late at night to check up on things and then fall asleep talking. I actually don’t mind and like that we do it. He says I talk in my sleep, I say he snores, even though that’s mostly a lie and a way to get back at him for not telling me what I say out loud in my sleep.

The other members of Karma aren’t talking to Sean, I guess. He says he hasn’t heard from them. I’ve talked to them, though. They tell me that they like the first song choice and have suggested more songs to do. It feels like a real band when we talk about songs and get excited about them instead of what we do with Justin. Justin picks the songs and tells everyone to learn the music. I have to argue with him to get anything to go my way or help someone else get theirs.

That’s the thing about Justin. He is his old usual self for right now, but he likes to argue a lot and about everything. He likes touching me too. It’s a possessive move. Even if it’s to brush me briefly while one of the others is talking to me, he always seems to want to touch. It’s almost like saying “mine”. Today, he’s suggested we hang out after practice. I’m not too keen on spending “alone time” with him, but I know that things won’t end well if I don’t.

I accept.

Now, the boys have left and Justin’s pulling me by the hand to his front door. I’ve never been inside Justin’s house before, which sounds silly seeing as we’ve been together as a couple for a while, now. Going into his house seems a little sketchy to me, but I follow him in anyway.

My first impression of his house is that it’s clean. The whole house is pristine and put together, which makes sense because I recall him mentioning one time that his mom is a bit OCD. Not only is it clean, though. It’s expensive looking. From the rugs, to the vases, to the lights on the ceiling it’s high quality. The house is one floor only and the layout is just one big hallway with rooms on either side. It’s not like mine. Mine feels homey and comfortable. In here it’s sterile and touchy. It feels like you’re making a mess just by breathing. Not only that, but nobody is home.

It’s just us.

“Dad’s on a business trip—thinks he might get promoted. Who knows where Mom is. Probably doing volunteer work of some sort,” he shrugs, “My room’s down there,” he points, “meet you there in a second.”

With that, he disappears down the hall and turns into a different room. I’m left to find where his room is.

It’s not hard to find. It’s the only one with an open door and pictures of half-naked girls plastered to the wall. Typical. I’m left to wait. Staying as far away from the bed as possible (because really, I know what that thing has been through), I start roaming the room, casually looking it over. There are two guitars lined up against the furthest wall and magazines of who-knows-what along the side of his bed. This seems to be the only messy room in the house with t-shirts lying on the floor in piles and open dresser and closet doors. I can only roll my eyes, because he lives in a sty.

“Having fun?”

I jump and turn quickly, almost guiltily, since I was prying open his nightstand drawer.

“Uh…”

“I don’t care,” he shrugs and walks across his room, flopping down onto the unmade bed. I watch him, not totally recovered from the mini heart attack he just gave me. Then, he’s patting the spot next to him and I stare at him blankly because I don’t want a repeat of what happened the last time we were alone in a bedroom.