don’t go far off

It happens like this:

You’re waiting outside of a club, something new that you absolutely *had* to go to, according to your publicist. You don’t want to be in LA, or California. You want to be hiding out in Georgia, the little house on the coast you bought under your manager’s name and didn’t bother to tell anyone about. But you’re in LA, because that’s what people like you do, and you can’t change who you are. Not now.

So you’re waiting outside of a club, and there he is. It’s like glitter fairies wander around behind him and make sure there’s always sparkle around his body. You raise up your hand and wave, just a little, and he catches your eye and smiles, just a little. You’ve been dancing like this around each other for years, since you first met, really. Fumbling and young and so sure of yourselves, sloppy kisses in a closet off-set, sneaking out to the pool when you were in the same hotel. You were seventeen and all the teenie mags said he was sixteen–not that you read them!–when you first had sex, and you couldn’t look each other in the eye for months afterwards.

It got better, though, and you made plans to see each other every once in awhile: when you were in the same state, or the same country, or the same continent. Almost any excuse and you were there, together. It was a nice way to forget about the girlfriends and boyfriends, the hangers-on and team of people that followed each of you around. Sometimes you even needed it to forget about the guys; other times you pretended you were just Nick and Justin, two guys who knew each other and liked each other and hung out sometimes. It was nice.

Now, though, you’re sort of coming back into the scene, and he’s racing like a bullet train to catch every single thing fame can throw at him. You admire him for that, you with your one moderately successful solo album and a reunion in the works. You’re going to always play catch-up, though. A part of you is okay with that, because after so long you can’t stay away from the sparkle and glitter, the lights and eyes on you. It’s in your blood now, a craving and a need; and even the ludicrousness of a boyband reunion tour is worth the jibes you’ll get for doing it all over again. You think he must understand that, or he wouldn’t work so hard to keep it.

You’re on the same continent, country, state, city, and club, so you think this should probably be one of those times where you find the space of an hour to be together, quiet and easy like nothing else is in your life, except maybe your boat.

You climb into your car with only slightly less fanfare than him, and as soon as you sit down your cell phone rings, and it’s him. You answer the phone, and he whispers jokes in your ear, a laughing tone that tells you he’s alone. You lean back against the seat, smiling, and your bodyguard raises an eyebrow at you. You cover the mouthpiece of the phone with your hand and murmur the name of a hotel, and your bodyguard tells the driver to turn around.