Before You Go (7 page)

And, maybe, even for me.

“You know, Dad.” I bump his shoulder. “You don’t need to have these motivational house calls at the end of each week.”

“
I just want to make sure you’re okay, honey. You’ve been through a lot, but I want you to know you’re going to get through this, Tabitha. You will.”

It’s
Dad’s mantra. I think he hopes if he says it enough, it will be true. I nod and Dad takes hold of me. I rest my head on his chest—there’s no denying he makes me feel safe. After all, it was Dad who picked up the pieces and brought me back to the land of the living.

“School is
going surprisingly well, actually,” I tell him.

“I’m so happy to hear it,” he says. “And Noah says your work at the paper is impeccable.”

“I don’t know about that.” I laugh. “I’m just posting articles for the electronic edition. It’s not rocket science. So what are you and Amy up to this fine evening?”

He looks at me with a funny grin
. “Well, we were hoping to have you join us for dinner.”

“Not tonight, Dad,” I say, fe
eling guilty for declining after he came all the way over here.

“Pl
ease, honey.” The grin doesn’t leave his face.

What is he up to?

“I’d hate to break the news to Michael.” He pulls back his sleeve to look at his watch. “And he should be arriving at the house any time now.”

“What?” I grab Dad’s
shirt. My stepbrother isn’t supposed to visit until next week.

“Yep.
” Dad laughs. “He wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Missi
on accomplished,” I say, as the weight of the week lifts, just a bit.

#

“You look good,
” Michael says when he arrives. He missed our last two visits over the summer because he was touring colleges. My very public downfall in Illinois had been hard on Michael too. He was the one who had to live it with me every day, whether or not he wanted to. He was able to finish the school year, but he hasn’t been back since. And he hasn’t picked a new school yet. So, he’s behind. Just like me.

“You look so much better,” Michael says. Then he gives me a shove and laughs.

I try not to wince
thinking about all the pain I caused him. Those memories find their way into this nice family scene and threaten to ruin my night. I vow not to worry about that in this moment, I’ll just enjoy my brother.

Brother.

It feels good to finally see him that way. Our relationship had always been on the rocky side, until we both started college…too soon after, I ruined everything.

We celebrate Michael’s visit to Minneapolis with Amy’s homemade
lasagna. Michael wolfs it down, I don’t think he’s ever gotten used to my mom’s cooking—all organic, low fat, and fufu. He’s still living at home with Mom and Stephen until he decides on a school, so he takes full advantage of this treat. In between mouthfuls, he asks me about my classes and I can tell he scrutinizes each answer I give him, looking for any hidden meaning. He’s all covert, it’s pretty funny.

After dinner, I offer up my services to do the dishes with Amy. That way Michael will have the time to grill Dad like I know he wants to.

The guys casually walk back into the kitchen once the dishes are done and Michael seems satisfied with the information Dad gave him. It’s almost like he can sense my newly found peace. I feel his kid-gloves coming off when he grabs my sleeve and hauls me toward the door.

“Come out with me,” he says.

“Where?”

“Out.”

Not waiting for an answer, Michael pulls me into the night.

ELEVEN

We walk into Sasha’s on campus and it’s packed, filled with college kids who came to play darts, do shots, and let’s face it, hook up.

I
can’t help but miss the crazy locals at Rye’s. And bingo. And playing bingo with Holden, before I knew he was Noah. I go all soft at the thought.

Michael orders two beers and we belly up to the bar. Nerves flutter in my stomach because I know he brought me here for a reason. Last year, on campus, my stepbrother became my one and only protector. He took so much shit for me. And then, during my stay at New Beginnings, he visited me all the time. And I was hardly good company—I was so drugged and depressed that my conversational skills were at a six-year-old level at best. It must be strange for him to finally have a real conversation with me. I feel like I owe it to him to answer any questions he may have.

“So, T-bear,” he says. “I want you to tell me how things are really going up here.”

“They are really going okay,” I tell him. I almost mean it. “You know, it couldn’t get any worse from what I was dealing with in Illinois.”

“Yeah.” He frowns. “I know.”

“My classes are good and nobody hassles me. Nobody knows who I am. It’s good.”

T
he creases between Michael’s eyebrows deepen. “But that’s not good. People should know you. They should know who you are. Not the scandal or the photos, but
you
, Tab.
You are worth knowing.”

“I think you’re in the minority there, big brother.” I laugh. “It’s better this way, trust me.”

“You know I’d do anything to take it all away.”

“I know.” I shake my
head. “You did everything you could.” I bite the side of by cheek so the emotions don’t come spilling out. “I know I never said thank you. But I’ve said it in my head. Every. Day.”

“I wish I could’ve done more back then.”

“You did more than anyone else would.”

“Well,
what if I could do more now? What if I was to tell you there is a way to get part of your life back?” He raises in eyebrows in a challenge. “The good part of your life.”

“What are you up to, Michael?”

“Okay, I want you to sit here and close your eyes.” There is excitement in his voice. Odd for my brother. He’s the most laid-back guy you’d ever meet.

I do as he says.

“Hold out your hands,” he orders.

When I do, he pulls me off the stool and lifts my arm. On instinct I open my eyes, and spin under it.

I used to make Michael play the
male lead in my big productions so I could practice the more difficult moves. He always pretended to be bothered. But he loved betting on the number of turns I could do. Sober and drunk. And he’d really raise the stakes when he bet on my ability to do thirty-two turning fouettés—a ballet dancer’s gauge of excellence. I made the thirty-two every time. At least on the right side.

“I knew it,” he grins
, watching me turn now. “You’ve still got it.”

I shake my head at him. “Hardly. I’m so out of shape I don’t even think I could do three
fouettés.”

“Well, maybe it’s time to get back
to practicing,” he says. “I brought your ballet slippers. All ten pairs. They’re in my car.”

I smile at him. “Michael.”

I rub my temple, trying to fight off the headache I feel coming on. “
I appreciate it. I do. But I’m starting over. A new me. And to do that, I can’t go back to the past.”

“Doing something you love,” Michael says. “Something you were born to do. That’s not going back to the past. You can’t give it up. Dancing is part of you.”

He releases my hand and kisses the top of my head. “
Wipe the slate clean, Tab. It’s time.”

Though he may be right, I can’t do it. So instead of indulging him any longer, I decide it’s time to get this party started and order two shot of Patrón. Michael and I take the shots, add a few more, and get rather inebriated as we play darts. I’m awful. Forget about the bullseye, I’m not even hitting the board half the time. When it’s my turn again, Michael stands behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders, hoping to help me get at least a point or two.

I launch my arm back and release.

The dart smacks the wall a foot away from the dartboard. This time it’s not because of my drunken state. It’s because I just noticed Noah up at the bar.

Watching me.

Michael comes over and shakes me. “You’re hopeless.” He jokes.

Noah sits back in his stool with the world’s iciest glare.

He’s starting to piss me off.

“I need another drink,” I tell Michael. “Be right back.”

Trying to stiffen up my loose limbs, I pretend to be sober as I squeeze in next to Noah. I wave a twenty at the bartender and he’s over in a flash, filling two tap beers.

I keep my eyes on the bartender until Noah places his hand on mine and gives it a squeeze.

“Tabby,” he says. “All your work’s done for the paper I assume?”

“What?” I’m not quite sure, but I think the bossy-ass editor is back.

“I’m just wondering since you clearly won’t be in any condition to work later tonight.”

“I finished up everything as soon as the stories were filed,” I tell him casually. “Just like I have every day this week.”

“Good.” He frowns, lifting his hand away from mine. He seems upset and that has me worried. I really need this internship.

“Why? Is something wrong with my work?” I ask.

“No.” His expression softens now. “No, your work is great.”

I sigh, relieved.

“I guess I’m just confused, that’s all.” He rests his head on his hand.

“About what?”

“Your social life,” he says, nodding toward Michael.

“Meaning?” I ask, not liking where this is heading.

“You say you don’t date and you’re not interested in a relationship, but you pick me up at a bar—when I was a total stranger, I might add. Then you’re all cozy with Foster the other night. And now you’re here with
this
guy.”

“How is he your business?” My temper climbs as Noah continues to talk. I should’ve known nothing can change. Guys all think the same way. Of course he’d get the wrong idea about me. Even when I’ve done nothing to warrant it.

“He’s not.” Noah shakes his head. “You just don’t seem like the type, that’s all.”

Of course, I know what he’s saying. I don’t seem like a slut, so why am I acting like one? My ears go hot. I look around and it seems like everyone’s staring at me. Whispering. Judging.

I have to get out of here.

No wait, fuck that.

It’s fight or flight. And though my instincts tell me to fly, my intoxicated mind wants me to go the other way. He will not chase me off. Let him think what he wants; I don’t care anymore.

I level a l
ong stare at Noah, stunned he could say that to me. Or even think it.

Then I take the beers and go back to my game.

I feel Noah’s eyes on me the entire time.

TWELVE

That night, after Michael leaves, I find the two things he left for me. The first is a bag of all my ballet slippers. I pull them out and set them all around my bed, reaching out to stroke the leather and satin.

Next to the bag
is a piece of paper—a message on the university letterhead that reads in bold print, “Company B dance tryouts are December 30
th
.” Then in Michael’s scrawl:
I think you should consider it. I’ll be back to see you again soon. In the meantime, let me know if you need anything. I’ve got your back, little sis.

That he does, I think curling up under my covers.

I don’t know what I would’ve done without Michael last year, especially the day Thomas’ friends came after me. The day that continues to give me nightmares.

I remember I could
feel them behind me as I headed to my dorm room. It had only been a week since everything went down, but I quickly became the resident scapegoat. Once everything became public, my friends abandoned me, playing shocked and horrified and Thomas played the victim. He actually had everyone believing that the whole thing was my fault. I was the slut who came to strip at the party, got drunk and out of control, and started pointing fingers. And poor Thomas had to sit out two games while the embarrassing mess got sorted out.

His act
worked well. After all, he had the pictures to prove it.

Even my parents wouldn
’t rock the boat with his family. Apparently, the partnership between Mr. Richardson’s company and my stepfather’s was what funded my mom’s
lifestyle,
and she wasn’t willing to give it up.

When I turn
ed the corner that day, I could feel Eric Milton and gang on my heels. Eric was Thomas’ best friend and he was pissed that Thomas was forced to sit out two games because of me.

The
n they all started in with that whole fake cough routine—hurling the worst of insults.

“Slut.”

They started closing in.

“Trash.”

I moved faster.

“Whore.”

I was in the hallway, just a few more steps to my room.