Before You Go

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.”

The 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, f*ck 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 long 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.