Before I Die Page 4

He flashes me a crooked smile as he heads to the front door. “Of course. I feel terrible for missing your birthday. It only makes sense to order your favorite.”

  He opens the door and pays the delivery kid before coming back into the living room and setting our food onto the coffee table.

  Reaching into the takeout bag, I smell the delicious aroma of Wonton soup and sesame chicken. “No worries, big bro. As long as you feed me this yummy food and watch The O.C. like you promised, you’re forgiven.”

  “Fuck. I hate that show, but I’ll suffer for you.” Watching television series’ such as One Tree Hill and The O.C. are one of my guilty pleasures. Blaire got me hooked on them, and I’ve watched the reruns at least a half-dozen times.

  “So, how was your birthday night out?” he asks, handing me a couple of containers.

  “It was good. We ended up going to some crazy popular club… The Warehouse,” I say as I fork some rice and chicken onto my plate.

  Stephen drops his fork and it clatters against his plate. “I thought you were going to Wine and Vine?”

  “I thought we were too, but Blaire wanted to take me to my first club.” I shrug nonchalantly. “We had a good time.”

  “That place is not somewhere you should be frequenting,” he says in a tone I’ve never heard from him before.

  “It’s just a club,” I say, confused as to why he’s acting like I just committed the worst sin, when I know for a fact Stephen’s been to way worse places than The Warehouse.

  “No, it’s not.” His eyes lock with mine. “The owner of that club is not a good guy. Illegal shit goes down there.” His jaw ticks in anger. “Promise me you won’t go back there again.”

  “Okay,” I agree. “It was just for my birthday.” He knows I don’t go out often. It’s not like I’m going to suddenly make it my new hangout. Although, I had considered going back to see if I could run into Ethan again. He’d mentioned he had to get back to work, and it made me wonder if maybe he works at the club. Although, he seemed a bit too dressed up to be bartending. Maybe he’s one of the bouncers…

  “I know,” Stephen says. “But The Warehouse isn’t a club you should be hanging out in, even if it’s just for your birthday. I never would’ve let you go there on your own.” He pulls me into a side hug and kisses my temple. “I’m your big brother and it’s my job to make sure you’re safe.”

  Stephen turns the television on, ending the conversation, and clicks on one of my favorite episodes as we start to eat. We sit in silence watching the show and I notice that not once does he complain or make fun of the characters like he usually does. No sarcastic comments about Seth’s unhealthy obsession with Summer. No poking fun at the way Ryan is once again bailing Marissa out of a sticky situation. He doesn’t tell me about his latest girlfriend or even ask me about Blaire—and he always asks me about her. I think he secretly likes her, but for whatever reason won’t admit to it. He takes a large sip of his drink and I notice it’s water instead of his usual beer. Something is wrong.

  “Everything okay?” I ask, taking a sip of my root beer. It’s my favorite soft drink and Stephen always keeps them on hand for when I come over.

  The corners of his lips hesitantly turn up into a fake smile, telling me he’s about to lie to me. I know the look because I’ve watched him give it every time he’s lied to our parents over the years. He nods, now chewing a mouthful of chicken fried rice.

  “You sure?” I push him.

  Once he swallows his food, he says, “Yes, Nevaeh, I’m fine.”

  Nevaeh.

  He never calls me by my name. He usually calls me Brat when he’s annoyed with me, knowing it drives me nuts, or Sis when he’s happy with me, but never Nevaeh. Something is definitely going on…

  Before I can push the subject, though, he launches into what’s been going on with him at work. He’s an Atlantic City police officer, and while his job is exhausting, he’s always made sure to find time for me. That is until recently.

  We move from the topic of his job to mine, and I tell him about some of the funny things my students have done. He laughs in all the right places, but behind his fake smile, I can see something is seriously wrong.

  He asks me how my birthday was and I tell him about me and Blaire going dancing, about the martini I tried and enjoyed—leaving out the part where I got a birthday kiss from Ethan. His expression shows brotherly love and protectiveness as he reminds me to never drink and drive. I’m lucky to have an older brother like Stephen. He’s protective and kind, and he’s one of my best friends.

  I continue to make conversation, but I can’t even tell you what either of us are talking about. My mind is now stuck on Stephen and what he’s hiding from me. For him to act like this, it must be something big.

  He sets his empty container down, while I still have half of mine left, and reaches for the remote, pausing the show. “I love you. You know that, right?”

  His serious tone makes me tense up. “Yes, I know that, and I love you too.”

  “I’ll never forget how you stood by my side no matter how much I fucked up. When I chose to move out, you didn’t disown me like our mom did. You’re a good fucking woman and an even better sister.”

  “Where is this coming from?” I ask, suddenly nervous. Stephen has never been one to show emotion or talk about how he feels, no matter how much I’ve tried.

  “It just needed to be said, Nevaeh.” And there it is. My name. Again.

  Stephen pulls me into a hug and then backs away, looking me dead in my eyes. “I know you love Mom, but promise me something, okay?”

  “What?”

  “Promise me you’ll stop living your life for her and start living it to the fullest. You can still believe in God and enjoy your life. Mom is far from perfect, and she’s only sheltering you to prevent you from enjoying your life because she’s afraid you’ll make the same mistakes she made. There’s a lot you don’t know. I know you give in to her because I didn’t, but I don’t want you doing that anymore. Promise me you’ll try.”

  My head is spinning. “What do you mean, there’s a lot I don’t know?”

  “It’s not my place to say.”

  “No!” I shake my head, starting to freak out. “Tell me. You can’t say something like that and not tell me.”

  Stephen sighs, and for a brief moment doesn’t say anything. Then, he finally speaks and the words that come out next are shocking enough to shake my entire world. “I’m not Dad’s biological son. When mom got pregnant with me, it was a one-night stand, and she didn’t know who the guy was.”

  I gasp in shock. “Oh my God,” I whisper, bringing my hands up to my mouth. “Does Dad know?”

  “I don’t think so. I found a diary in the things Grandma dropped off before Mom could throw it all away. One of her last entries was that she was pregnant and didn’t know who the father was, and that she was being sent away, so she wouldn’t disgrace her family name. She must’ve met Dad and made it look like I was his son.”

  “Wow,” I breathe. “And all these years she’s been preaching abstinence like she’s perfect. I can’t believe she would do that to Dad and you.” I can’t hide the disappointment and disgust I feel toward my mom. How dare she!

  “We both know Mom would never tell us anything she’s done that doesn’t make her look perfect. But now you know she’s not, and every time she’s judging you, you now know she has no right.”

  I can’t believe all these years she would lie. She and my dad were married young, and Stephen was born shortly after. They told us he was conceived during their honeymoon after they were married. Did Mom lie to Dad? Somehow change her due date? None of this makes any sense.

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because I didn’t want to hurt you or Dad. If he found out I’m not his son, it’d kill him. I didn’t want to destroy our family more than I already have. Did you know he comes by here every week, behind her back, to see me?”

  “No,” I murmur. “I had assu
med they both stopped talking to you.” Dad always goes along with whatever Mom wants.

  “No, just Mom. I can’t even imagine how pissed she would be if she knew Dad still talked to me.”

  We’re both silent for a moment, and then I say, “I don’t think I can keep this to myself. I’ve been feeling so…stuck lately. Trapped. Like I’m drowning under her rules and expectations. Her judgements have gotten worse. To know this entire time she got pregnant out of wedlock and doesn’t even know who the father is… It makes me feel sick.” All this time she’s been pointing her finger at me and Stephen. Throwing Bible verses our way. I’m not judging her for her past. Had she come to us with the truth, I would’ve understood. But to hide it all these years from everyone…from her husband…I’ve lost all respect for her.

  “She has to live with herself. If you want to confront her, that’s up to you. Just don’t let her navigate your life like she does with Dad and everyone else around her. Life is too short to not be happy, Nevaeh. Promise me you’ll find your own life and live it to the fullest,” he says. “Live hard and love harder.”

  Why does it sound like my brother is giving me parting words, like something you hear someone say before they die?

  “Promise me.”

  “Okay.” I nod, my stomach tightening from my sudden nerves. “I promise.”

  “Thank you.”

  He gets up to throw his garbage away, silently ending our conversation, but for me the thoughts running through my head have only begun. I need to process everything he’s just told me. It’s as if everything I’ve ever known is no longer true. The trust and respect I had for my mom is gone.

  No longer hungry, I follow him into the kitchen to throw my container of food away as well. Stephen puts the leftovers into the fridge while I silently wash the couple dishes we used, still in shock by everything he just threw at me. My mind flips through every decision I’ve ever made. In some way, shape, or form, my mother has been there to influence me. To block me. To deter me. To guilt me. No more.

  Just as I’m finishing washing the last dish, there’s a loud, commanding knock at the door that shakes me from my thoughts. I notice Stephen immediately tense up before he mumbles something under his breath as he leaves the kitchen to answer the door.

  I take a root beer from the fridge and pop the top, taking a large gulp before I start cleaning up the kitchen for him. I’ve wiped down two of the counters when Stephen walks back in. Grabbing my shoulders, his eyes plead with mine. “I need to deal with the person at the door.”

  “What?” After the way he’s been acting, his statement worries me. “What’s going on?”

  “Nevaeh, please. Just give me a few minutes.”

  “Okay, I need to use the bathroom anyway.”

  Stephen tightens his grip on my shoulders, not enough to cause pain but enough for my worrying to increase. “Stay in there until I come get you. Okay?”

  I nod my understanding, not wanting to argue with him, and head to the bathroom while he walks toward the front door.

  The bathroom has been upgraded since I was last here. It has a huge shower with waterfall showerheads. I peek inside and see a television that fits securely inside the wall. Why the heck would you need a television in the shower? I look at his bathroom rug and it has the New York Jets logo on it.

  That’s probably why.

  I sit to go pee and look around, wondering where he got the money to upgrade his bathroom. I imagine police officers make an okay living, but enough to put flat screens in the shower?

  The sound of two men arguing has me halting in place for a brief second before I bring my jeans back up and snap them closed. I probably shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but something doesn’t feel right.

  A loud thud comes from the living room and immediately I go on high alert, wanting to see what is going on out there—to make sure my brother is okay.

  “Fuuuuck!” a man’s voice yells out—a voice I know for a fact doesn’t belong to my brother. My heart is beating out of my chest and fear overpowers every emotion. The front door slams shut and, ignoring my brother’s command to stay put, I run out to the living room to check on him.

  The sight before me sends my world—for the second time today—into a tailspin. My brother, my best friend, is lying in a pool of blood. Rushing over to him, I place my hands on his chest, which has blood spewing out of it. Drips of water fall onto his still face, and I realize they’re tears—my tears.

  “Stephen, wake up, please.” A sob breaks out and my throat tightens. “You can’t leave me. God. Please.”

  His eyes are open as if he’s looking at me, but they’re hollow and lifeless. I brush my fingers over his lids to close them.

  Terrified that the man who did this will come back through the door, I know I need to get out of here now. I hate leaving Stephen like this, but if whoever killed him finds me, I’ll most likely be killed as well. Without another thought, I run back to the bathroom—there’s no way I’m going out the front door—and push open the window. I jump onto the back of the toilet and, after looking around to make sure no one is around, slip through the window, falling onto the hard ground.

  I stand, and it feels like my body is completely numb. My heart is pounding and my head is spinning. I’m about to have a full-blown panic attack. What I need to do is get to my car and get out of sight before I completely lose it.

  Willing myself to hold it together for just a little longer, I take off toward my car. I hear a noise to my left and see a man, who looks to be dressed in a black suit. My eyes are filled with tears, blurring my vision, so I can’t be sure. I should probably run to him for help, but I don’t. Instead, I keep running through the parking lot until I get to my car. But when I get there, it’s then I realize I don’t have my keys. Oh my God! I don’t have anything. Not my shoes or my phone or my purse. But I can’t go back.

  Then I remember, after the second time I locked my keys in my car, Stephen placed a spare key in a magnetic case under my wheel well. I drop to my knees and feel underneath for the case. Once my fingers hit it, I snatch the case from underneath and slide the top open. I grab the key and shove it into the hole, turning it to the right to unlock my door. Once inside, I smash down the lock, turn the ignition on, and take off. I drive for miles—where I’m going, I have no clue—but it isn’t until my gas light comes on, I finally pull off into a gas station and put my car into park next to the gas pump.

  And everything that just went down hits me like a ton of bricks.

  Somebody shot my brother.

  He’s dead.

  In his living room.

  Bleeding out.

  And I left him there.

  I bring my hands to my mouth and notice the crimson stained on my flesh. Grabbing a spare sweater I keep in case I get cold, I try to rub the blood off, but it’s already stained my skin.

  Giving up, I toss the sweater onto the floor. My forehead hits the top of the steering wheel, and I lose it. I cry until my tears eventually turn into anger. Then I scream and yell and hit the steering wheel. I lose myself as I mourn the loss of my only brother and curse whoever did this to him.

  And for a moment, I even curse God. I know I’m supposed to believe God has a plan for us all, but right now, what I want to say is fuck God and fuck his plan.

  My brother is gone.

  He’s never coming back.

  My head falls back against my headrest, and I cry until there are no tears left. Then, robotically, I get out and pump my gas—thankful I had a five-dollar bill in my cupholder since my purse is still at my brother’s place—and then go home.

  After showering to get the blood off me, I throw my stained clothes, including the sweater, into the washer. I sit on my bed and, with my house phone in my hand, contemplate calling the police. Someone needs to go to Stephen’s house to investigate what happened. And then a thought occurs to me—what if whoever shot him goes back and finds my purse? They’ll have access to my driver’s license, which has
my address on it. They could be coming after me next.

  Thank goodness Blaire is staying at Victor’s all weekend, so I know she’s safe. She left a message on our board that she’s packed a weekend bag and will be going to work from his place on Monday. I need to let her know I don’t have my phone, in case she tries to get a hold of me, but I’m not sure I would be able to make it through an entire conversation with her without losing it, and then she’ll come home to make sure I’m okay, which can put her in danger.

  No, the first thing I need to do is contact the police.

  I dial nine-one-one, and when emergency response answers, I tell her everything that happened. She takes down my information and says she’ll have someone head over to investigate and once they’ve done so, they will follow up with me.

  After we hang up, I run around the condo, checking all the windows and the front door, making sure they’re locked. Then I remember my keys were in my purse. If they want to get in, all they have to do is unlock the door and walk in. With that thought, I lock myself in my bedroom and push my dresser in front of the door. It probably won’t stop men like that from getting to me, but I don’t know what else to do.

  After changing into my pajamas, I fall into my sheets, mentally drained and heartbroken. I need to tell my parents. I need to tell Blaire. There’s a funeral my parents will have to plan. My head is fuzzy, so I close my eyes to stop the dizziness. My brain and heart are just so, so tired. I would like nothing more than to fall asleep and pretend like today didn’t happen. Pretend my brother is still alive and my mom hasn’t spent years lying and deceiving her family. But my body has other plans. The tears fall, one after another, and for the next several hours, I cry into my pillow, until my body and mind finally give up and I fall into a fitful sleep.

  Nevaeh

  I wake up to my house phone ringing. I sit up and, after fumbling with the phone, hit the answer button.

  “Is this Nevaeh Hansen?”

  “This is she. Who’s speaking?”

  “Detective Roberts. I’m a colleague of your brother’s. After dispatch received your call last night, we went over to your brother’s place. Can you meet me at the station? I would like to speak with you.”