by Carnal, MJ
I throw my head back, my breathing coming in ragged. “I have to go.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs against me as he continues to place openmouthed kisses over my chest and the small hills of my cleavage.
My phone rings suddenly, making us both groan in protest, but Nick straightens and walks over to the living room, his bare feet padding on the hardwood. He plops down on the couch as I answer the phone, thankful that it’s only Hendrix.
“Hey, I’m going over there now,” I say, before he can bitch me out and walk to the living room, picking up my cup of coffee on the way over.
“Brooklyn,” Hendrix says, his voice eerily quiet, the sound of it making an uneasy rattle shake over me.
“Wha-” I start, but the gossip channel on the television stops me short.
Breaking News: Shea Roberts’ body found unresponsive due to apparent overdose.
I stare at the television in disbelief. My brother’s frantic voice is in my ear, but I can’t understand him. I register Nick’s body moving from the couch. I hear him scream in horror, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the TV. The words are screaming at me, bleeding through the screen for me. Flashbacks of Ryan sitting up on the bed with the needle sticking out of his arm circulate my memory. The grayness of his lifeless body, the distant look in his eyes, his cold, cold skin. Empty sobs threaten as I open my mouth, gasping as my hands begin to shake uncontrollably before they go numb and I drop the phone and coffee mug. I watch it fall, shattering and splotching coffee everywhere. It all happens in slow motion. I see it but I’m not there to take it all in.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, nooooo!” I finally manage in an animalistic voice that isn’t mine. “Please no!” I gasp out, painfully pulling on my hair as my chest heaves and I shiver uncontrollably. Nick’s arms wrap around me, clutching me so tight that I can barely breathe.
“No!” I shout again, pleading with him, with anybody, needing somebody to assure me that this isn’t real. Refusing to believe that Shea … refusing to accept what the reports are saying because they’re not true. They can’t be.
“Baby,” Nick says, squeezing me harder, his own voice hoarse and laced in pain. “Let’s find out what’s going on, let me call Darius, come with me so we can call Darius.” He’s pleading, his own body beginning to shake slightly, and I know he’s trying to keep it together maybe for me, maybe for himself, but that ounce of hurt, of disbelief in his voice is my downfall. His obvious pain is what makes mine pour out of me, raking out of me in gasping, panting sobs.
Nick takes out his cellphone with one shaky hand as the other continues to hold my body against his, and dials Darius’s number. It rings. Rings. Rings. Rings and Nick shouts a string of curses when it goes to voicemail. My mind drifts to Ryan again, to his lifeless body, and I picture Shea. I picture myself walking into Shea’s room and finding him sitting up the way I found Ryan, with a needle sticking out of his arm, mute to my questions and my pleading. Somehow, even with Nick’s grip on me, my shaking body manages to slip out of his hold and down to the floor.
Nick holds my arm to stand me up, but I jerk away from his touch and crawl to the barstool where my purse is, pulling on the strap so that all its contents spill all over the floor. I pick up my phone, the screen blurry through my eyes, and see the missed calls I have from Shea’s phone. I look at my two new voice messages, also from Shea, the time stamp on them tell me they’re from last night.
“Brooklyn,” Nick says, crouching down beside me.
I can’t bring myself to look at him as I press the playback button and hold my trembling hand to my ear.
“Hey, Bee, it’s me, come out with me today,” Shea’s voice says into my ear, his deep velvety voice.
My eyes are fresh with new tears when I bring myself to look at Nick’s ashen face. “Is it?” he asks brokenly, unable to form the question.
I nod and continue playing the messages as my chest painfully constricts within me.
“I miss you, Bee. Come out with me. It’s lonely for a playa out here,” Shea says, sounding drowsy. “Bring Shadow, I miss my brother.”
My mouth falls open as tears cascade down my cheeks as I hear Shea’s pleads and watch the pain stab Nick’s eyes as he listens on.
“He called,” I whisper. “And I wasn’t there for him.” I failed him, I want to say. I failed another friend, I want to scream, but don’t. Nick opens his mouth, his eyes filling with tears as he leans forward and pulls my head onto his shoulder, both of us shaking, holding onto each other, as we commiserate over our heartache.
Nick’s phone rings between us and we both pull away quickly, desperate for an answer. “Darius,” Nick says in greeting, swiping the escaped tears under his lids with his thumb. “We just heard,” he says, his blue eyes never wavering from mine as he speaks. He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. I squeeze back, holding my breath.
“She’s here,” Nick says, his thumb rubbing over my gripped hand. Nick’s eyes widen. “We’re heading over now,” he says, hanging up the phone and taking off my heels as he stands us up. “Shea’s in Lenox Hill,” he says, cupping my face tightly so that I look at him.
“I can’t,” I say, my voice breaking. “I can’t see him like that,” I finish in a hoarse whisper. “I can’t see him dead.” I shake my head in refusal. I can’t see the only friend I have left. I can’t bear to acknowledge that I’m the only person in our trio that’s left. I can’t bring myself to accept that Shea won’t call me to bother me about a new musician he found or about a song he wrote. I can’t.
“Baby, listen to me,” Nick says, blinking away the tears that threaten to spill out of his own eyes. “Shea is in a coma, which is better than what we thought and he’s at Lenox, you have to see him. When you were in rehab, who went to see you?”
I shake my head slowly, clamping my mouth closed as tears fall down my cheeks again. “Mmmmm,” I voice, still shaking my head.
“You’re my best friend, Shea. You can’t get rid of me. Haven’t you learned that by now?” I ask quietly.
His eyes glisten. “You’re more than my best friend, Brooklyn,” he whispers. “You’re family,” Shea continues …
“I can’t, Nick!” I shout as he holds me in a tight hug. “I can’t do it. I can’t do it!” I squirm to get out of his hold.
“Brooklyn, listen to me,” Nick demands in a whisper against my hair. “We’re going to go because if we don’t and something bad happens, we’re going to regret it for the rest of our lives,” he says, letting go of me and holding me at arms’ length. “Do you want to live your life with regrets?” he asks, swallowing.
“I already do,” I respond. “I already fucking do!” I shout in a sob.
I’ve come to accept that Ryan’s death happened and there’s nothing I can do about it, you can either break or move on from something so impactful. I chose to rise. I chose to move on even though it haunts me, but moving on doesn’t mean letting go and it doesn’t mean living life with no regrets. I’ll regret not getting back earlier, not looking into his room sooner, not sleeping beside him, not talking him out of drugs that night. That burden is mine to live with, mine to carry, and even though it’s become lighter over the years, it’s still there. It always will be.
“Ryan wasn’t your fault!” Nick shouts back. “It wasn’t your fault!” he repeats, holding me close again. “Stop blaming yourself, Brooklyn.”
“Shea called last night,” I whisper. “He fucking called me and I was too busy to acknowledge his goddamn phone call, Nick,” I cry.
He inhales deeply, his breath tickling my ear when he lets it out. “Baby, your friend is in the hospital. My friend is in the hospital. He needs us,” he says, his strong voice wavering, and I know he’s right. I know I have to go even if what we find scares me, but at least I’ll have Nick with me.
“Okay, let’s go,” I agree. He scoops me up in his arms and takes me to our room, putting me down on our bed and disappearing into the closet. I watch as he comes back ou
t carrying a pair of flats. He crouches down in front of me and wordlessly puts them on my feet before carrying me out of the apartment and to the car.
The ride to the hospital is quiet. Nick nervously chews on his fingernails as he drives, and I alternate between staring out the window, wondering how such horrible news can be delivered on such a pretty day. As we drive by the park, I watch the orange autumn leaves fall from the trees, the horses that walk around us carrying laughing families and happy couples, all of them oblivious to the palpable pain in our car; all of them unmoved, their lives unchanged by the news that our friend is hooked up to monitors. The mental image makes me shiver as tears fill my eyes yet again.
When we pull up to the hospital, Nick hands the keys over to the valet and drags me out of the car, away from the reporters standing outside, and pulls me into the automatic doors, into the building that hold answers I’m not ready for. Once we check in and get our guest passes, we take the elevators to the ICU and see a flurry of big bodyguards swarm past us. I catch sight of a somber Gia in the middle of them and attempt to call out her name, but fail. My voice gets clogged in my throat along with every other intestine that has managed to lodge itself there.
“Gia,” Nick says, making her turn around. She looks numb, scared as she shakes her head.
“I can’t,” she mouths before turning around to walk away, her slim body getting lost in the protective front the men have built around her. My heart picks up the pace, assuming the worst—he died. Shea died.
“Oh my God,” I say to Nick in a panic, looking around the white halls that threaten to close in on me.
Don’t break down.
Don’t break down.
Don’t break down.
Don’t break down.
“Rye, I thought you would be sleeping,” I said, walking over to the window and opening the top layer of his curtains. I glanced at him over my shoulders and felt not as if my heart fell through my chest, but everything in my body just plummeted all at once at the sight of him.
“Ryan?” I shrieked, running to him with wide eyes that were already welling up with tears. He looked gray. Lifeless. He was sitting up in bed but looked more like a stone sculpture than himself. I knew. I just knew. A majestic blue band was wrapped tightly around his bicep and his arms were laying over his crossed legs, his face hanging down over his chest, the needle in his right hand …
My heart feels like it’s being pounded on with a knife repeatedly. “I can’t,” I say to Nick, yanking my hand from his. Nick grabs by hand again, but I plant my legs to the ground, bending my knees and pulling the opposite way. “I can’t,” I shout. “I can’t. I can’t,” I repeat it over and over as sobs begin to rake through me and water spills out of my eyes without my consent.
I hear Nick sigh loudly as he wraps his arms around me, holding me tight and moving me out of the hall into a dark nook by the stairwell.
“Look at me, Brooklyn,” Nick says, his voice firm but quiet.
I shake my head defiantly.
“Look at me,” he demands. “We’re going to find out what’s going on, okay? If we can see him, I’ll go in before you or we can go together,” he says.
I blink. Blink. And wipe my eyes as I take a deep breath. “Okay,” I croak.
“He needs you to be strong for him,” Nick says, his voice wavering. He pinches my chin with his fingers so that I look at him. His eyes are etched with pain, full of quiet turmoil as he consoles me. “I need you to be strong for me,” he emphasizes gravely.
That makes me cry harder. Nick pulls me into him, letting me bury my face in his chest as he wraps his strong arms around me, offering me whatever strength he has. When I feel like I can breathe again, I nod my head and step away.
“Okay. Okay. I can do this,” I say in a chant as Nick takes a hold of my face, wiping my tears with his thumbs. When he drops his hands, I close my eyes and begin inhaling deep breaths. God, please, please, please, help my friend. Please help him. I promise I’ll do whatever I need to do, just please help him. Please don’t take him from me. I’ll give you whatever you want. Just please help him. Please save him. Please let him be okay.
A sense of calm envelops me and I peel my eyes open and look at Nick, who has both arms over his head and his own eyes closed, his lips slightly parted. He remains unmoving as I wrap my arms around the middle of his body and lay my head on his chest.
“I love you,” I murmur quickly against him. I don’t care that he hasn’t said it. I don’t care if he doesn’t say it now, but I realize that life is so precious, so fragile, and being in this situation cements that further for me.
He lets out a breath and wraps his arms around me tightly. “I love you too, baby. So much,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head. “Are you ready?”
I sniffle, dropping my arms from him and taking a step back. “Are you?” I ask quietly.
He looks at me for a long moment, searching my eyes, taking something from me and replacing it with something of his own. He runs the pads of his thumbs over my cheeks. “If you’re with me, yes.”
“Always.”
Nick gives me a small smile and pulls me back to the hallway, walking us to Shea’s room. Despite feeling ready, I take another deep breath when we reach the door and are told we can walk in because Shea’s mother stepped out. I walk in, my eyes filling with new tears when I see him lying in the middle of the room with an IV hooked up to his arm. My first thought is: he’s alive. I let out a breath because of it. Nick’s hand squeezes mine, and I squeeze back before letting go and walking up to Shea’s bed. He looks like he’s sleeping. His tattooed arms are both facing upward, the one to my right has needle marks on it, each one of them picking at my heart, threatening to break it again.
I take a seat in the chair beside his bed and hold his hand, laying my head over his forearm and caressing his Brooklyn tattoo as I cry over him.
“You promised me,” I cry in a whisper. “You promised you weren’t using. You promised …”
When the door squeaks open, I turn my head in that direction, blurrily making out his mom standing there.
“Oh, Brooklyn,” Maria cries as she walks over to me.
We cling to each other, both of us giving each other the strength we need to get through this for the broken boy we love.
“They’re saying he had different things in his system,” Maria explains, wiping her nose once we’re sitting down calmly.
I shake my head. “He said he wasn’t using. He promised,” I whisper brokenly, looking at Nick, who hasn’t said anything to us the entire time, just staring at Shea. He’s standing beside the bed, speaking to him softly.
“Well, he did,” Maria says. “He’s under so much pressure.”
I have a million things to scream to her about that but I don’t. Instead I choose to stay quiet for the remainder of the visit, doing what I do best: wallowing. I sit there for what feels like an eternity, but I don’t mind because I know death knows no time. Shea is wheeled in and out of the room countless times as Nick and I huddle in a corner, speaking only when Maria or Darius talk to us as we stare at the center of the room in disbelief.
“Babe, we have to eat something,” Nick says finally. My eyes graze over the clock on the wall and the slightly open door, wondering if Father Time will appear through them, not wanting to move in case he does.
“I’m not hungry,” I respond in a small voice.
Darius calls out to somebody—I’m assuming the other bodyguard—when we hear chaotic voices down the hall. He steps out and speaks to somebody, my ears perking up at the sound of my brother’s voice. I want to find the will to stand, to see him, but I can’t, energy doesn’t reside in my body.
“Oh my God,” Nina screeches as she squeezes her way inside, her bloodshot eyes scanning the room before staying on me as she makes her way over and wraps her arms tightly around me. The false bravado I’ve been trying to put on for the past couple of hours falls away from me. Leaning into her, I begin to sob l
oudly again, letting her rock me as she sobs along with me. Soon I feel my brother’s arms wrap around us, holding us all together.
“They took him to run tests?” Hendrix asks.
I nod, or try to, beneath them, my chest raking in anguish, not allowing me to respond clearly.
“Yeah, CAT scan, MRI. They wheeled him out a while ago, he should be back soon,” Nick responds.
“He’s gonna die,” I cry as my shoulders shake. “He’s gonna die just like Ryan.”
“He’s not going to die!” Nina says adamantly, stepping away from me and drying the tears from her eyes. Her hair is in a messy bun and her face has no makeup, she looks completely unlike herself. “He can’t just die,” she says with a troubled frown as her eyes glisten with new tears. Nina’s dealt with death, but never like this, never actually had to look at it in the face and acknowledge that it can take your loved ones without your opinion or consent.
“He called me last night,” I say, crying again.
Hendrix pulls me into his arms, squeezing me. “It’s not your fault, Brooklyn. This is not your fault.”
“If I would have picked up the phone …” I start.
“It’s my fault,” Nick says, making my head snap to where he’s standing. He pulls on his hair and walks over to me, pinching my chin and tilting my head to look at him. His ocean eyes are turbulent as he pins me with them, making me see them, making me feel them. “If you’re going to blame yourself, you might as well blame me. He called me too, he asked me to go too, so if you’re going to believe it’s your fault, you might as well blame me for insisting we go to bed early. Blame me for telling you to stop looking at your phone for a goddamn night so that you could rest. Blame life for being so short or drugs for having the ability to give you false hope. But I won’t let you blame yourself, Brooklyn, not this time, because whatever happens here, whatever happens with Shea,” he says, his voice breaking, “I’m not losing you.”
I look at the floor, at my feet, at the T’s on my designer flats, training my mind to calm down, my emotions to neutralize, but it’s no use. When Nick clasps his hand behind my neck and pulls me into his chest, I lose it again, bawling into him, letting him soak my tears.
