Page 16 of If You Go
“I can see the look in your eyes.”
The words hit me like a slap, yanking me back. I hadn’t even noticed Richie slide into the seat beside me, hadn’t felt the couch shift under his weight. He places a garbage can in front of me. He’s good like that—slips in quietly when he wants to, despite his larger-than-life energy.
“What?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, defensive. I clear my throat and try again, feigning innocence. “What look?”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, looking at me from the corner of his eye. “That one. The one that says you’re about to do something really fucking stupid. Then I heard you audibly gag.”
I open my mouth, ready to deny it, but the words freeze in my throat as if I swallowed a rock. My jaw hinging as I open and close it like a fish out of water. He doesn’t need me to answer; he already knows.
“Yeah,” I breathe instead. “I just… the video. I was her once. I can’t—” My chest tightens, tears burning my eyes. I bury my face in my hands, elbows digging uncomfortably into my thighs. “I can’t let it happen to anyone else. Not again. I need to stop it.”
Richie doesn’t flinch. He lifts me up easily and places me in his lap, rubbing my back and placing his chin on my head. This should soothe me, but only makes me want to scream. “Babe,there’s nothing you can do. Not like this. Your dad’s got it. They’ll take his ass out. And then? Then we start something real. A non-profit, a shelter, something. You want to stop him? We stop all of them. Deal?”
His voice is low, steady. Grounding. He believes it—I can hear it.
But my body doesn’t. The adrenaline is a wildfire in my veins, the panic shifting into rage. Fight, not flight. I lurch to my feet; the wine bottle rattles on the table when my knees clip it, and I hit the floor unsteady before finding my balance. My eyes lock on my father’s across the room.
The days bleed together. Three of them. Maybe four. It’s hard to tell anymore. Time doesn’t feel real—it stretches, folds, collapses on itself. We sleep in shifts, jump at shadows, flinch when the elevator dings. Every noise feels like a warning. Tonight we’re gathered at the kitchen table—Alisha, Hazel, Richie, Samuel, Selene, and me—the weight of the video still hasn’t lifted. It clings to the walls like smoke that won’t air out, no matter how wide we open the windows.
The table is littered with half-eaten Thai takeout, chopsticks abandoned on styrofoam boxes. One of the few good things about Washington: you can throw a rock and hit a restaurant with food worth dying for. Thai, Korean, Chinese, Japanese—you name it, it’s all here. Normally, the smell of red curryand basil would have my mouth watering. Tonight, it’s just background noise to the silence.
After my parents left, their men posted like shadows in the garage and outside the elevator. A wall of security. Safe, but suffocating. I glance around the apartment we’ve carved out for ourselves, the one place that feels entirely ours. Black and white everything, with splashes of hot pink like rebellion stamped into the walls. The LVP flooring looks like dark wood grain, and the bottom cabinets are black with sleek gold handles. The upper cabinets? Painted hot pink. A joke that turned out to be brilliant. Alisha and Richie spent days with paint rollers and terrible music, while Hazel and I handled the lower cabinets, installing all the hardware. We bled and cursed into this kitchen until it looked like us.
The dining room stretches from the kitchen, anchored by our ridiculous twelve-person table. Black chairs, checkered rug, pink and white decor running down the center like we’re hosting the world’s oddest art exhibit. Past that, the living room glows faintly from the TV, the massive black couch piled with pink pillows, the wall behind the fireplace painted in deep, dramatic black. It doesn’t look like grown-ups live here. It looks like an eclectic art teacher threw paint and furniture together and called it home. But we love it.
When I finally tear my gaze back to the table, everyone’s watching me. Everyone but Alisha. She keeps poking at her noodles like they might give her answers she’s too afraid to ask.
“What?” My voice comes out sharp, brittle.
“What’s going through your head?” she asks without looking up.
“He texted me the night before everything happened,” I admit. The words tumble out before I can second-guess myself. “Like right after we went to sleep. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how. Then the car… and the garage… and Ipanicked. I couldn’t speak. I’m sorry. I never meant to keep you out of it.”
Alisha’s head lifts slowly. Her eyes catch mine, and the fear in them slices me open.
“How could you?” It’s all she says, and it rips me open, my chest an open wound from the hurt she put into the words.
“Lish, I’m sorry. I was scared. I’m so so sorry.” I outstretch my hand toward her, although shes across the table from me, and I can’t reach her. Sam looks at me with sorrow in his eyes. He knows how much I’m hurting, but with his hand placed on Alisha’s shoulder, I know he is with her on this. They have always been close, not as close as her and I. But there has always been something between them. Even when we were kids.
“You knew you were in danger. You know what happened last time he got his hands on you. How you have changed forever because of him. And you still let it go. Didn’t say anything. I get you were scared. But I guess I thought we were closer than that? Have you forgotten that I was there? I had to sit there at your bedside and watch you recover, black and blue everywhere, stitches, and wounds, and that’s not to mention the internal injuries. The ones here.” She points to her head, indicating my mind.
I shake my head, my lips parted as if they wish to say something. But I have no idea what. Sorry isn’t going to cut it, and I know that. Alisha begins to rise before Sam grabs her hand and pulls her gently back into her chair.
“She’s sorry Al, you know that. If I can see it, I know you can.”
Everyone else sits in uncomfortable silence, watching us argue from all the way across the table from one another.
“STILL!” She yells at him, at me, and everyone and no one all at once. “Still, she should have told me. Told us.”
“How, how can I fix this?” I whisper, my voice barely audible. She just shakes her head, looking down at the table, unblinking.
Sam, who scoots noticeably close to Alisha, places his hand on her arm. I think he feels her fear as well. But the look in his eye says more.
“You won’t lose me,” I whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her lips press together, but she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to—her silence says enough. Sam removes her hand and starts rubbing her back.
“Yeah, as long as you don’t go getting all self-sacrificing,” Richie mutters, trying to cut the tension.
