Page 31 of If You Go
He chuckles, unfazed, and then turns to me like the energy in his body just shifts direction.
“And you must be Surry,” he says, voice dropping a register. “The one everyone’s been talking about. Didn’t think the stories would do you justice—but damn, they undersold you.” He winks. HE WINKS!
That’s when Brenden’s jaw tightens beside me. His hand finds the small of my back in a move that’s calm on the surface but all claim underneath.
The stranger’s grin widens like he’s just found a live wire. “Easy, big guy,” he says, raising both hands in mock surrender. “I like breathing.”
The tension cracks just enough for laughter to spill out—mine included.
He steps forward, extending a hand. “Arnie,” he introduces himself. “Tech, logistics, and sometimes comic relief.” I take his hand. He bows slightly and plants a quick kiss on my knuckles before winking.
“Jesus,” Juniper mutters. “He’s flirting like it’s a contact sport.”
“Only the best kind,” Arnie fires back.
The truck’s driver climbs out next—broad, quiet, weathered. “Let’s get this circus back on the road,” he says, voice even as gravel. “Name’s Gunnar. These idiots are my family. If you’re important to them, you’re important to me.”
He offers a massive, steady hand; I take it, grounding instantly in that calm strength.
Tears sting before I can stop them. I nod, and Brenden’s hand finds my shoulder—steady, protective, no longer sharp. His smile looks like a bruise—dark with things he won’t say out loud. He pulls me in close.
“I told you, Siren,” he murmurs, low enough that only I hear. “Mine.”
We reshuffle. Josh, Juniper, and Alisha pile into our car with us—wet hair, big opinions, elbows everywhere. Arnie, Hazel, and Richie stuff into Corver’s. Gunnar rumbles along at the back like a patient bear.
The rain thins to gossamer mist as we turn off the concrete artery of the freeway and start climbing into a verdant cathedral of ancient pines. Dexter materializes through curtains of fog, nestled in a hush of moss-draped trees and obsidian water that reflects the pewter sky. The asphalt ribbon narrows, then narrows again, switchbacks tightening like a secret being whispered, until we're slipping into a pocket dimension that belongs only to us.
My stomach performs its familiar somersault, that weightless vertigo I've felt since childhood. The gates emerge without warning from the emerald gloom of the surrounding trees, twenty feet of wrought-iron filigree twisted into patterns of thorns and vines, black as a midnight promise. The brick wall on either side, the color of dried blood, runs off into primeval forest, its top crowned with gleaming anti-drone hardware disguised as ornate spikes and cameras nestled in stone falcons'eyes. The brushed-steel keypad waits like a small altar, its blue glow the only artificial light for miles.
I punch in 0-6-2-0-#—my parents’ anniversary. The gates swing inward as if pulled by old magic.
“If you ever need speed,” I say, glancing at Brenden, “add a one before the code. It opens fast and slams shut faster. But it trips alarms. Don’t use it unless you actually need it.”
He nods once. I know he’s memorized it the way he memorizes exits and faces and the weight of a gun.
We file through, one by one, the gates washing us back into a life I haven’t touched in nine years. The main drive curls under immortal trees, the ground slick with needles. You can’t see the house until you’re almost kissing it; that’s by design. We crest a last bend, and there it is—the courtyard opening like a stage, the manor rising out of rain and laurel. Lamps glow along the portico. Staff line the steps, still as chess pieces.
“Holy shit, lady,” Josh says, craning around me. “You are like…a princess.”
“I used to think that too, when I was little.” Pretending to be a princess with Selene, Sam was our knight who came to save us from dragons, or other kingdoms. Little did we know, it was but a glimpse into what life would really look like so many years later.
“You are my Queen,” Brenden says quietly. I look up. Something unnameable moves across his face, not love—it can’t be love—but in the same constellation.
“Pull up front,” I say, voice gone thin. “We’ll unload. They’ll park in the underground. If Gunnar wants to babysit his gear, have him follow down.”
We stop. Before the engine even sighs off, I’m out—sprinting across stone into a pair of arms I’ve been missing since I was twenty-six.
“BRIDGET!” My voice ricochets off the stone. Bridget Doherty catches me like she always has, wraps me up in cinnamon and starch and the kind of love that smells like fresh bread. She’s rounder now, softer around the edges, eyes just as sharp.
She pushes me back and squints up. “Me heavens, child,” she says in an accent heavy enough to bend light, “what’ve ye done to yer skin?”
I laugh, throat tight. “Decorated my temple.”
Her gaze warms, full and wet. “Aye, ye did.” She casts her eyes down the steps, clocking every unfamiliar face like she’s tallying the dead and the living. “Who’ve ye brought wi’ ye? We knew to expect company, but how many beds am I makin’?”
Brenden’s voice rolls smooth behind me. “Surry and I will be in a room together, so don’t worry about me. I’ll be wherever she’s at.”
I feel, rather than see, Bridget turn that gaze on him. It can peel paint. “Boyo,” she says, stepping closer, “don’t feck wit’ me. The IRA’s in me blood. D’ye think I’m standin’ here ‘cause I can make a stew?”
