Page 50 of If You Go
I nudge Surry gently. “Good morning, beautiful,” I whisper, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin is soft and warm against my fingers. She blinks awake, stretching, the blanket slipping to her waist.
Then she sees them—her parents waiting near the helipad. Her whole face changes, blooming into something I haven’t seen before. Light. Hope.
She unbuckles, throws open the door, and takes off running. Stefan catches her in his arms like he’s been waiting years for it. Sabrina wraps around both of them, laughing through tears. Watching it makes something in my chest ache—the kind of ache that feels like wanting something you didn’t know you’d missed.
Hazel kills the last of the spin. I pop belts, help the others deboard—Hazel, Richie, Alisha, Josh, Juniper, and finally Bridget, who blinks against the dawn, muttering about needing coffee. A small team in dark jackets and unobtrusive earpieces jogs in—O’Brien security, moving like a choir that knows the hymn.
“Clear the disc,” one of them calls, polite but firm. We step beyond the painted circle as the rotor settles to a lazy fan.
A square-shouldered woman with a clipboard approaches, face weathered by sea wind. “Ms. O’Brien.” She nods at Surry, then at me and Josh. “Welcome. I’m Aoife. We’ve got vehicles staged and warm. Luggage will be pulled and placed in your rooms.” She says it like an oath, not a courtesy.
“Thank you,” I tell her, “but we have no luggage. Just us.” Aoife nods.
I walk toward Surry and her parents. Up close, Stefan is taller than I remember from photos, wearing a fisherman’s sweater and the kind of authority that doesn’t need volume. Sabrina is gentler at first glance, but her eyes could cut stone.
“Good morning,” I say, offering my hand to Stefan. He grips it with both of his, his smile tight but sincere.
“T’ank ya for lookin’ after me girl,” he says softly. “Ye’ve done more’n ye know.”
“I’ll keep doing it,” I tell him.
He nods once, eyes sharp and assessing, before gesturing toward the hangar. “C’mon now. We’ll get ye all settled—there’s folks waitin’ fer ye.”
As we walk, Sabrina falls into step beside me, her accent a softer music. “Ye kept her alive,” she says, a simple statement. “That’s the measure that matters, lad.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The path from the helipad to the main hangar hugs the tree line. Early dawn bleeds through fog; gulls wheel and shout. Inside the hangar, two private jets rest beside a smaller helicopter and what looks like a military recon plane retrofitted for civilian use. The O’Briens don’t just prepare for trouble; they anticipate it. Tool chests gleam. A row of labeled pelican cases lines a shelf like squared-off soldiers: MED, COMMS, DRONES, WATER.
Stefan leads the way, his wife at his side, Surry tucked close under his arm. “We’ve been watchin’ the feeds o’ the compound since ye left,” he rumbles. “They found the lockroom wi’ their bloody heat gun—saw the cold shape o’ the door plain as day. Tore up everythin’ they could touch, but we’ve still a bit o’ the network left runnin’. Praise be ye left when ye did.”
“What now?” I ask. “You have a plan?”
“Aye,” he says. “But I’ll be needin’ you an’ yer brothers t’ help. Are they willin’?”
Josh answers before I can. “Fuck yeah, we’re in.”
I grin at him. That’s my brother. Always loud, always loyal.
A man in his fifties jogs over with mugs on a tray. “Tea an’ coffee,” he says cheerfully. “Fuel for the living.” The mugs are mismatched, chipped in a way that looks like love, not neglect. Bridget snatches a tea like it owed her money.
“Well, it’s nearly six in the mornin’,” Stefan starts.
“Nearly seven,” Sabrina corrects, elbowing him with a small smile on her face.
He sighs before smiling back at his wife. “Grand so,” he says. “We’ll talk the details after breakfast.”
We file into the waiting sedans. The short drive to the O’Briens’ home is quiet, the sound of gravel under the tires and distant waves our only soundtrack. The house rises out of the mist like something out of an old story—modern lines wrapped in ivy, walls of glass and stone. A pair of stone seals flank the entrance, noses lifted as if scenting weather. Inside, marble floors and pale walls lined with flowers lead us through warm light and quiet elegance. The air smells like wood smoke and lemon oil, like someone made morning on purpose.
We pass a long table already half-set—bowls of berries, a platter of smoked fish, soda bread cooling on racks, butter in crocks. A radio murmurs in the kitchen: some local radio host talking under the clatter of plates. Somewhere deeper in the house a clock chimes the hour, soft as breath.
Sabrina turns to Surry. “Ye know where yer room is, a stór. Show the others where ta go.”
“Yes, Mama.” They squeeze hands before Surry turns to me and grabs my own, leading me and the others upstairs.
“Oi,” Josh whispers as we climb, taking in the carved banister, the way the hall opens to a library balcony. “If I get lost, do I yell ‘Marco’ or ‘O’Brien’?”
“Ye yell ‘Bridget!’” Bridget answers without looking back. “An’ I appear.”
