Page 6 of If You Go
Alisha strides in, phone in hand, hair already perfect. Where Hazel is quiet sweetness, Alisha commands the room without trying. My rock since childhood, my sister. Not by blood, but in every way that matters. She plants herself against the counter with the ease of a queen taking her throne.
“You’re officially thirty-five, love,” she says smugly.
I groan. “RICHIE, they’re bullying me again!”
A laugh booms from down the hall. “You are old, babe. Wear it with pride!”
I flip him off—whether he can see me or not doesn’t matter—and turn my accusatory glare back to Hazel and Alisha. Hazel sips her juice serenely; Alisha smirks over her phone. My chest aches suddenly, sharp and sweet. They don’t even realize how much I owe them.
The coffee maker hisses and sputters its last drop into my mug, and I close my eyes at the smell, grateful for the small mercies of caffeine and chosen family.
Hazel sets down her juice, and my gaze lingers on her. She’s beautiful in the quiet way—freckles scattered across her nose, lips soft and unpainted eyes that laugh even when she doesn’t. She doesn’t know it, though. She brushes off compliments like they’re jokes, laughs when someone calls her pretty. She has no idea that her presence saved me the day we met.
Years ago, Alisha, Richie, and I wandered into Tattoos On The Bay on a whim. Young, reckless, searching for something we couldn’t name. Hazel was the artist who took us back, her laugh contagious, her voice steady. We ended up with matching stars tattooed on our big toes. Dumb, random, perfect. Hazel thought it was so hilarious that she tattooed one on herself, too. That single stupid moment stitched her into our lives forever.
Alisha and I go back even further. Childhood summers, scraped knees, whispered secrets. Her dad worked for mine, so we grew up glued together. She has always been the one who saw me clearly—through the smiles, the silence, the lies. During my marriage, when I wasn’t allowed to talk to her, she knew something was wrong. She fought for me even when no one else listened. The day I landed in the hospital, broken, she stormed in and never left my side. My family already loved her, but that day she became more than my best friend—she entered the family as one of our own.
And Richie. God, Richie. Our glittering storm. Tenth-grade gym class, striding across the gym floor, announcing to the world that he was gay. No hesitation. No shame. Just bold, beautiful truth. We didn’t know it then, but his bravery gave us all permission to be more ourselves. We claimed him immediately. He’s been ours ever since.
So when Hazel needed a place to stay after life tilted sideways, it wasn’t even a question. My father, in his security-obsessed way, built this apartment complex for us after I left Gavin, making sure only Irish families lived here under his watch. Everyone knows the Mafia owns the building, but with rent this cheap and security this tight, no one complains.
Four bedrooms. Four best friends. Four broken souls stitched into something whole.
I sip my coffee, the warmth grounding me, and hum as I stir in cream, sugar, and a dollop of cold foam. When I turn back, Hazel and Alisha are watching me expectantly.
“Sorry,” I laugh. “Got lost in my brain. What did you say?”
Hazel perks up. “Oh, right—I have to go into the shop today. Outlining a sleeve for one of our regulars. He’s on this mission to get tattooed by every one of us. So we each called an appendage. Juniper called the fifth one.”
She wiggles her brows, dead serious.
I nearly spit out my coffee. “GROSS!”
We all scream-laugh, stomachs aching.
“Why would she tattoo his dick?” I manage between gasps.
“Because it’s Juniper,” Hazel says with a shrug.
And really—that’s all the explanation needed. Juniper, the fiery redhead who owns the shop, curses like a sailor and surrounds herself with men who look like they stepped out of magazines. Every time I’m there, temptation flirts with me in the form of jawlines, tattoos, and leather jackets. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about letting one of them ruin me for a night. Just once.
Alisha raises her brows at me knowingly, like she can read my thoughts. She probably can.
“Well,” she says, pushing off the counter with a smirk, “I don’t have anything to do today. What about you, Surry?”
I sip my coffee and sigh. “I’ve got filming to do. A new product came in. Need to record some ads.”
Hazel groans dramatically. “Ugh, influencer life. So hard,” she says with mock annoyance.
“Hey,” I shoot back, grinning, “coffee, content, and chaos. That’s the job description.”
“Okay,” Alisha claps her hands together like a general. “Then let’s all go get ready. If we’re wasting time, we’re doing it hot.”
We peel off into our rooms, each of us drifting into our little corners of the apartment to change. It’s muscle memory now, the way we split up only to come back together again. Like satellites, orbiting our own small worlds, always drawn back into the same gravity.
My closet greets me like an old friend, the racks heavy with blacks, greys, and the occasional muted jewel tone hiding like a secret. Compared to Alisha’s closet—an explosion of color, sequins, silk, textures that scream confidence—mine looks like it is in mourning. Richie’s wardrobe is even louder, packed with neon gym shorts, glittering accessories, and floral shirts that cling to every inch of his carved chest. Hazel falls somewhere in between, a balance of cozy sweaters and edgy pieces smudged with ink stains from work.
But me? I’ve always felt safest in shadow. Black is armor. A language that says,don’t look too closely. Don’t see what I don’t want you to.
