Page 5 of If You Go
He smiles at me, and goes to pat my hand, but changes his mind mid-reach, before he stands up and leaves the ambulance.
“Okay, honey, we have to wheel you into the ED on the bed. Will that be okay? I do need help from my co-worker. His name is Chase and he is very kind. He has a wife and two little girls at home. I promise he won’t touch you.” I nod, because what other choice do I have?
Chase, I presume, walks up to the back of the ambulance and stands there waiting for Elise. She hops out and tells him that I agreed to be wheeled out, but that he wasn’t to touch me. He looked sad, then faced me.
“Hi, Surry, I’m Chase Montgomery. I will be helping Elise take the bed out, but I promise, unless you fall out, I won’t be touching you. Okay?” I again nod. He and Elise pull out the stretcher out, the wheels clattering as they lower me to the ground. Once steady, they start wheeling me toward the hospital doors–but not before Elise takes my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. I look at her and my eyes fill with tears once again. I didn’t know I was capable of creating any more.
Once inside, my mother and sister race over to me with Officer Martin hot on their heels, as they begin shouting at everyone around to help me. They were frantically asking what happened, and then incomprehensible words started to come out of their mouths, but my ears began a ringing that was so loud I couldn’t hear. That was, until it all went black.
It is in the hospital that I learn I was pregnant, again. The nurses ask me what happened. But I don’t answer. The doctor, as well as the police, they all ask. I don’t want to be hurt anymore. If they send me home, and Gavin learnsI talked? My life would be over, or just somehow more impossibly miserable.
A baby. Why? Why is this happening? He finally got what he wanted, only to cause a forced miscarriage with the gang rape I just endured. Well, that is, until the doctor said words that I will never forget.
My mother and sister got to the room and listened to the doctor tell them what happened from the clipboard in his hand, and then he exits to leave me with my mother and sister. I tell them everything. They’re both sobbing, and promise I will never return. I will never have to see his face again.
I let out a heaving sob of breath and face my mother before closing my eyes. Willing it all to vanish.
CHAPTER ONE
PRESENT DAY
THEsmell of saltwater drifts in through the cracked balcony door, mingling with the faint aroma of last night’s pizza. Seattle mornings always carry a kind of damp hush, the streets below glistening from the rain that never really ends. From my spot at the counter, I drum my fingers against the black marble, its cold polish grounding me. My father insisted on the marble—“durable, timeless, Irish stone”—as though the apartment was meant to last centuries.
It’s a beautiful kitchen. Spacious, open, tall windows letting in just enough gray light to make the place moody, cinematic. But the illusion is ruined when I see it.
Underwear. In the sink.Again.
“RICHIE!” My voice ricochets off the walls, sharp enough to wake the dead. Or at least the idiot who left his boxers next to yesterday’s dirty dishes.
Heavy footsteps thud down the hall, and moments later, Richie appears, hair sticking up, tattoos spilling across his bare arms, a smirk already tugging at his mouth. He’s six foot two and full of trouble and charm, a Greek god if a Greek god wore shorts that left nothing to the imagination and had gauged ears the size of a dollar coin.
“What you want, girly pop?” His tone drips with mock innocence.
I jab a finger toward the sink. “Explain that.”
Richie leans past me, plucking the offending underwear with two fingers like it’s evidence from a crime scene. He twirls them on his index finger, amused and unbothered.
“Oh relax. These aren’t mine.” He lifts them proudly, like he’s presenting a trophy. “They’re Tommy’s.”
“Tommy doesn’t live here,” I snap.
“Details.” He waves his hand flippantly and saunters off, swinging the boxers like a flag of victory before throwing them over his shoulder proudly.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, stifling a laugh. Living with Richie is like living with a chaotic older brother—if that brother also worked out six days a week, collected tattoos like candy, and had zero shame.
“Besides, babe,” he calls over his shoulder, “if they were mine, you’d know. Silk, not cotton.”
“Too much information!” I yell, but my laugh betrays me.
When I turn back, Hazel is sliding onto a stool at the bar, mason jar in hand. She’s the complete opposite of Richie. Tiny, soft-featured, cardigan energy wrapped in five feet of kindness. Her hands and arms are smudged with ink stains from sketching designs, hair tucked into a messy knot. Always glowing, even while sipping what looks suspiciously like liquefied lawn clippings.
“You should really eat actual food sometime, Surry,” she says, eyeing the pizza box I’ve already opened. “That stuff doesn’t count.”
I press a finger against her lips, shushing her dramatically. “Shhh. Don’t ruin this for me.”
She rolls her big brown eyes but giggles, swatting at my hand.
“Just because you don’t want it to be true,” comes another voice, rich and teasing, “doesn’t make it not true.”
