Page 7 of You Deserve Good Things

“What?” I whispered, already standing up, heart pounding.

“He got shot, bro.” Chase breathed. “Shaniya was with him.”

That was all it took.

I didn’t ask no questions. I didn’t let another word fall out his mouth. I just hung up and ran—literally—out the damn door like my feet had a mind of their own. I didn’t remember grabbing my keys. I didn’t remember the drive. I just remembered the way my chest felt like it was being pulled apart, piece by piece, with every turn I made.

And then I saw her.

Shaniya.

My baby. My best friend. The girl I’d loved since we were damn near in diapers.

She was on her knees in the middle of it all, her hands drenched in blood—Silas’s blood.

I froze. My feet hit the pavement like they forgot how to move. Everything in me locked up.

Then I ran.

“Shaniya!” I dropped beside her, knees crashing hard against the asphalt.

She didn’t even look at me. Her eyes were stuck on Silas’s body like her soul was still begging him to get up. Her hands shook, her breathing was shallow, lips were trembling, but no sound came out.

“Baby, please,” I whispered, taking her face in my hands. “Look at me.”

Nothing. Not even a blink.

It was like the light in her went out.

I pulled her into me, cradling her like she was made of glass, and I was already holding her broken pieces. Blood soaked into my hoodie, but I didn’t care. I would’ve taken all of it if it meant she’d come back to me.

Chase was somewhere behind me, screaming, cussing, ready to crash out. I could hear the thuds of his boots stomping the pavement, hear him cussing out the cops for being late, for not caring. And I didn’t blame him one bit. I could see the flashing lights—red and blue spinning across the block like a siren was mourning with us. The smell in the air was heavy.Thick.Gunpowder and blood. Death.

But me?

I didn’t want revenge.

I didn’t want justice.

I just wanted her to be okay.

I kept wiping the blood off her hands, over and over, like I could erase what happened. But it was still there. Everywhere.

The police tried talking to her. Asked me if she could give a statement. Statement? She didn’t even look like she remembered how to breathe. I snapped. Told them if they didn’t back the hell up off her, we were gonna have a bigger problem than bullets.

I picked her up—literally—put her in my car, and drove. I didn’t ask nobody permission. I didn’t care what the rules were.

She sat in the passenger seat like a doll, seat belt on, hands folded in her lap. Her eyes stuck straight ahead, unmoving.

“Baby, say something,” I murmured. “Anything.”

Nothing.

I reached over, slid my fingers through hers. Her hand was cold. Limp. Like she wasn’t even in her own body anymore.

And me?

I was begging God to take me back five minutes.

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