Page 42 of If You Go
“They took it,” I say finally, the words muffled against his shirt just trying to get anything out. “Everything. I can’t have kids. He made sure of that. I was hemorrhaging so badly, they had to take my uterus out.”
Brenden’s breath stutters once, like he’s trying not to break with me. Then he exhales, slow and controlled.
“I know what people think when they find out,” I say quietly. “They get that look. Pity. And part of why I never got close to any man ever since, outside of never wanting to be powerless ever again, I can never give a future partner any children.”
He turns my face toward him, thumb tracing the edge of my jaw. “You’ll never get pity from me, Siren. Only awe. For surviving that and still having enough left to care about anyone at all.”
His eyes are fierce, his sky blue eyes now dark and glassy like bottled stormlight. “I don’t want children out of you. I want peace with you. Whatever that looks like.”
Something cracks open in my chest. “You’re too good.”
“I’m just learning from you,” he murmurs.
We sit like that for a long time. My tears slow. His thumb keeps moving, patient circles over my skin. The window light shifts, washing the room in pale gold. For the first time in years, the ache in my ribs eases.
Brenden leans into my side, placing his lips against my ear, whispering only for me to hear. “I’m not going to let him keep living rent-free in the parts of you that deserve peace. We’ll deal with him. On our terms.”
I nod against his chin. The strength in his calm steadies me more than any promise of revenge.
After a while, I lift my head. “How do you do that?” I ask. “Sound angry and gentle at the same time.”
He half-smiles. “Practice. My mom taught me.”
“The one who said love shouldn’t feel like fear?”
“Yeah.” He looks away, eyes unfocused, voice low. “She believed it, even when it stopped being true for her. I was too young to stop it. Too young to understand.”
He pauses, ruminating in the old hurt. “She used to hum when she was scared. Same three notes. Like she could drown out whatever was coming. I didn’t get it then, but I do now. Sometimes, surviving is just finding a sound louder than the fear.”
Something in me unclenches. The confession isn’t loud or dramatic—it’s simple, human. And it feels like he’s handing me a matching scar to hold.
I touch his wrist. “Tell me more about her? About your childhood?”
He nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice goes quieter still. “I’ll tell you.”
The light outside fades to silver. The sound of the river threads through the open window. He starts talking—about her laugh, the way she burned every meal, the way she once puncheda cop for yelling at Corver—and the world feels small enough to fit in the space between his words.
For the first time in forever, I let it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I DON’T REALIZEI’ve been holding my breath until her last word lands and it feels as if the world around us goes silent. The tea has gone officially cold, the couch now somehow feels scratchier compared to when we sat down. I can’t control my emotions. Anger, grief, helpless fury, it all comes and goes across my heart and my face.
I take Surry’s empty cup, set it down, and lift her—an easy scoop, one arm under her knees, one at her back. She’s light, but the weight of what she said hangs off her like wet wool. I just sit there with her, letting her collect her thoughts, and deciding on what she wants to say next. But nothing comes. Not yet.
I carry Surry out. The hallway is cool and dim; the old plaster swallows sound. She doesn’t cry—she’s far past tears—but her hands are fisted in my shirt, not tight, just… anchored. Like if she lets go she’ll float away.
“I’m not leaving,” I say, finally. Simple. Not eloquent. The only sentence that matters.
She nods once against my chest.
Time passes in the way it does after a storm: quietly, the world remembering itself. Richie drifts by the doorway and doesn’t enter, but he taps the frame twice—our version of a salute—before fading back into the murmur of the house. Somewhere deeper in the Compound, Hazel’s laugh sparks and dies, a bright flare swallowed by distance. Joshua’s voice rumbles on the back terrace; I hear the thunk of a kettle bell hitting packed earth. The place breathes.
When Surry finally lifts her head, there’s resolve in her eyes that wasn’t there this morning. Not the brittle kind. The forged kind. She slides off my lap, straightens my collar like she’s smoothing the world back into place, and says, “I want a shower.”
“I’ll walk you up.”
“Walk me to the stairs,” she corrects gently. “I can do the rest.”
