Page 49 of If You Go
I don’t look back.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE FLIGHT BACKto Washington is absolutely breathtaking. The world below blurs into ribbons of dark green and silver as we cut north through the sky. At this height, the Oregon forest rolls beneath us like an endless ocean, and when the coastline finally appears, the real one waits beyond—the Pacific stretching out until it curves with the earth. Down below, the small coastal towns glow like constellations scattered across the ground. It’s beautiful, almost peaceful, like the world forgot what kind of hell we just ran from.
But my favorite part isn’t the view. It’s Surry. She’s tucked in my lap, her head resting on my shoulder, her body rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep. I’ve got my arms wrapped around her within the blanket we’re sharing, keeping her upright as we slice through the dark sky. I flipped off the comms on her headset an hour ago—she doesn’t need to hear the constantchatter between Hazel and the others. Every few minutes, I feel her breathe a little deeper like her body’s negotiating with the world and finally accepting the treaty: we’re safe for the moment.
The cockpit glow throws a soft blue on Hazel’s cheekbones as she flies—focused, steady, hands sure on the collective. Instruments hum. Tiny green numbers crawl. A faint vibration rides up through the skids, through the ribs of the bird, into my bones. I catalog it all the way I do on a run: RPM, torque, altitude. If Hazel needed me to take the stick, I could. She won’t. The woman flies like she was born in a hangar.
Josh’s voice breaks through the quiet hum. “Hey guys, I’m really sorry. I should have been more careful.”
Juniper leans over and rubs his arm, soft and steady. She looks the most put together out of all of us—like chaos didn’t just chew us up and spit us out. Her bright orange curls are loose, bouncing around her shoulders, and her blue sundress catches the dim cockpit light every time she moves. Tattoos shimmer against her skin like reflections off glass. She looks like she was on her way to something softer. A date, maybe. Then I notice Josh—shirt pressed, boots clean, hair slicked back like he was trying too hard.
It hits me. They were planning a date. The corners of my mouth twitch, and I catch Josh’s eye. He flushes red as a warning light and looks away fast. I raise an eyebrow, mouthing, really? He scratches the back of his neck, trying not to grin. Even through exhaustion, I can’t help it—I chuckle quietly. Leave it to my brother to make time for romance between gunfire and lockdowns.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him, keeping my voice low so I don’t wake Surry. “They didn’t hack your phone. They went through our foreman. He’s probably scared out of his damn mind right now… if he’s even still alive.”
Josh’s jaw tightens. I pull my phone out, thumb flying over the screen as I shoot a message to the foreman—quick, coded, nothing traceable. A few tense minutes later, the screen lights up with a reply.
“He’s okay,” I exhale. “Shaken, but alive.”
Josh nods once, eyes flicking toward the window, and leans back into his seat. Juniper rests her head against his shoulder. For a second, the noise in the cabin fades, replaced by the steady thrum of rotor blades and the faint crackle of the comms.
Behind them, Richie’s sprawled like a dead starfish with his headset askew, one hand still wrapped around an unopened granola bar like he fought and won it. Alisha’s got her knees hugged to her chest, chin on them, watching clouds scroll past like she’s trying to memorize a new version of calm. Bridget—God bless her—is snoring in the jump seat, mouth slightly open, hands folded over a tote that probably contains a rosary, a multi-tool, and snacks no mortal can refuse.
Surry stirs slightly, mumbling something against my neck. I brush my thumb over her arm. She told me earlier this place—her parents’ island—isn’t somewhere she visits often. Once a year, usually, a summer trip with Richie, Alisha, and Hazel. A little pocket of peace she keeps tucked away. I’m hoping it’ll still feel like that when we land.
“Haze,” I say into the mic. “You good up there? Need me to sing to keep you awake?”
Hazel giggles through the headset. “I’m good! Haven’t flown in a while, so adrenaline’s keeping me plenty awake. You might wanna sing to Bridget, though—she’s out cold next to me.”
“She deserves it,” I say. “But if you get tired, you yell for me. Got it?”
“Got it, boss.”
We slide past a ragged smear of storm over the water. Lightning spiders far offshore—silent at this distance, a lightshow with the sound turned off. It’s about a 340-mile flight from Corvallis up to the Strait of Juan de Fuca. From this height, the night looks painted—streaks of navy and violet, the occasional pulse of lightning far out over the ocean. The world looks too calm for what we’ve been through.
Hazel flips a couple of toggles. “Crossfeed’s good. We’re sweet on fuel. ETA sixty-five.”
“Copy.”
At some point, Hazel flips on the cabin speakers. “Thought we could use a little noise,” she says, grinning.
A few seconds later, a deep, atmospheric beat fills the helicopter—Pac Ave by Diggy Graves. The music hums low, pulsing through the metal floor, vibrating against my chest where Surry’s heartbeat rests. It fits—dark, haunting, but beautiful. The kind of song that doesn’t just play; it lingers. The words describing the landscape we can see now that we are getting closer to Seattle.
Everyone falls quiet. The hum of the engine and the low bass from the song weave together, creating a strange kind of calm. Surry’s head shifts slightly on my shoulder, her hand brushing my chest in her sleep, and I swear I can feel her dream through the way her body softens.
“Hey, B?” Richie says after a while, voice half-asleep. “What’s the breakfast situation on this island? Asking for me.”
“Bread,” Bridget mumbles without opening her eyes, pure Irish in a single syllable. “There’ll be bread, boy.”
“And jam,” Hazel adds, because of course she does.
“Copy that,” Richie says, satisfied like we’ve solved war.
We skim over a break in the clouds. Seattle’s glow blooms far to our right, then drifts behind us as we angle toward a scatter of black rocks in silver water. It’s a few hours later, judging by the sun’s position when Hazel begins her descent. The ocean glimmers almost metallic under the early dawn light, and acluster of small islands appears through the thinning clouds. Pines spear the sky. A white line of surf frays and re-stitches itself along the outer beaches.
Hazel lines up on a narrow crescent of concrete cut into the trees—the private helipad—and flares smooth. The skids kiss down. The rotors keep biting air as she spools down. Salt wind shoves at the open door, cold enough to sting.
