Chapter 5 Ivan #2
"The first night I got here," I say slowly, the memory crystal clear in my mind, "you told me I could breathe. Remember? I was pressed against the door and you said I could breathe, that you weren't going to hurt me."
"I remember," Jay says softly, his eyes distant like he's seeing that night too.
"So that could be a question," I continue, warming to the idea. "What did you say to me the first night we met? And the answer is 'you can breathe.'"
Jay nods, and his eyes are bright in the dim light of the barn, reflecting what little moonlight filters through the cracks. "That's good. That's really good. What else?"
"Your safe place," I say, remembering our conversation from weeks ago. "The beach. You told me about the beach you go to in your head when things get bad. White sand and blue water."
"And your safe place is the barn," Jay says quietly. "This barn. With me."
I feel my face get warm and I look down at my hands because I didn't know he knew that, didn't know it was that obvious. I never told him out loud. But of course, he knows. Jay knows everything about me, even the things I don't say out loud, even the things I try to hide.
"What about something physical?" Jay asks, moving on before I can get too embarrassed. "Something we could describe, something that wouldn't change even if we got older? Scars, birthmarks, things like that?"
I think about this for a minute, and then I remember. "Your scar," I say. "On your left hand. Between your thumb and your finger. You said you got it from a broken bottle when you were nine."
Jay holds up his hand, and even in the low light I can see the pale line of the scar, a thin crescent shape against his skin. "Good," he says approvingly. "And you've got that birthmark on your right shoulder blade. Shaped kind of like a kidney bean."
"It's not shaped like a kidney bean," I protest, and I'm almost smiling now despite everything, despite the heavy conversation we're having. "It's shaped like a blob. Just a blob."
"A kidney bean blob." He's smiling too, and for just a second it feels like we're not two kids hiding in a barn from a drunk man who beats us. It feels like we're just friends, just brothers, making up a secret code like any other kids might do, like this is a game instead of a survival strategy.
But then the moment passes, and the weight of what we're really doing settles back over us like a heavy blanket, smothering the brief lightness.
"We should practice. Go over all of it again right now. And then again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. Until we know each other's information as well as we know our own. Better than we know our own."
"Like homework?"
"Better than homework. Way better. This actually matters. This could save us."
So, we practice, there in the loft with the rain drumming overhead. Jay quizzes me on his birthday, his birthplace, his mother's name and maiden name. I quiz him on mine, even though I don't have as many details to give him, even though my history is mostly blank spaces and unknowns.
We go over the secret questions, the safe places, the scars and birthmarks. We say the words over and over until they start to feel worn smooth in my mouth, familiar and comfortable like a prayer I've said a thousand times.
Jason Michael Morrow. March fifteenth. Macon, Georgia. Rebecca Morrow, maiden name Thorne. Scar on the left hand between the thumb and finger. Safe place is a beach with white sand and blue water. What did Jay say to me the first night we met? You can breathe.
By the time the rain finally stops and we see the lights go off in the farmhouse one by one, I know Jay's information as well as I know my own name.
Better, maybe, because I've repeated his facts more times in the last two hours than I've said my own name in my entire life.
Because my own name has never felt as important as his does right now.
We sneak back inside when we're sure it's safe, careful and quiet, avoiding the creaky floorboards we've memorized, slipping into our room like ghosts and closing the door softly behind us with barely a whisper of sound.
I change into my sleep shirt, the one that's getting too small but still works, and climb into bed.
The springs poke into my back the same as they always do, but I don't mind anymore.
I'm used to it now. I barely even notice.
"Jay?" I whisper into the darkness once we're both settled. "We're not going to get separated," I say, and I hate how much it sounds like a question. "Right? This is just in case. Just being careful."
I can hear him breathing in the bed across from mine, slow and steady, the only sound in the room besides the settling of the old house around us.
"Right. Just in case. Just being careful."
But there's something in his voice that sounds like a lie, or at least like uncertainty, and I think we both know it.
The world is too big and too cruel and too unpredictable to make promises about forever.
All we can do is prepare for the worst and hope for the best and hold onto each other as hard as we can for as long as we can.
I close my eyes and start reciting the facts in my head, silently, like counting sheep to fall asleep.
Jason Michael Morrow. March fifteenth. Macon, Georgia.
Rebecca Morrow, maiden name Thorne. Scar on the left hand between the thumb and finger.
Beach with white sand and blue water. You can breathe.
I fall asleep with Jay's information running through my mind like a song I'll never forget, like lyrics burned into my brain, and I dream about oceans I've never seen and beaches with white sand and a future where we're both safe and free and together.
In the dream, we make it.