Remember My Name

Chapter 16 Jay #2

"Tell me about your current family," I say, needing to change the subject away from my failures. "The ones you live with."

Ivan's whole face softens when I say their name, his expression going warm.

"Rosalyn and Mitchell. They've been fostering kids for over fifteen years.

When I got there, there were three other kids in the house already.

There were twins, Destiny and Diana, they were four.

And Caleb, who was just a toddler. He used to follow me around everywhere, like a little shadow. "

"Sounds crowded."

"It was. It still is." Ivan laughs. "The house is always loud, always chaotic.

There's always someone needing something, always some kind of drama or crisis or celebration.

Rosalyn cooks these huge meals and everyone has to help—there's a rotation for setting the table, clearing dishes, washing up.

And Sunday dinners are an even bigger affair. "

"How did you handle that?" I ask, trying to picture it. "You were always so quiet, so careful not to take up space."

"Badly, at first," Ivan admits. "I was uncomfortable.

I was so used to being invisible, to staying quiet and not being noticed.

And suddenly I was in this house where everyone noticed everything and wanted to talk about it.

Rosalyn asks you about your day every single day.

Mitchell wants to know what you're learning in school.

" He shakes his head. "I kept waiting for something bad to happen.

For Rosalyn to stop smiling, for Mitchell to come home angry, for it to turn into another Henderson situation. "

My chest tightens at the mention of Henderson's name. "But it never did?"

"Never. They were always good. Consistently, impossibly good. Even when I screwed up, even when I broke things or said the wrong thing or got in trouble at school. They helped me fix it. They didn't get angry. They didn't punish me. They just helped."

"And they let you stay? Even after you aged out of the system?"

"They sat me down when I aged out," Ivan says. "Rosalyn took my hand and she said, 'This is your home. For as long as you want it.' She said she didn't care what some piece of paper from the state said about my age. I was her kid now, and that didn't come with an expiration date."

Something in my chest aches—not jealousy, not exactly. More like grief for what I never had, mixed with profound relief that he did. Relief that someone saw Ivan and decided to keep him, to love him, to make him family.

"I'm glad," I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. "I'm so glad you found them. Or they found you. However, it happened."

"They saved me," Ivan says simply, like it's just a fact.

"I mean, you saved my life first. You taught me how to survive, how to keep going.

But they taught me how to trust people again.

How to believe that not everyone was going to hurt me.

How to let myself be happy without waiting for it to be taken away. "

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of his words settling over us.

"Jay?" Ivan's voice is hesitant now, careful. "Can I ask you something? And I need you to be honest with me."

My stomach tightens. "Anything."

"Do you drink a lot?"

The question knocks the air out of my lungs.

My eyes flick involuntarily to the bottle on the dresser, the one I was working on before he knocked on the door.

Half empty. Or half full, depending on how you look at it.

Cheap whiskey that burns going down and leaves you feeling worse than you did before.

"Why do you ask?" I say, even though I know exactly why.

"Because there's a bottle of whiskey on your dresser," Ivan says gently, no accusation in his tone. "And you got arrested for a bar fight."

I don't answer right away. I can feel his eyes on me, waiting.

"Jay. I'm not judging you. I just want to understand what's happening. I need to know how to help you."

"I drink," I admit finally, the words tasting like shame in my mouth. "More than I should, probably. It helps me sleep. Quiets things down in my head when they get too loud."

"What kind of things?" Ivan asks.

"Nightmares mostly. About you. About Henderson. About all of it. I see him hurting you and I can't stop it. I see you screaming and I can't move, can't help you. I see the belt coming down and I'm just standing there frozen. I wake up and I can't breathe and the only thing that makes it stop is—"

I gesture weakly at the bottle. Ivan follows my gaze, and I see something flicker across his face. Something that looks like fear.

And suddenly I understand.

Henderson was a drunk. Henderson hurt us when he was drinking. And here I am, telling Ivan that I drink to cope, that I drink to forget, that I drink until the nightmares stop and the world goes quiet.

I'm describing the beginning of the same road Henderson walked. The same path that led to violence and abuse and broken bones.

"I'm not like him," I say quickly, desperately, the words tumbling out too fast. "I would never—Ivan, I would never hurt you. I would never hurt anyone. I'm not violent, I just—I just use it to sleep. That's all. Just to sleep."

"I know," Ivan says, but there's some tiny thread of uncertainty that cuts through. "I know you're not like him. I know that. You could never be like him."

But he's afraid. Maybe just a little, maybe just for a second, but he's afraid of what I might become. Afraid that the boy who saved him might turn into the man who hurt him.

I can't let that happen. I won't let that happen.

"I'll stop," I say firmly. "Or—I'll cut back. I'll figure something else out. I don't want you to ever look at me and see him. I don't want you to ever be scared of me, ever wonder if I'm going to—"

"I'm not scared of you," Ivan interrupts, his hand tightening on mine. "I'm scared for you. There's a difference. I'm scared that you're hurting and I wasn't here to help. I'm scared that you've been dealing with this alone for so long. I'm scared that I might have found you too late."

"Too late for what?"

"Too late to—" His voice breaks. "To save you. To pull you back from wherever you've gone."

The words hang between us, heavy with meaning. Too late. Am I too late? Have I gone too far down this road to turn back?

"I'm fine," I say, but the words sound hollow even to me. "You're not too late. Don't say that. It was a dumb bar fight, that's all. No big deal."

"You're not fine. And that's okay. You don't have to be fine right now. But I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere, and we're going to figure this out together. Okay? You're not alone anymore."

I don't trust myself to speak. I just nod.

The room has gone fully dark now, the only light coming from the parking lot outside, filtering through the thin curtains in pale yellow stripes.

I'm exhausted in a way that goes deeper than physical tiredness, deeper than the ache in my ribs or the throb of my bruised face.

I feel like I've been turned inside out, all my secrets exposed, and somehow Ivan is still here.

Still touching me. Still looking at me like I'm worth saving.

"It's late," I say. "You drove hours to get here. You must be exhausted."

"I'm okay," Ivan says, but I can hear the tiredness in his voice too.

"Did you eat anything today?"

Ivan pauses, thinking. "I had breakfast on the way this morning. I haven't eaten since. I've been trying to find out where you lived all day."

"There's a vending machine at the end of the hall," I say, starting to stand up. "It's not much, but it's something. Chips, candy bars. And I might have some crackers or something in the—"

I stop, realizing how pathetic that sounds. I'm offering him vending machine food and stale crackers. This is my life. This is what I have to give.

"I'm not hungry," Ivan says, gently pulling me back down to sit beside him. "Really. I'm fine. I just want to be here with you right now. That's all I need."

I take a breath, let it out slowly. "Can you stay? If you didn't bring a bag, you can borrow some of my things. You can't sleep in jeans."

"I didn't think about—"

"I can give you something to sleep in," I interrupt.

"Some sweats, a t-shirt. And there's an extra toothbrush in the bathroom, still in the package.

I bought a multipack a while back." I'm rambling now, talking just to fill the silence, to have something to do with my mouth besides say things I'll regret. "It's not much, but—"

"That would be great," Ivan says, smiling at me. "Of course, I want to stay. Thank you."

I get up from the bed, wincing at the pull in my ribs, and dig through my dresser until I find a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that look relatively clean. I hand them to Ivan, then point him toward the bathroom.

"Toothbrush is in the cabinet under the sink. Towels are in the bathroom. Sorry, I'm not better prepared for company."

"Jay." Ivan stands up, the clothes in his hands. "It's okay. I'm not expecting the Ritz. I'm just happy to be here. Happy to be with you again."

He disappears into the bathroom and I hear the water running, the sounds of someone making themselves at home in my space. No one has ever stayed here before. No one has ever wanted to. The Vista Inn isn't a place for guests. It's a place for people who have nowhere else to go.

But Ivan is here. He's in my bathroom, brushing his teeth with my spare toothbrush, getting ready to sleep in my bed.

I change quickly into my own sleep clothes—an old t-shirt that's more holes than fabric and a pair of boxers. I sit on the edge of the bed, waiting, my heart pounding.

When Ivan comes out of the bathroom, he's wearing my clothes, and something about that makes my breath catch.

They're a little tight on him—he's broader than me now, more muscular from years of physical work—but he's wearing my clothes, and it feels significant somehow.

Like he's marked himself as mine in some small way.

"These are comfortable," he says, tugging at the t-shirt with a small smile. "Thanks for letting me borrow them. I guess I didn't put much thought into the trip here. I just got into my truck this morning and drove like a maniac."

"They look good on you," I say, and then immediately feel my face heat up. "I mean—they fit okay. That's what I meant."

Ivan just smiles and sits down on the bed beside me. "Are you sure you're okay with me sleeping here? There's only one bed and we're bigger than we were."

My heart jumps into my throat. "I can sleep in the chair. I've slept in worse places. You should take the bed."

"Don't be stupid," Ivan says, and he lies down, stretching out on his back with a sigh. He pats the space beside him. "Come here. Like old times."

Like old times.

When he was scared and I would hold him until he fell asleep. When we were just two kids trying to survive, and the only safe place was next to each other.

I lie down beside him slowly, carefully, acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch. The bed really is too small for two grown men, but I don't care. I don't think he does either.

"This is weird, right?" I say. "We should think this is weird."

"Does it feel weird to you?" Ivan asks quietly.

I consider the question honestly. His body is warm against mine. His breathing is slow and steady. We're two grown men sharing a bed in a motel room, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

"No," I admit quietly. "It feels like coming home."

Ivan turns his head to look at me, and he's smiling again, that real smile that reaches all the way up to his eyes and takes my breath away.

"Then stop worrying," he says. "Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

I close my eyes. His hand finds mine in the dark, fingers intertwining like they were made to fit together. Like puzzle pieces that finally found their match.

"Jay?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad I found you."

My throat tightens with emotion and the tears threaten to start up again. "I'm really glad you did too."

I fall asleep faster than I have in years, without whiskey, without pills, without anything but Ivan's warmth beside me and the sound of his breathing in the dark. I fall asleep holding his hand, and I don't have nightmares.

Instead, I dream of white sand and blue water, and Ivan is there beside me.

And we're both finally safe.