Chapter 19 Ivan
When I come out of the bathroom, I search for my phone. It's on the floor next to the bed. There are three missed calls from Rosalyn and a string of texts that make guilt twist sharply in my stomach.
Where are you? Your truck is gone.
Caleb says you left before breakfast. Everything okay?
Ivan, please call me. I'm worried.
I should have called her last night. Rosalyn has been nothing but good to me.
She's earned the right to know where I am.
But everything happened so fast—finding the article, the mug shot, the drive—and by the time I got here, the only thing I could think about was Jay. Everything else ceased to exist.
I type out a message, trying to figure out how to explain without explaining too much.
I'm okay. Sorry I worried you. Visiting a friend for the weekend. I'll explain everything when I get back. Please don't worry.
I hit send and watch the message go through, the little checkmark appearing.
A moment later, the three dots appear at the bottom of the screen.
Rosalyn is typing. I can picture her so clearly—sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, probably still in her robe, trying to decide how to respond.
Whether to push for more information or let it go.
A friend? What friend? Where are you?
She deserves the truth. At least part of it.
Remember the foster brother I've been looking for? I found him. I'm with him now. I'm safe. I promise I'll explain everything Sunday night when I get home.
The dots appear and disappear several times. I watch them, my heart beating faster than it should. I can see her processing this, trying to understand.
Finally, a message comes through.
Take all the time you need. Call me if you need anything.
I put the phone down on the nightstand and look up to find Jay watching me from the chair. He's got that guarded expression on his face, the one I remember from when we were kids. The one that means he's worrying about something.
"Was that Rosalyn?" he asks.
"Yeah. I didn't tell her where I was going yesterday. She was worried." I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet touching the rough carpet. "Woke up to three missed calls and a bunch of texts."
"You should call her. Let her know you're really okay."
"I just texted. She's fine." I study his face, trying to read what's going on behind his eyes. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
He's not fine. I can tell from across the room.
There's tension in his shoulders, and something closed off in his expression that wasn't there last night.
He's sitting in that chair like he's waiting for me to say or do something that will confirm whatever terrible thing he's thinking about himself.
I think about how he got up before me. Did he realize how we were sleeping? Did it bother him? Is he freaked out about it? About me?
"Jay." I wait until those dark eyes meet mine. "Talk to me. What's going on in your head right now?"
"Nothing. I'm just—" He shakes his head, looking away. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."
"It's not nothing. I can see you spiraling from here. " I walk over to him, my bare feet silent on the carpet. I crouch down in front of his chair so we're at eye level, so he can't avoid looking at me. "You don't have to do that with me. You don't have to hide what you're feeling."
Something raw and vulnerable flickers across his face that he tries to bury before I can see it. "I'm not hiding."
"Yeah, you are. You've got that look, the one you used to get when you didn't want me to know something was wrong.
When you'd gotten hurt but didn't want me to worry about you.
" I reach out and touch his knee, a light pressure, my hand settling there.
"We spent a lot of time reading each other's moods to survive. You think I forgot how to do that?"
Jay eyes are on where my hand rests on his knee. I can see him fighting with himself about whether to tell me the truth or keep it locked inside. Then he lets out a breath, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. Not all of it, but enough that I can see him trying.
"I just—" He stops, starts again. "I keep thinking about what you must see when you look at me. When you look at this place." He gestures around the room with one hand. "This isn't what I wanted for my life, Ivan. This isn't who I wanted to be."
"Who did you want to be?"
"I don't know. Someone who could take care of things. Someone who had his shit together. Someone with a real apartment instead of a motel room. Someone with a savings account and a future and—" He stops, shakes his head. "Someone you could be proud of."
"Jay." I wait until he meets my eyes, until I'm sure he's listening. "I am proud of you."
"For what?" The question comes out bitter. "For living in a motel room? For getting arrested in a bar fight? For being a fucking mess who can't even—"
"For surviving," I cut him off. "For making it through everything the world threw at you and still being here.
For not giving up when you had every reason to.
For getting a job, learning a trade, building something real even when you had nothing to work with and no one to help you.
" I squeeze his knee, feel the muscle tense under my palm.
"You think I don't know how hard that is?
I found the Reyes family. I had Rosalyn cooking me meals and Mitchell helping with homework.
I had support and people who helped me. You did it alone.
That's not something to be ashamed of. That's incredible. "
He stares at me like he can't comprehend that I could look at him—at his life, at this room—and see anything worth being proud of.
"I'm not the person you remember," he says, and there's so much pain in his voice. "I'm not the one who protected you. I'm not strong anymore. I'm nothing like who I used to be."
"You were never strong because you didn't feel things," I tell him, and I mean every word.
"You were strong because you felt everything and you kept going anyway.
" I stand up, holding out my hand to him.
"Now come on. I'm starving and you probably haven't eaten a real meal in days.
Let's get breakfast and you can show me around.
Show me your life. I want to know everything about you. "
Jay takes my hand. His fingers are warm against mine, calloused from years of working with tools and engines. I pull him up from the chair and don't let go right away even when he's standing.
"There's a diner down the street," he says. "It's not fancy, but the food's decent. Real eggs, real bacon. Betty takes care of the regulars."
"Perfect. I could eat a cow right now." I give his hand one more squeeze before letting go. "Let me make myself presentable first. Give me a minute."
"You look fine," he says, then seems to realize what he said and looks away quickly. "I mean, you look—it's just a diner. No one cares what you're wearing."
We get ready in the small bathroom, taking turns in the cramped space.
I splash water on my face, use the toothbrush Jay gave me last night, try to make my hair look like I didn't sleep on it weird.
The mirror is spotted and old, but I can see Jay behind me sometimes, moving around, and I catch myself watching him more than I should.
The way he moves carefully because of his ribs.
The faded bruises on his face. The dark hair that falls into his eyes when he leans over the sink.
Even beat to hell, he's still handsome. The thought comes again. I push it aside firmly, but it doesn't go far. It hovers there in the back of my mind.
We walk to the diner together. It's only a few blocks, and the morning air is cool and fresh after the stuffiness of the motel room.
Jay walks close to me, close enough that our shoulders brush occasionally when we turn corners or step around obstacles.
Neither of us mentions it. Neither of us moves away.
The diner is exactly what I expected—red vinyl booths with duct tape patches, laminate tables that have seen better days, a long counter with chrome-edged stools.
It smells like coffee and bacon and maple syrup.
A woman with gray hair pulled back in a bun and a coffee pot in her hand looks up when we walk in, and her whole face lights up when she sees Jay.
"Morning, Jay!" she calls out. "The usual?"
"Yeah, thanks Betty." He gestures at me as we slide into a booth by the window. "And whatever he wants."
Betty walks over, her eyes on me with open curiosity. She's probably in her sixties, with smile lines around her eyes. "Friend of yours?" she asks him, looking me over. "Don't think I've seen you bring anyone in before. First time for everything, huh?"
"He's—" Jay hesitates, and I see him searching for the right word. "He's family."
Something warm spreads through me like sunlight. He still calls me family.
"Well, any family of Jay's is welcome here," Betty says, smiling at me. "What can I get you, hon?"
"Same as him," I say, not even knowing what Jay's usual is. "Whatever he's having."
"Two usuals coming right up." Betty pours coffee into both our mugs without asking, the liquid dark and steaming. "You boys holler if you need anything else."
She walks away, and I wrap my hands around the mug. The coffee is strong, almost bitter, but it's exactly what I need.
"So," I say, once Betty is out of earshot. "Tell me about the shop. About Mick. About what you do all day. I want to know every little thing."
"You really want to hear about that?" Jay seems surprised.
"You bet. I've got a lot to catch up on, remember? And I'm not leaving until I know every detail." I take a sip of coffee, let the heat and caffeine start to wake me up fully. "Start from the beginning. How did you find Mick? How did you end up working on motorcycles?"
Jay looks down at his coffee. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "It's not that interesting."