Chapter 24 Jay
Sunday morning feels different.
There's a weight in the air, a heaviness that wasn't there yesterday. We both know what's coming. We both know Ivan has to leave.
I wake up with him in my arms again. His head on my chest, his hand curled against my stomach, our legs tangled together.
I don't move. I can't.
I just lie there, feeling the warmth of him, the solid weight of his body against mine, trying to memorize everything about this moment. The way his hair tickles my chin. The way his breath ghosts across my skin. The way his fingers curl slightly in his sleep, gripping my shirt.
He has to go back. Back to the Reyes family that loves him, back to his job and his future and his real life. Back to a world that doesn't include me except as a memory, as someone he used to know, as a weekend visit when he can spare the time.
And I'll be here. In this motel room. Alone again.
The thought makes it hard to breathe.
Ivan stirs against me, and I feel his eyelashes flutter against my chest as he wakes up. He doesn't pull away, doesn't jerk back like he's realized where he is. He just lies there, breathing, his hand pressing a little more firmly against my stomach like he's checking to make sure I'm real.
"Morning," he mumbles against my shirt.
"Morning."
Neither of us moves. We stay tangled together, limbs intertwined, breathing in sync. We should get up. We should eat breakfast. We should do all the normal things that people do on Sunday mornings before one of them drives away and doesn't come back.
But Ivan is warm against me, and his hair is soft under my chin. I don't want this to end. I don't want him to leave. I don't want to go back to being alone, to nights spent staring at the ceiling and days that blur into each other with nothing to distinguish them.
"What time is it?" Ivan asks, his breath warm against my chest even through the shirt.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand with my free hand, trying not to dislodge him, trying to keep him close for just a few more seconds. "Almost eleven."
"I should probably head out soon," Ivan says, and I can hear his reluctance. "Rosalyn and the kids will worry if I'm not back for dinner. She always makes Sunday dinner special—pot roast or chicken or something. Everyone's there. It's a thing the kids count on."
He's leaving soon. How much time do I have left?
A couple of hours? Then he's gone, and I don't know when I'll see him again.
A week? A month? What if he goes back to his life and realizes he doesn't need me anymore, that this was just a weekend, that he's better off without the complication of a broken person dragging him down?
"Okay," I say, because what else can I say? I can't ask him to stay. I can't ask him to choose me over the family who actually loves him, who gave him a home and a future. "I understand."
Ivan finally lifts his head, looking at me.
His eyes are sleepy, soft and unfocused, his hair is mussed from sleep, sticking up in every direction, and there's a crease on his cheek from my shirt.
He looks soft in a way I've never seen him look, vulnerable and open and so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
"I don't want to go," he says.
"I don't want you to go either." The admission costs me, makes me feel exposed.
We look at each other for a long moment. His blue eyes are searching my face, looking for something I'm not sure I can give him. There's something in his expression—something that looks like longing, like hope, like maybe he feels even a fraction of what I'm feeling.
But I can't think about that. I can't let myself hope. Because if I'm wrong, if I say something and he pulls away, if I reach for him and he flinches—
God, my heart couldn't take it. Not that. Never that.
"Breakfast or lunch?" I say instead, breaking the moment, pulling us back from the edge. "Betty's diner? One more time before you have to go?"
"Yeah." Ivan sits up. "That sounds good."
We get up, get dressed. I pull on jeans and a clean shirt, watch as Ivan puts on the same clothes he wore when he arrived Friday.
The jeans that fit him perfectly, the jacket that makes his shoulders look broader.
The normalcy of it feels strange. Like we're playing roles in a play, going through motions while the real conversation happens underneath in silence.
Ivan runs his fingers through his hair, trying to tame the mess, and I watch him in the mirror, memorizing the way he moves. The way he tilts his head to check his reflection. The way he bites his lip when he's concentrating.
We didn't have enough time.
Now, I'm memorizing him. Storing away every detail in case this is the last time. In case he drives away and doesn't come back.
***
Breakfast is quiet. We order breakfast food, though it's time for lunch since we slept so late.
We sit in the same booth as yesterday, the one by the window where we can see the street, and Betty brings coffee without asking, gives us a knowing smile that makes me wonder what she sees when she looks at us.
But the easy conversation from yesterday is gone. We're both thinking about what comes next while we're both trying not to think about it.
"We should exchange numbers," Ivan says, poking at his eggs with his fork, not really eating. "I mean, obviously. So, we can stay in touch. Call each other. Text."
"Yeah. Of course." I pull out my phone and hand it to him across the table. "Put your number in."
He types it in carefully, then hands the phone back.
Our fingers brush during the exchange, and I feel it like static electricity jumping between us.
Ivan looks up at me when it happens, his eyes wide, and for a split-second I think he's going to say something, acknowledge what's between us, name this thing we've been dancing around.
But then he quickly looks away, picks up his coffee, takes a sip.
"I'll text you," he says, staring into his cup. "When I get home. So, you know I made it safe."
"Good, be sure to do that because I'll be worried."
The silence stretches out between us again, heavy with all the things we're not saying. All the things I want to say but can't.
Please don't go. Stay with me longer. I need you.
"This is weird," Ivan says finally, setting his cup down. "It feels like we just found each other and now we have to say goodbye again. Like I'm losing you all over again. This sucks."
"It's not goodbye," I say, almost desperate. "It's just see you later. That's all. We'll figure out when you can come back, or I can come to you. I can drive up there on my bike, meet your family, or we can meet halfway somewhere, or—"
"Yeah, we can do that," Ivan interrupts, but he sounds uncertain. Scared. Like neither of us believes what we're saying. "We'll figure it out. We will. We're not that far away that we can't get together."
He reaches across the table and takes my hand, squeezes it once before letting go. The contact is brief but I feel it everywhere.
We finish breakfast in silence. Betty comes by with the check and I pay before Ivan can argue, and we walk back to the motel slowly, dragging our feet like kids who don't want to go to school.
Ivan goes inside to get his keys and to check one more time that he has everything. While I stand in the parking lot next to his truck, waiting, the sun warm on my face and the sky impossibly blue above me. It's the kind of day that should feel hopeful, full of possibility.
It doesn't.
It feels like an ending I've known was coming since he showed up.
Ivan comes out and walks toward me across the pavement. He's got his keys in his hand, and he's looking at me with an expression that makes my heart stutter and skip—something between hope and desperate longing.
"So," he says when he reaches me.
"So," I echo.
We stand there, neither of us moving toward the truck. I should step aside, get out of his way, let him get in and drive away like a normal person. That's what I should do.
Instead, I move, positioning myself between him and the driver's door. I don't even do it consciously. My body just refuses to get out of his way, refuses to make this easy for him to leave.
"Jay," Ivan says, and there's amusement in his voice despite the pain in his eyes. "I can't get in the truck if you're standing there blocking the door."
"I know."
"Are you going to move?" he teases.
"In a minute. Just give me a minute here."
I'm stalling for time and I don't even know why. But every second he's here is a second he's not gone, and I'm not ready yet. I'm not ready to watch him drive away. I'm not ready to go back to my empty room and my empty life and pretend that this weekend didn't change everything.
"Don't worry, I'll come back," Ivan says, and he reaches out to touch my arm, his hand warm through my shirt sleeve. "Next weekend, maybe. If you want me to. Or you could come to me. Meet Rosalyn and Mitchell. Meet the kids. See the house. See my life. I want you to see my life."
"Yeah. Maybe." The word tastes like a lie. There's no place in his nice life for someone like me.
"Jay." His hand slides down my arm slowly, until he finds my hand, laces our fingers together. "I meant what I said. I'm not disappearing. We're not losing each other again. I won't let that happen. I refuse to do that."
"I know, it's just—" I shake my head and look away from him. "It's hard. That's all. It's harder than I thought it would be. Watching you leave. This is rough."
"I know." His thumb rubs across my knuckles, a small comfort. "It's hard for me too. This is the hardest thing I've had to do in a long time."
We stand there holding hands in the parking lot of a crappy motel, the sun beating down on us, his truck waiting to take him away. I should let go of him. I should step back. I should do the mature thing, the thing that doesn't make this any harder than it already is.