Chapter 28 Jay
Ivan is on his side facing me, one arm draped over my chest, tracing random, invisible patterns on my skin with his fingertip. I'm trying not to think about how good it feels. How natural. How terrifying it is to let someone this close, to let someone touch me like this.
"Jay? Can I ask you something?" His finger stops moving, rests flat against my stomach.
"You can ask me anything." I mean it. After what we just did, after the intimacy we just shared, there's no point in hiding anything.
His finger starts moving again, but slower now, like he's working up to something. "Before me—before this weekend, I mean—when was the last time someone touched you? Like this. Gently."
The question hits me somewhere soft and unprotected, somewhere I didn't know was still vulnerable. I try to think of a single moment of physical contact in the years since we were separated. A hug, a hand on my shoulder, anything comforting or gentle.
I come up empty.
"You were the last one," I say finally.
Ivan lifts his head from where it was resting on my shoulder. "What?"
"The last person who touched me with kindness was you.
" I swallow hard against the tightness in my throat.
"Before last weekend, I mean. When you showed up at my door.
When you grabbed my hand and recited my information.
That was the first time in seven years that someone touched me when it didn't hurt. "
"Jay, that's—" He stops, shakes his head slowly. "That's too long."
"I know."
"All those years without anyone touching you. Not even a hug? A pat on the back? Nothing?"
"Mick shakes my hand sometimes," I offer, trying to make it sound less pathetic than it is. "Or slaps me on the back. When I do a good job on something, when I finish a restoration he's proud of. That's about it. At least that's something though."
"I'm sorry, Jay."
"I don't—" I close my eyes because I can't look at him while I say this, while I admit how broken I really am.
"I've never been good at letting people close.
After you, after we got separated, after I spent years searching for you and coming up empty every single time—I just stopped trying.
It was easier to be alone. Safer, you know.
If you don't let anyone in, they can't leave.
They can't hurt you. They can't disappoint you or abandon you or die on you. "
The bed shifts as Ivan moves closer, until he's pressed close against my side. His hand comes up to cup my face, gentle and warm, and I feel his forehead press against my temple.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers, and his voice is thick with tears. "I'm so, so sorry you were all alone."
"It's not your fault." I finally open my eyes, turn my head to look at him. "You didn't do this to me. The world did. Henderson did. The system did. You were the only good thing I had, and those fuckers took you away from me."
"I know, but—" He stops, swallows hard. "I can't even imagine what that was like. Seven years without anyone touching you kindly."
"Don't try to imagine. It's over now." I reach up and cover his hand with mine, holding it against my face. "You're here. That's all that matters. You found me. You didn't give up."
He kisses me then, soft and gentle and devastating in its tenderness. All those years of not being touched, not being held, not being wanted by anyone—and now Ivan is here.
When he pulls back, his eyes are wet with unshed tears.
"Don't cry," I say, even though my own throat is so tight I can barely speak. "Please don't cry for me. I'm fine, I swear."
"I'm not crying." He wipes his eyes roughly with the back of his hand. "I'm just—fuck, I hate that you were alone. I hate that I couldn't find you sooner. I hate all of it."
"I know. Me too. But we're here now."
We lie there in silence, our breathing the only sound. Ivan's hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining on the pillow between us. Then his other hand moves to my side, tracing a line I can't see but I know is there.
"What's this from?" he asks quietly.
I know without looking. The scar on my ribs, the one he noticed last weekend but didn't ask about. "Another fight. About two years ago. Guy had a knife. A very sharp switchblade."
Ivan's breath catches, his fingers stilling. "Someone stabbed you?"
"It was more of a slash. I moved in time to miss most of it." I can still remember the sharp sting, the hot blood running down my side. "Still needed stitches, but it could have been worse. Could have been a lot worse."
His fingers move to another spot, lower on my stomach. A small round scar, puckered and white and permanent. "And this one?"
"Cigarette burn." The memory is fuzzy now, distant. "Guy at a group home when I was seventeen. He didn't like that I got a piece of pizza at dinner. Thought I was being disrespectful by eating before he did."
"Jesus, Jay."
"It's fine. It was a long time ago. I barely remember his face."
"It's not fine. None of this is fine. None of this should have happened to you."
I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything.
His fingers keep moving, cataloging my damage, finding scars I'd forgotten I had.
The thin line on my shoulder from a broken bottle that someone swung at me in a shelter.
The rough patch on my forearm from a chemical burn at Carl's garage when I was eighteen and didn't know what I was doing.
The faded marks on my back that he doesn't ask about, because he already knows where those came from. Because he has matching ones.
"Were you—" He stops, starts again. "After we got separated, were you ever—did anyone ever—"
"Hit me with a belt? Whip the shit out of me?
Hit me?" I finish for him, because I know where he's going.
"A few times. The group homes were rough.
Lots of angry kids taking out their pain on each other.
But nothing like Henderson. Nothing that systematic from an adult who was supposed to be in charge. Nothing that bad."
"I'm sorry." His hand splays flat on my chest, over my heart. "I'm sorry you went through that."
"It's not your fault. Don't blame yourself for me."
"I know. But I'm still sorry." He props himself up on his elbow, looking down at me with those blue eyes that see too much. "I need you to know—after you, after we left the Hendersons—no one ever hurt me like that again. Not once. No one hit me or beat me again."
Something loosens in my chest, something that's been clenched tight since we were separated. "Really? Never?"
"Never. The placements I had before the Reyes family weren't great. One of them barely fed us, another one kept us locked in our rooms most of the day, but no one ever raised a hand to me. No one ever hurt me like Henderson did."
"Thank God. I'm so glad. I was always so scared you might end up in a worse place without me there to protect you the best I could."
"I was careful. I used everything you taught me." His hand moves from my chest to my face, cupping my jaw. "Stay quiet, be polite, don't draw attention. Make yourself small. Don't give them a reason. It worked. You saved me. Even when you weren't there, you still saved me."
"No, I didn't save you. I got us separated in the first place."
"You protected me. That's what you did. And everything that came after—that's not your fault. That's on the system. That's on every adult who failed us."
I want to argue, but I can see in his eyes that he believes this. That he's thought about it, processed it, come to peace with it in a way I haven't yet.
"I was always so scared," I admit, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "Back then, I mean. Every single day, I was terrified they'd figure out some way to take me away and leave you alone with him. That was my worst nightmare. Henderson hurting you and me not being there to stop it."
"I was scared of that too," Ivan says quietly. "Every night. I'd lie awake thinking about what would happen if they took you away."
"And then they did. And I couldn't stop it. I couldn't protect you anymore."
"You protected me by teaching me how to survive. By showing me what kindness looked like. By giving me something to hold onto." His thumb strokes my cheekbone. "And now—" He stops, swallows hard. "Now I'm here. And I'm not leaving you."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him. But there's a voice in my head, small and insidious and impossible to silence, that keeps whispering.
Everyone leaves. Everyone abandons you. Why would he be different?
"I'm terrified it's going to happen again," I blurt out, the words tumbling over each other.
"Now, I mean. I'm terrified something's going to happen and I'm going to lose you again.
You're going to wake up one morning and realize I'm a mess, that I've got nothing to offer you, that you deserve so much better than a guy who lives in a motel room and can't even sleep without—"
I stop myself abruptly. I was about to say pills. I was about to admit how bad it really is, how broken I really am.
"Without what?" Ivan asks quietly, his eyes searching my face.
"Nothing. Forget it."
"You can tell me."
"It's nothing. Don't worry about it."
"Please, talk to me." His hand tightens on my face, not letting me look away. "Please. I want to know. All of it. Everything."
I stare at him for a long moment. At the concern in his eyes. At the way he's looking at me like I'm something worth saving despite everything.
I take a breath. "Sometimes, I can't sleep without help," I say finally, forcing the words out. "The whiskey you saw last weekend, that was part of it, but there's more. There's also pills. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to see how bad it really is."
"What kind of pills?"