Chapter 46 Ivan #2
"I wanted to. But I couldn't... my hand just... they fell. I think I passed out before I could swallow them."
"You didn't take any of them?"
"I don't remember. I don't think so. Just the whiskey."
The relief hits me so hard I nearly collapse on top of him. He didn't take the pills. It's just alcohol. Which is bad, which is dangerous, but survivable. I can get him through this.
Before I can say anything, Jay's face changes. His eyes fly open wide with panic, and he lurches forward.
"I'm gonna—"
I barely get him turned toward the toilet before he starts vomiting.
It's violent and horrible, his whole body heaving, the sound wet and terrible echoing in the small bathroom.
I hold him up because he's too weak to hold himself, one arm wrapped around his chest to keep him from falling, the other hand on his forehead, keeping his hair out of his face.
Jesus Christ.
"It's okay," I keep telling him, even though nothing about this is okay. "Get it all out. I've got you. I'm not leaving."
He vomits until there's nothing left in his stomach, and then he keeps heaving anyway, dry and painful, his body trying desperately to purge poison that's already in his bloodstream.
I hold him through all of it, murmuring words I'm not even sure make sense, just trying to let him know I'm here, I'm not leaving, he's not alone.
When it finally stops, when the heaving subsides, he slumps back against me. He's shaking so hard his teeth are chattering, his whole body wracked with tremors. I reach over and turn off the shower, then grab a towel from the rack and wrap it around his shoulders.
"I'm sorry," he gasps between shudders, the words coming out broken. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing. Just stop."
He's drunk and sick as a dog, but I still love him. This doesn't change that.
"I don't want you to see me like this," he sobs.
"I signed up for you," I say fiercely, meaning it with everything in me. "I love you. All of you. The good parts and the bad parts and the parts that end up on bathroom floors covered in vomit. All of it. Every single piece."
"Please go away," he begs. "Please go."
"Don't." I press my forehead against the back of his head. "Don't push me away right now. I can't take it. I thought you might die. I need to hold you. Just let me hold you through this. Please. Don't fight me. Don't talk."
He breaks then, whatever fragile wall he was trying to keep up crumbling into dust. He turns in my arms and buries his face against my chest, and he cries. Not quiet tears—great heaving sobs that shake his whole body.
I hold him and cry with him, both of us wet and cold and huddled on the bathroom floor of a shitty motel room. The tile is hard under my knees. My back aches from hunching over him. My clothes are soaked through. I don't care about any of it. I would stay like this forever if that's what he needed.
We end up lying on the floor eventually, too exhausted to sit up anymore, too raw to do anything but hold each other.
I pull him against my chest and wrap myself around him, trying to give him what warmth I have left even though we're both shivering.
The towel is damp and useless, but I tuck it around us anyway.
He just lies there in my arms, breathing slowly, his body still trembling with occasional aftershocks. There's no use in talking because with the amount of alcohol still in his body, he probably won't remember the conversation later anyway.
So, I hold him and think about all the plans we made only last week. Or maybe they were all plans I made and he was simply humoring me. The apartment to work towards. The job we'd find for him at a real shop. The life we were going to build together.
I could see our future clearly.
I thought we were so close. I thought a few more weeks, a few more obstacles cleared, and we'd be there.
God, I was wrong.
Our happy ending isn't now. It's not even close.
Jay needs help I can't give him—professional help from people who know how to deal with addiction and trauma. That's not something I can fix with love, no matter how much I have to give.
But that doesn't mean we don't get a happy ending.
It just means we have to work for it harder than I thought.
It means the road is longer, harder, more complicated.
It means there might be more nights like this.
More falling down and getting back up. More fighting and struggling and praying he chooses to live over and over again.
That he chooses me.
I can live with that. I can live with anything, as long as Jay is alive to live it with me.
"We're going to get through this," I tell him, even though he might already be out again.
"I promise you, Jay. We're going to get through this and come out the other side.
And when we do, it's going to be so good.
It's going to be worth everything. Every struggle, every hard moment—it's going to be worth it. You'll see. I've got you."
He doesn't answer. His breathing has finally evened out, deep and slow, exhaustion pulling him under into something that looks like real sleep.
I hold him tighter against me.
He's alive. He's here. He's breathing.
And as long as that's true, there's hope.
There's always hope as long as his heart keeps beating.
Because if it stops, so does mine.