But the feeling won't go away. If anything, it's getting worse, growing stronger, more insistent. My chest feels tight. My stomach is churning. My hands are clenched into fists in the blankets.
At three-thirty, I give up trying to sleep and get out of bed.
I pull on jeans and a T-shirt in the dark, moving quietly so I don't wake anyone. I grab my keys and wallet from the dresser, shove my phone in my pocket. The house is silent around me.
I find a notepad in the kitchen and scribble a quick message for Rosalyn by the light from the stove.
Couldn't sleep. Driving down to check on Jay. Will text later. - Ivan
I leave the note on the kitchen table where she'll find it in the morning and slip out the back door as quietly as I can.
I pull out of the driveway while the streets are completely empty, the sky still black overhead.
The drive to Macon feels endless, like time has stretched and warped.
I push the speed limit the whole way. My hands are tight on the wheel. I need a cup of coffee, but I don't want to waste time stopping to get one. Instead, I watch the miles tick by on the odometer, counting down the distance between me and Jay.
Please be okay.
The sun starts to rise somewhere around the halfway point. It should be beautiful, the colors are stunning, the kind of sunrise people take pictures of. But I can't appreciate it. I can't see anything except the road ahead and the growing certainty that something is very wrong.
I should have dropped everything and driven down last night after the party instead of waiting.
Please let me be wrong.
I pull into the Vista Inn parking lot before seven. The lot is mostly empty, just a few scattered cars. And there, in its usual spot near the stairs, is Jay's motorcycle.
Thank God. He's here.
I grab the spare key from my glovebox, the one he gave me on my last visit. If he opens the door and everything's fine, I'll give him a big smile and pretend like I'm here to surprise him.
I knock on the door firmly. "Jay? It's me. It's Ivan." No answer. I knock again, louder this time, my fist pounding. "Jay? You awake? Can you hear me? Open up!"
Nothing.
No footsteps, no sound of movement from inside.
Just dead silence.
The sick feeling in my stomach gets exponentially worse. Fuck. I slide the key into the lock with shaking hands and turn it. The door swings open, and the smell hits me immediately—cheap whiskey, sharp and unmistakable, filling my nose.
No, no, no.
"Jay?" I step inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The curtains are drawn, the room shadowy. The bed is empty, the covers rumpled but cold, like no one has slept there.
Then I see the bottle.
It's on the floor near the bathroom door, lying on its side. Jim Beam. The label is facing up, mocking me. Empty. Not a drop left. Completely drained.
"Jay!" I cross the room in three strides and grab the bathroom door handle. It turns, but the door only opens an inch before it hits something solid. Something heavy. Something blocking the door that won't move.
Oh God. Oh God, no.
"Jay! Can you hear me?" I push harder, throwing my shoulder against the door. It moves another inch, then another. Through the gap, I can see the tile floor, and something else—a hand, limp and pale, the fingers curled loosely.
Jay's body is blocking the door.
I shove against the door with everything I have, grunting with the effort, my shoulder screaming in pain. The weight on the other side shifts, slides with a horrible thud, and suddenly there's enough space for me to stick my arm through and touch him. Once I can make out where his head is, I shove again until I can squeeze through the opening.
