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.
Chapter 47: Jay
I wake up on the bathroom floor with Ivan's arms still wrapped around me, his body curved protectively around mine.
For a moment, I don't remember where I am or how I got here. My mind is foggy, disconnected. Then it all comes flooding back in a rush—the whiskey burning down my throat, the pills scattered in my hand, the darkness closing in, Ivan's voice begging me to wake up, the cold water shocking my system—and the devastating shame.
I try to sit up and pull away from him, but my body won't cooperate. Every muscle aches. My head is pounding with a vicious hangover. My mouth tastes like something crawled inside and died. And my stomach is a hollow pit of nausea, threatening to throw up again.
"Hey," Ivan says, tightening his arm around me. "Easy. Take it slow. Don't try to move too fast."
"What time is it?"
"Almost noon. Maybe a little after." He shifts slightly, his arms still around me. "We've been on this floor for about five hours. Maybe longer. I lost track."
I turn my head to look at him. His clothes are still damp, wrinkled, and clinging to his skin. His hair is a complete mess, sticking up in every direction. And there are dark circles under his eyes, deep purple shadows that show his exhaustion.
"You stayed with me," I say stupidly, because it's the only thought my brain can form. "You stayed here on this floor all night."
"Of course I stayed. Where else would I be?" He reaches up with one hand and brushes the hair back from my forehead. "I told you I'm not going anywhere. I meant that."
The tenderness in his touch, the gentleness after everything I've done, makes me want to cry again. But I don't have any tears left. I'm completely empty.
"I need to brush my teeth," I say, because I can't think of anything else to say.
Ivan helps me stand, his arm around my waist, taking most of my weight. My legs are shaky. I have to grip the edge of the sink with both hands to keep from falling, my knuckles white with the effort.
The face in the mirror is a stranger. Gray skin, waxy and lifeless. Bloodshot eyes with broken capillaries. Cracked lips, split and bleeding. I look like death warmed over. I look like exactly what I am—a drunk who nearly killed himself.
I brush my teeth twice, scrubbing until my gums bleed, but the taste won't go away. Then I splash cold water on my face repeatedly, trying to wash away the evidence. It doesn't help much, but at least I feel slightly more human.
"I need to eat something," Ivan says from behind me. "And so do you, if you can. Even if you don't feel like it. Even if you think you'll throw it up."
"I don't think I can keep anything down." My stomach lurches at just the thought of food.
"You need to try anyway. Your body needs fuel after what you put it through. You're dehydrated." He puts his hand on my shoulder. "Come on. Let's get you to the bed."
