"It's ours. We'll fill it together." I grin at him, my chest so full it almost hurts. "But maybe not today. Today I just want to be here with you. No furniture, no distractions, just us."
We order Chinese food for lunch, eating cross-legged on the living room floor like it's the most elaborate picnic in the world. The containersare spread out between us, chopsticks and plastic forks scattered everywhere, soy sauce packets torn open and leaking little dark pools on the cardboard lids, fortune cookies waiting for dessert.
"This is fancy," I say, gesturing at our setup with a spring roll, sauce dripping onto my fingers. "Very upscale dining experience we've got here."
"Only the best for you, darling."
"I'm serious, though. This is perfect." I reach over and squeeze his hand, lacing our fingers together. "Sitting on the floor eating takeout in our empty apartment. This is the happiest I've ever been in my entire life."
"Me too," he says softly, squeezing back. "This is perfection."
"Only one more long week, then I'm here for good."
"I can't wait. I've been counting down the days."
Chapter 54: Jay
The two weeks fly by fast. One day I'm telling Mick and Betty that I'm leaving, and the next I'm standing in the motel room surrounded by everything I own in the world, which fits into two duffel bags and a cardboard box.
It's not much. Some clothes, mostly worn and faded. A few books I picked up at the library sale over the years. My tools, which are the most valuable things I have. The photo of me and Ivan that we took at the park, now in a cheap frame I bought at the dollar store. That's it. That's everything. Twenty-one years of life, and it all fits in the back of a pickup truck with room to spare.
I should probably feel sad about that, ashamed. Instead, I feel free.
I worked my final shifts at Mick's, finishing up the jobs we had in progress. He decided to close up the shop for good at the end of the year to enjoy his retirement. He shook my hand on my last day and told me not to be a stranger, told me to come back and visit sometime. I promised I wouldn't forget him, and I meant it.
Betty cried when I came in for my last shift at the diner. She fussed over me and made me promise to call her when I got settled. She slipped a card into my hand when I left, and I didn't open it until I got back to the motel. Inside was a note written in her neat handwriting:I'm so proud of you. Love, Betty.
The local AA meetings were harder to say goodbye to than I expected. These people have seen me at my absolute worst—shaking and sweating and barely holding it together, spiraling in front of them. They've listened to me talk about my demons, offered their phone numbers, shown up for me when I couldn't show up for myself.
Dorothy hugged me so hard I thought she might actually crack a rib. She made me promise to find a sponsor within the first week and made me swear on my sobriety. I promised and meant it.
Now it's Saturday morning, and Ivan is on his way.
I sit on the edge of the bed—the same sagging mattress I've slept on for years, the same one that knows every nightmare—and look around the room one last time.
This room has been my whole world for so long. It's seen me at my lowest—drunk, high, crying myself to sleep, wishing I could just disappear. But it's also seen me fight my way back from that edge. It's seen me stay sober, one day at a time. It's seen me fall in love.
I'm not going to miss it. But I'm grateful for what it taught me, for what I survived here.
The sound of Ivan's truck pulls me out of my thoughts. I go to the window and watch him park, watch him climb out and stretch after the drive, rolling his shoulders. He looks up at my window and waves, and my heart does that stupid thing it always does when I see him—skips a beat, then races to catch up.
I grab my bags and head downstairs one last time.
"Hey," Ivan says, pulling me into a hug the moment I reach him. "You ready for this?"
"More than ready. So ready."
He looks at the two duffel bags slung over my shoulders and the cardboard box in my arms. "This is everything you own?"
"Yep, this is everything."
He knows what it means to have nothing. He knows what it's like to fit your whole life into a few bags. He lived it too.
"Then let's load up and get the hell out of here," he says.
It takes us less than five minutes to pack everything. The duffel bags go in the truck bed, along with the box of books and random stuff. My tools go in more carefully, wrapped in an old blanket to keep them from rattling around and getting damaged. Ivan handles them like they're treasure, because he knows they are. He knows what they mean to me.
"Is your bike gassed up?" he asks.
