I come crying out his name, spilling between us, and he follows moments later, burying himself deep and shuddering through his release.
We lie tangled together in the aftermath, sweaty and satisfied and sad and happy all at once. The old mattress creaks beneath us one last time.
"We should go," Ivan says eventually, but he doesn't move. Neither do I.
"Yeah. We should."
Finally, I force myself to sit up. "Okay. For real this time. Let's clean up fast and go home."
Home.
The word feels different now, means something different. It's not a place I've never had—it's a place waiting for me. A life I'm choosing instead of just surviving.
We get dressed, and I do one final sweep of the room. Bathroom's clear. Closet's empty. Nothing left behind but ghosts and memories, and those can stay the fuck behind.
I drop the key at the front office, and the manager barely looks up from her phone. No tearful goodbye there.
Ivan is waiting by the truck, the engine already running. My motorcycle is beside it, gleaming in the sun like it's ready for this.
"You good to follow me?" he asks. "I'll keep the speed reasonable."
"I'm good." I swing my leg over the bike and settle into the familiar seat. "Let's go home."
Ivan grins and climbs into the truck. I start the bike, feeling the familiar rumble beneath me.
The truck pulls out of the parking lot slowly, and I follow.
I don't look back.
Chapter 55: Ivan
The first week of living with Jay is nothing like I imagined.
It's better. So much better.
I expected awkwardness—two people learning to share space after years of being alone, bumping into each other in the small kitchen, figuring out whose turn it is to take out the trash, negotiating bathroom time. And there's some of that, sure. There are moments of adjustment. But mostly it just feels right. Natural. Like we've been doing this forever.
Jay throws himself into building our new life with an intensity that takes my breath away, that makes me fall in love with him all over again every day.
On Sunday morning, I wake up to an empty bed and the smell of coffee.
I lie there for a moment, disoriented, my hand reaching across the sheets to where Jay should be. The space is still warm but empty. Then I hear sounds from the kitchen—the coffee maker beeping, a drawer opening and closing, quiet footsteps.
I find him in the kitchen, already dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, scrolling through his phone at the counter.
"What are you doing up so early?" I ask, still half-asleep, rubbing my eyes. "It's Sunday. We don't have anywhere to be. We could have slept in."
"I'm looking at the AA meetings again," he says without looking up from his phone. "There's one at eight tonight at that church I told you about. St. Mark's, about ten minutes from here. I want to go. I need to go to get into the habit."
I pour myself a cup of coffee and lean against the counter beside him, our shoulders touching. "You want me to come with you? For support?"
"Not this time. I need to do this part on my own. I need to walk in there by myself, introduce myself, start building relationships." He reaches over and squeezes my hand. "But thank you for offering. It means everything that you would."
"Of course I would. I want to support you however I can."
"I know. But this is something I have to do alone." He pauses. "Does that make sense?"
"It makes perfect sense. You need to own this. It's your recovery, not mine."
