This is what his life has become.
I think about the mug shot I stared at for twenty minutes, the emptiness in his eyes. I think about the bar fight, the arrest, the charges. I think about the bruises still fading on his face, the way he moved when we went down to the floor—carefully, like his ribs hurt. I think about all the years I spent imagining what Jay's life might look like, hoping desperately that he was okay, that he had found something good, that he was happy somewhere even if I couldn't find him.
He didn't find something good. He found this. A motel room that rents by the week and a bottle of whiskey.
I came here not knowing what I would find, half expecting the Jay I remembered—strong, capable, protective, the one who always knew what to do and how to fix things. I thought I would be the one who needed him, the way I needed him when I was twelve years old and terrified of everything. I thought he would take one look at me and know how to make everything better, the way he always did.
But that's not what's happening here. That's not what he needs from me.
Jay taught me how to survive. He taught me the rules, the tricks, the ways to stay invisible and stay safe. He taught me how to take a beating without crying, how to read a room for danger, how to keep going when everything inside me wanted to stop. He taught me how to eat fast and sleep light and never trust anyone completely. He gave me everything hehad, every tool and every strategy, and then the world ripped us apart and I used those tools to build a life.
And while I was building, he was breaking.
While I was learning a trade and making a future, he was falling apart. While I was letting the Reyes family teach me what love looks like and what home means, he was living in a motel room and drinking himself numb and fighting strangers in bars.
I look down at him, this man who saved me when I was a child. His face is pressed against my chest now, his breathing finally starting to slow and even out. I can see the bruises on his cheekbone, dark purple fading to yellow-green. The scab on his lip where it split open. The dark circles under his eyes that speak to sleepless nights and too much whiskey and not enough food. He looks older than twenty-one. He looks worn down to the bone, like something that's been used up and discarded.
I'm the stronger one now.
The realization settles into me, not with pride but with purpose, with a kind of fierce determination that makes my arms tighten around him. He spent so much energy protecting me, saving me, teaching me, that he had nothing left to protect himself with. He gave me everything and kept nothing for himself.
It's my turn now. My turn to protect. My turn to save.
I tighten my arms around him and press my lips to the top of his head. His hair is longer than he used to wear it, a little greasy, like he hasn't washed it in a few days. I don't care. I press my lips to his hair and I make a promise, silent and sacred.
I will not let you fall any further. I will not let you drown. I will pull you out of this darkness even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.
He makes a small sound against my chest, something like a whimper. He burrows closer, trying to get smaller, trying to disappear into me.
"I've got you," I whisper into his hair again, because I need him to hear it, need him to believe it. "I've got you, Jay. I'm not going anywhere. I'm never leaving you again."
He doesn't answer, but his hands loosen their grip on my jacket just a little, just enough to tell me he's starting to believe it. Just enough to tellme he's starting to let himself trust that I'm real, that this isn't a dream or a hallucination brought on by too much whiskey and too little sleep.
I think about everything I want to say to him. That I never stopped looking, never stopped hoping. That I searched for him every month. That I have his note laminated in my wallet, the words so familiar I could recite them in any state of consciousness. That I built my whole life around the hope of finding him again, that every decision I made was influenced by the thought of what I would do when I finally found him.
But there will be time for that later. There will be time for all of it—the stories, the explanations, the filling in of years of blank space. Right now, all that matters is this. The two of us on the floor of a motel room, holding onto each other like we're the only solid things in a world made of uncertainty.
I'm not the scared kid he saved anymore. I'm a man now, with a job that pays well and a family that loves me and a life I built from nothing but determination and the tools he gave me. I have resources. I have stability. I have a home with people in it who would help if I asked them to.
And I'm going to use everything I have to save him back.
I don't know what comes next. I don't know how to fix whatever's broken inside him, or how to undo years of damage. But I know one thing with absolute certainty, a truth that settles into my bones like it was always meant to be there, like it's been waiting for me to find it.
No matter what, I will never stop fighting for him.
Chapter 16: Jay
I don't know how long we sit on the floor. Long enough that I run out of tears, my body finally giving up on producing more. I just breathe against Ivan's shoulder, hollowed out and empty and somehow more okay than I've been in years.
"The floor is hard," Ivan eventually says.
I let out a laugh. After everything—years of searching, the mug shot, driving hours to find me, holding me while I fell apart completely—and the first practical thing he says is that the floor is hard. It's so normal, so perfectly Ivan.
"Yeah," I manage. "It is."
Neither of us moves for another minute. Neither of us seems ready to break this contact, to separate our bodies even by inches. Then Ivan shifts, pulling back just enough to look at my face, his hands still resting on my shoulders. His eyes are red-rimmed, swollen from crying. His cheeks are wet, streaked with tears. But he's looking at me like I'm something precious, something worth finding.
And God, he's so damn beautiful.
