The thought catches me completely off guard. This is Ivan, the scared twelve-year-old I used to protect, the kid with the garbage bag full of everything he owned and the trembling hands he tried so hard to hide. But he's not a kid anymore. He's a man—tall, broad-shouldered, with a jaw that's gone from soft and undefined to sharp and strong. His light brown hair is shorter than he used to wear it, neat and practical, the kind of haircut someone gets when they work for a living and don't have time for anything complicated. And those eyes, those pale blue eyes that used to look at me with fear and trust in equal measure—they're still the same color, still the same shape, but there's a steadiness in them now that wasn't there before.
He grew up and he became this person I barely recognize on the surface but would know anywhere in my soul. I can't stop staring at him.
"Can we—" He gestures vaguely toward the bed with one hand, the other still on my shoulder. "I mean, if you want to keep talking, maybe somewhere more comfortable? My legs are asleep."
I nod and let him help me up, his hands gentle but firm as he pulls me to my feet. My ribs protest sharply and my knees are stiff from sitting on the hard floor for so long, but I don't let go of his hand. I can't. Not yet. His hand is warm and solid in mine, callused from work, and I hold onto it like it's the only thing keeping me anchored to reality.
We sit on the bed side by side, backs against the headboard, shoulders touching. It's not a big bed—just a full bed, barely enough room for two people—but it doesn't feel cramped. It feels right. Like all those nights when we were kids, when Ivan would crawl into my bed in the middle of the night because he was scared of Henderson. And I would hold him until he fell asleep, his small body curled against mine, trusting me to keep him safe.
The years collapse like an accordion. Suddenly we're not twenty-one and nineteen. We're fourteen and twelve again, hiding from the world and the only safe place is next to each other.
"I can't believe you're here," I say. "I can't believe you found me."
"I've been looking for you for seven years," Ivan says, turning his head to look at me, those blue eyes intense and focused. "Every month. First of the month, like clockwork. I set reminders. I never missed one. I never stopped."
"Seven years," I repeat, trying to wrap my mind around it. "Every single month?"
"Every single month." His hand tightens on mine. "I'd sit down at the computer and search your name in every database I could find. Jason Michael Morrow. Jay Morrow. J. Morrow. Jason M. Morrow. Every variation I could think of. I tried everything—social media, public records, news articles, obituaries. I was terrified every time I searched the death records. Terrified I'd find your name there."
"I did the same thing," I say quietly. "Checked the death records. And every month I didn't find you, I didn't know if that was good or bad. Good because you weren't dead. Bad because I still had no idea where youwere or if you were okay. It was like the trail went cold after you left the Hendersons. Like you just disappeared into thin air."
"I kind of did," Ivan says. "I got moved a lot."
I close my eyes, trying not to picture it. Ivan being moved from place to place, packing that same garbage bag over and over, never feeling safe.
"How did you find me?" I ask, opening my eyes to look at him. "After all this time, how did my name finally show up?"
"The arrest." He says it simply, without judgment, like he's just stating a fact. "There was a news article about a bar fight. Local paper, tiny story, probably only a few hundred people even saw it. Your name was in the third paragraph."
I wince, shame flooding through me. "The mug shot."
"Yeah. The mug shot." Ivan's quiet for a moment, his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of my hand. "I sat there staring at your face for probably twenty minutes. Maybe longer. I couldn't believe it was you. I wanted it to be you so badly but I was afraid it would be another dead end. Another Jason Michael Morrow who wasn't you."
"But it was me."
"I knew it was—I knew it in my gut. Even with the bruises, even with your eye swollen shut, even with—" He stops, swallows hard. "I knew your eyes. I'd know them anywhere."
"I looked like hell," I say, remembering the photo.
"You looked alive," Ivan says fiercely, turning to face me more fully. "That's all I cared about. You were alive. You were somewhere I could find."
"And you just—you drove straight here? When did you see the mug shot?"
"Last night. I got in my truck early and I drove. Didn't pack a bag, didn't tell anyone where I was going, didn't even think about what I would say when I found you. I just needed to get here. Needed to see you with my own eyes. Needed to know you were okay."
I don't know what to say to that. The idea that he dropped everything, drove for hours to find me—it's overwhelming. It's too much. I don't deserve that kind of devotion.
"Tell me about the bar," Ivan says. "What happened? The article just said it was a fight, but it didn't say why. It didn't say what started it."
I hesitate, shame curling in my stomach. The truth is ugly.
"Nothing much to tell," I say. "Some guys were running their mouth off to me at the bar. They said some things. I told them to walk away, to mind their own business." I shrug, trying to make it sound like less than it was, like it didn't matter. "They didn't. One of them shoved me. I shoved back. It escalated and then four of them jumped me."
"Four against one? Damn, Jay. That's not a fight. That's a beating. That's—" He stops, takes a breath. "You could have been killed."
"I've had worse."
We both know what I mean. We both remember Henderson, the belt, the fists, the way he could make pain feel like it would never end.
