Ivan, please call me. I'm worried.
I should have called her last night. Rosalyn has been nothing but good to me. She's earned the right to know where I am. But everything happened so fast—finding the article, the mug shot, the drive—and by the time I got here, the only thing I could think about was Jay. Everything else ceased to exist.
I type out a message, trying to figure out how to explain without explaining too much.
I'm okay. Sorry I worried you. Visiting a friend for the weekend. I'll explain everything when I get back. Please don't worry.
I hit send and watch the message go through, the little checkmark appearing. A moment later, the three dots appear at the bottom of the screen. Rosalyn is typing. I can picture her so clearly—sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, probably still in her robe, trying to decide how to respond. Whether to push for more information or let it go.
A friend? What friend? Where are you?
She deserves the truth. At least part of it.
Remember the foster brother I've been looking for? I found him. I'm with him now. I'm safe. I promise I'll explain everything Sunday night when I get home.
The dots appear and disappear several times. I watch them, my heart beating faster than it should. I can see her processing this, trying to understand.
Finally, a message comes through.
Take all the time you need. Call me if you need anything.
I put the phone down on the nightstand and look up to find Jay watching me from the chair. He's got that guarded expression on his face,the one I remember from when we were kids. The one that means he's worrying about something.
"Was that Rosalyn?" he asks.
"Yeah. I didn't tell her where I was going yesterday. She was worried." I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet touching the rough carpet. "Woke up to three missed calls and a bunch of texts."
"You should call her. Let her know you're really okay."
"I just texted. She's fine." I study his face, trying to read what's going on behind his eyes. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
He's not fine. I can tell from across the room. There's tension in his shoulders, and something closed off in his expression that wasn't there last night. He's sitting in that chair like he's waiting for me to say or do something that will confirm whatever terrible thing he's thinking about himself.
I think about how he got up before me. Did he realize how we were sleeping? Did it bother him? Is he freaked out about it? About me?
"Jay." I wait until those dark eyes meet mine. "Talk to me. What's going on in your head right now?"
"Nothing. I'm just—" He shakes his head, looking away. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."
"It's not nothing. I can see you spiraling from here. " I walk over to him, my bare feet silent on the carpet. I crouch down in front of his chair so we're at eye level, so he can't avoid looking at me. "You don't have to do that with me. You don't have to hide what you're feeling."
Something raw and vulnerable flickers across his face that he tries to bury before I can see it. "I'm not hiding."
"Yeah, you are. You've got that look, the one you used to get when you didn't want me to know something was wrong. When you'd gotten hurt but didn't want me to worry about you." I reach out and touch his knee, a light pressure, my hand settling there. "We spent a lot of time reading each other's moods to survive. You think I forgot how to do that?"
Jay eyes are on where my hand rests on his knee. I can see him fighting with himself about whether to tell me the truth or keep it lockedinside. Then he lets out a breath, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. Not all of it, but enough that I can see him trying.
"I just—" He stops, starts again. "I keep thinking about what you must see when you look at me. When you look at this place." He gestures around the room with one hand. "This isn't what I wanted for my life, Ivan. This isn't who I wanted to be."
"Who did you want to be?"
"I don't know. Someone who could take care of things. Someone who had his shit together. Someone with a real apartment instead of a motel room. Someone with a savings account and a future and—" He stops, shakes his head. "Someone you could be proud of."
"Jay." I wait until he meets my eyes, until I'm sure he's listening. "I am proud of you."
"For what?" The question comes out bitter. "For living in a motel room? For getting arrested in a bar fight? For being a fucking mess who can't even—"
