"For surviving," I cut him off. "For making it through everything the world threw at you and still being here. For not giving up when you had every reason to. For getting a job, learning a trade, building something real even when you had nothing to work with and no one to help you." I squeeze his knee, feel the muscle tense under my palm. "You think I don't know how hard that is? I found the Reyes family. I had Rosalyn cooking me meals and Mitchell helping with homework. I had support and people who helped me. You did it alone. That's not something to be ashamed of. That's incredible."
He stares at me like he can't comprehend that I could look at him—at his life, at this room—and see anything worth being proud of.
"I'm not the person you remember," he says, and there's so much pain in his voice. "I'm not the one who protected you. I'm not strong anymore. I'm nothing like who I used to be."
"You were never strong because you didn't feel things," I tell him, and I mean every word. "You were strong because you felt everything and you kept going anyway." I stand up, holding out my hand to him. "Now come on. I'm starving and you probably haven't eaten a real meal in days. Let'sget breakfast and you can show me around. Show me your life. I want to know everything about you."
Jay takes my hand. His fingers are warm against mine, calloused from years of working with tools and engines. I pull him up from the chair and don't let go right away even when he's standing.
"There's a diner down the street," he says. "It's not fancy, but the food's decent. Real eggs, real bacon. Betty takes care of the regulars."
"Perfect. I could eat a cow right now." I give his hand one more squeeze before letting go. "Let me make myself presentable first. Give me a minute."
"You look fine," he says, then seems to realize what he said and looks away quickly. "I mean, you look—it's just a diner. No one cares what you're wearing."
We get ready in the small bathroom, taking turns in the cramped space. I splash water on my face, use the toothbrush Jay gave me last night, try to make my hair look like I didn't sleep on it weird. The mirror is spotted and old, but I can see Jay behind me sometimes, moving around, and I catch myself watching him more than I should. The way he moves carefully because of his ribs. The faded bruises on his face. The dark hair that falls into his eyes when he leans over the sink.
Even beat to hell, he's still handsome. The thought comes again. I push it aside firmly, but it doesn't go far. It hovers there in the back of my mind.
We walk to the diner together. It's only a few blocks, and the morning air is cool and fresh after the stuffiness of the motel room. Jay walks close to me, close enough that our shoulders brush occasionally when we turn corners or step around obstacles. Neither of us mentions it. Neither of us moves away.
The diner is exactly what I expected—red vinyl booths with duct tape patches, laminate tables that have seen better days, a long counter with chrome-edged stools. It smells like coffee and bacon and maple syrup. A woman with gray hair pulled back in a bun and a coffee pot in her hand looks up when we walk in, and her whole face lights up when she sees Jay.
"Morning, Jay!" she calls out. "The usual?"
"Yeah, thanks Betty." He gestures at me as we slide into a booth by the window. "And whatever he wants."
Betty walks over, her eyes on me with open curiosity. She's probably in her sixties, with smile lines around her eyes. "Friend of yours?" she asks him, looking me over. "Don't think I've seen you bring anyone in before. First time for everything, huh?"
"He's—" Jay hesitates, and I see him searching for the right word. "He's family."
Something warm spreads through me like sunlight. He still calls me family.
"Well, any family of Jay's is welcome here," Betty says, smiling at me. "What can I get you, hon?"
"Same as him," I say, not even knowing what Jay's usual is. "Whatever he's having."
"Two usuals coming right up." Betty pours coffee into both our mugs without asking, the liquid dark and steaming. "You boys holler if you need anything else."
She walks away, and I wrap my hands around the mug. The coffee is strong, almost bitter, but it's exactly what I need.
"So," I say, once Betty is out of earshot. "Tell me about the shop. About Mick. About what you do all day. I want to know every little thing."
"You really want to hear about that?" Jay seems surprised.
"You bet. I've got a lot to catch up on, remember? And I'm not leaving until I know every detail." I take a sip of coffee, let the heat and caffeine start to wake me up fully. "Start from the beginning. How did you find Mick? How did you end up working on motorcycles?"
Jay looks down at his coffee. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "It's not that interesting."
"Let me be the judge of that. Come on. Start from the beginning."
Jay takes a breath, and I can see him deciding where to start. "After Carl's garage closed—Carl was the guy who let me sleep in his back room for a while, taught me the basics about engines—I was desperate. I needed a job. I went everywhere looking for work." His fingers tighten on the mug. "Most places wouldn't even look at me twice. No formaltraining, no certifications, just a kid who'd been sleeping in a back room and had grease under his fingernails."
"That must have been terrifying."
"It was. I thought I was going to end up on the street for real. Sleeping under bridges and panhandling." He stares into his coffee like he's seeing that version of himself. "Then I found Mick's shop. It looked like a dump from the outside—hand-painted sign that was fading, grimy windows, the kind of place you walk past without noticing."
"But you went in anyway?"
