"Then I'll help you," Ivan says fiercely. "I'll remind you every day if I have to. I'll tell you over and over until you believe it. I'm not going to let you punish yourself for something that wasn't your fault."
His hands are still on my face, cradling it. His eyes are still locked on mine, blue and intense. And I realize that at some point during this conversation, the distance between us has disappeared completely. We'restanding so close I can feel his breath on my lips. I can see the different shades of blue in his eyes—pale around the edges, darker near the pupil. I can count the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. I can see the way his pupils are dilated, dark and wide.
God, I want to kiss him so badly.
The thought is there again, overwhelming, undeniable, stronger than it's ever been. I want to close this last inch of distance and press my mouth to his and show him everything I can't put into words. I want to kiss him until neither of us can breathe. I want to kiss him until he knows exactly how much he means to me.
But I can't. Not yet. Not like this, with tears threatening to fall and guilt still raw in my chest. If I kiss him now, it'll be because I'm desperate and broken, not because it's right. Not because I'm whole enough to deserve him.
So instead, I lean forward slowly and rest my forehead against his. We stand there breathing together, his hands still on my face, my eyes closed against the tears I'm trying so hard not to shed. Our noses are almost touching. Our lips are separated by inches, maybe less. I can feel his warmth, his breath, his heartbeat.
"I have guilt too," Ivan says quietly, barely a whisper in the small space between our mouths.
"What could you possibly feel guilty about?" I ask, because I can't imagine it. Can't imagine perfect, beautiful Ivan having anything to feel guilty about.
"The Reyes family. I got them, and you got nothing. I got a family and a home, and you got motel rooms and shelters and sleeping behind dumpsters. How is that fair? How is it fair that I ended up okay and you didn't?"
"Don't." I pull back just enough to look at him, to see his face. "Don't you dare feel guilty for having a good life. That's the only thing that kept me going, the hope that you were okay somewhere. That someone was taking care of you. If I'd found out you were suffering too, that you were going through the same shit I was—" I shake my head, the thought too terrible to complete. "That would have destroyed me. Knowing you weresafe, that someone loved you—that's not something to feel guilty about. That's the only good thing to come out of any of this."
"But it's not fair," Ivan says, and his eyes are bright with unshed tears.
"Nothing about our lives has been fair. Nothing about the system is fair. Nothing about what happened to us was fair." I reach up and cover his hands with mine, holding them against my face, keeping him close. "But you made something of yourself. You took the shit hand you were dealt and you built something real. That's not something to feel guilty about. That's something to be proud of. And I am proud of you. So goddamn proud."
"I'm proud of you too," Ivan says. "I need you to know that. Whatever you think of yourself, however broken you feel—I'm proud of you. For surviving. For still being here. For not giving up even when you wanted to."
"I almost did," I admit. "Give up, I mean. So many times. I wanted to."
"But you didn't. You're still fighting."
"Yes, I'm still here," I echo. "Thank you. For finding me. For not giving up."
"I never could have given up," Ivan says, and I feel the words more than hear them, feel them vibrate through where our foreheads touch. "You're part of me. You always have been. I couldn't stop looking for you any more than I could stop breathing."
The knock on the door makes us both jump, startles us apart like we've been caught doing something wrong. The pizza man. I let go of Ivan's hands reluctantly and go to answer the door. I pay the delivery guy, take the pizza and the sodas he's holding, and close the door again.
We're doing normal things. Pizza and sodas and sitting on the bed eating out of the box like we're teenagers at a sleepover. But something has been said that can't be unsaid.
We're not just foster brothers anymore.
We're not just survivors who shared a trauma.
We're something else.
And I think, maybe, Ivan is starting to feel it too.
Chapter 23: Ivan
We eat pizza on the bed, sitting cross-legged facing each other with the box between us like a barrier. It's cheap and greasy. The kind of pizza that comes from a place that doesn't care about quality, just about being fast and filling. And it's probably the best thing I've ever tasted. Or maybe that's just because I'm eating it with Jay, in this sad little room that somehow doesn't feel as sad anymore.
We talk about nothing important. Safe topics. Normal conversation, the kind people have when they're just getting to know each other, when they're on a first date or meeting for coffee. Except we already know each other. We know the deepest, hardest parts, the trauma and the survival and the things that shaped us. And now we're filling in the gaps. Learning who we've become in the years apart. Learning the small things, the everyday things, the things that make up a life.
Jay laughs at something I say, some story about Caleb getting into Rosalyn's makeup and giving himself a makeover. His eyes crinkle at the corners and his mouth curves in a way that makes him look like the boy I remember instead of the man he's become. His smile makes me want to lean across the pizza box and trace that smile with my fingertips.
But I can't let myself go down that road. It's too dangerous, too confusing.
"I should shower," Jay says when the pizza's gone, when we've eaten every slice and picked at the crust. "I smell like the shop. I probably reek."
"You smell fine." The words slip out, and I feel heat creep up the back of my neck because what kind of man notices how another man smells?
