Chapter 24: Jay
Sunday morning feels different.
There's a weight in the air, a heaviness that wasn't there yesterday. We both know what's coming. We both know Ivan has to leave.
I wake up with him in my arms again. His head on my chest, his hand curled against my stomach, our legs tangled together.
I don't move. I can't.
I just lie there, feeling the warmth of him, the solid weight of his body against mine, trying to memorize everything about this moment. The way his hair tickles my chin. The way his breath ghosts across my skin. The way his fingers curl slightly in his sleep, gripping my shirt.
He has to go back. Back to the Reyes family that loves him, back to his job and his future and his real life. Back to a world that doesn't include me except as a memory, as someone he used to know, as a weekend visit when he can spare the time.
And I'll be here. In this motel room. Alone again.
The thought makes it hard to breathe.
Ivan stirs against me, and I feel his eyelashes flutter against my chest as he wakes up. He doesn't pull away, doesn't jerk back like he's realized where he is. He just lies there, breathing, his hand pressing a little more firmly against my stomach like he's checking to make sure I'm real.
"Morning," he mumbles against my shirt.
"Morning."
Neither of us moves. We stay tangled together, limbs intertwined, breathing in sync. We should get up. We should eat breakfast. We should do all the normal things that people do on Sunday mornings before one of them drives away and doesn't come back.
But Ivan is warm against me, and his hair is soft under my chin. I don't want this to end. I don't want him to leave. I don't want to go back to being alone, to nights spent staring at the ceiling and days that blur into each other with nothing to distinguish them.
"What time is it?" Ivan asks, his breath warm against my chest even through the shirt.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand with my free hand, trying not to dislodge him, trying to keep him close for just a few more seconds. "Almost eleven."
"I should probably head out soon," Ivan says, and I can hear his reluctance. "Rosalyn and the kids will worry if I'm not back for dinner. She always makes Sunday dinner special—pot roast or chicken or something. Everyone's there. It's a thing the kids count on."
He's leaving soon. How much time do I have left? A couple of hours? Then he's gone, and I don't know when I'll see him again. A week? A month? What if he goes back to his life and realizes he doesn't need me anymore, that this was just a weekend, that he's better off without the complication of a broken person dragging him down?
"Okay," I say, because what else can I say? I can't ask him to stay. I can't ask him to choose me over the family who actually loves him, who gave him a home and a future. "I understand."
Ivan finally lifts his head, looking at me. His eyes are sleepy, soft and unfocused, his hair is mussed from sleep, sticking up in every direction, and there's a crease on his cheek from my shirt. He looks soft in a way I've never seen him look, vulnerable and open and so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
"I don't want to go," he says.
"I don't want you to go either." The admission costs me, makes me feel exposed.
We look at each other for a long moment. His blue eyes are searching my face, looking for something I'm not sure I can give him. There's something in his expression—something that looks like longing, like hope, like maybe he feels even a fraction of what I'm feeling.
But I can't think about that. I can't let myself hope. Because if I'm wrong, if I say something and he pulls away, if I reach for him and he flinches—
God, my heart couldn't take it. Not that. Never that.
"Breakfast or lunch?" I say instead, breaking the moment, pulling us back from the edge. "Betty's diner? One more time before you have to go?"
"Yeah." Ivan sits up. "That sounds good."
We get up, get dressed. I pull on jeans and a clean shirt, watch as Ivan puts on the same clothes he wore when he arrived Friday. The jeans that fit him perfectly, the jacket that makes his shoulders look broader. The normalcy of it feels strange. Like we're playing roles in a play, going through motions while the real conversation happens underneath in silence.
Ivan runs his fingers through his hair, trying to tame the mess, and I watch him in the mirror, memorizing the way he moves. The way he tilts his head to check his reflection. The way he bites his lip when he's concentrating.
We didn't have enough time.
