Now, I'm memorizing him. Storing away every detail in case this is the last time. In case he drives away and doesn't come back.
***
Breakfast is quiet. We order breakfast food, though it's time for lunch since we slept so late. We sit in the same booth as yesterday, the one by the window where we can see the street, and Betty brings coffee without asking, gives us a knowing smile that makes me wonder what she sees when she looks at us.
But the easy conversation from yesterday is gone. We're both thinking about what comes next while we're both trying not to think about it.
"We should exchange numbers," Ivan says, poking at his eggs with his fork, not really eating. "I mean, obviously. So, we can stay in touch. Call each other. Text."
"Yeah. Of course." I pull out my phone and hand it to him across the table. "Put your number in."
He types it in carefully, then hands the phone back. Our fingers brush during the exchange, and I feel it like static electricity jumping between us. Ivan looks up at me when it happens, his eyes wide, and for a split-second I think he's going to say something, acknowledge what's between us, name this thing we've been dancing around.
But then he quickly looks away, picks up his coffee, takes a sip.
"I'll text you," he says, staring into his cup. "When I get home. So, you know I made it safe."
"Good, be sure to do that because I'll be worried."
The silence stretches out between us again, heavy with all the things we're not saying. All the things I want to say but can't.
Please don't go. Stay with me longer. I need you.
"This is weird," Ivan says finally, setting his cup down. "It feels like we just found each other and now we have to say goodbye again. Like I'm losing you all over again. This sucks."
"It's not goodbye," I say, almost desperate. "It's just see you later. That's all. We'll figure out when you can come back, or I can come to you. I can drive up there on my bike, meet your family, or we can meet halfway somewhere, or—"
"Yeah, we can do that," Ivan interrupts, but he sounds uncertain. Scared. Like neither of us believes what we're saying. "We'll figure it out. We will. We're not that far away that we can't get together."
He reaches across the table and takes my hand, squeezes it once before letting go. The contact is brief but I feel it everywhere.
We finish breakfast in silence. Betty comes by with the check and I pay before Ivan can argue, and we walk back to the motel slowly, dragging our feet like kids who don't want to go to school.
Ivan goes inside to get his keys and to check one more time that he has everything. While I stand in the parking lot next to his truck, waiting, the sun warm on my face and the sky impossibly blue above me. It's the kind of day that should feel hopeful, full of possibility.
It doesn't.
It feels like an ending I've known was coming since he showed up.
Ivan comes out and walks toward me across the pavement. He's got his keys in his hand, and he's looking at me with an expression that makes my heart stutter and skip—something between hope and desperate longing.
"So," he says when he reaches me.
"So," I echo.
We stand there, neither of us moving toward the truck. I should step aside, get out of his way, let him get in and drive away like a normal person. That's what I should do.
Instead, I move, positioning myself between him and the driver's door. I don't even do it consciously. My body just refuses to get out of his way, refuses to make this easy for him to leave.
"Jay," Ivan says, and there's amusement in his voice despite the pain in his eyes. "I can't get in the truck if you're standing there blocking the door."
"I know."
"Are you going to move?" he teases.
"In a minute. Just give me a minute here."
I'm stalling for time and I don't even know why. But every second he's here is a second he's not gone, and I'm not ready yet. I'm not ready to watch him drive away. I'm not ready to go back to my empty room and my empty life and pretend that this weekend didn't change everything.
