"Don't worry, I'll come back," Ivan says, and he reaches out to touch my arm, his hand warm through my shirt sleeve. "Next weekend, maybe. If you want me to. Or you could come to me. Meet Rosalyn and Mitchell. Meet the kids. See the house. See my life. I want you to see my life."
"Yeah. Maybe." The word tastes like a lie. There's no place in his nice life for someone like me.
"Jay." His hand slides down my arm slowly, until he finds my hand, laces our fingers together. "I meant what I said. I'm not disappearing. We're not losing each other again. I won't let that happen. I refuse to do that."
"I know, it's just—" I shake my head and look away from him. "It's hard. That's all. It's harder than I thought it would be. Watching you leave. This is rough."
"I know." His thumb rubs across my knuckles, a small comfort. "It's hard for me too. This is the hardest thing I've had to do in a long time."
We stand there holding hands in the parking lot of a crappy motel, the sun beating down on us, his truck waiting to take him away. I shouldlet go of him. I should step back. I should do the mature thing, the thing that doesn't make this any harder than it already is.
"Okay," I say finally, and the word feels like it's being ripped out of me. I let go of his hand and step to the side, slapping my palm against the roof of the truck in a gesture of finality. "Fuck, okay. You'd better go. You've got things to do."
Ivan opens the door slowly, like he's moving through water. He stands there for a moment with one hand on the frame, the other still holding his keys. Looking at me. There's some war being fought behind his eyes, some decision being made.
"Jay."
"What?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches out fast and grabs the front of my shirt, fisting the fabric in his hand. And before I can react, before I can say anything or ask what he's doing, he pulls me toward him hard.
And he kisses me.
God help me, he kisses me.
His lips press against mine—soft and warm and uncertain and perfect. It's not a long kiss, not a deep one. Just a press of mouths, barely more than a touch. Just a few seconds, barely enough to register, barely enough to believe it's real.
But it sends shockwaves through my entire body. My brain short-circuits, goes completely blank. My heart stops beating and then starts again too fast. The world narrows down to this single point of contact, his mouth on mine, his hand twisted in my shirt, his breath mingling with mine.
Then he pulls back, breathing hard.
We stare at each other. Ivan's eyes are wide, panicked, like he can't believe what he just did. His hand is still gripping my shirt, holding me close, not letting me go.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, his eyes filling with tears. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I—I just couldn't leave without—I had to—Oh my god, I'm sorry."
I don't let him finish.
I kiss him back.
I don'tthink about it. I don't let myself hesitate or doubt or fear. I just grab his face in both hands and pull him into me and kiss him like I've been wanting to kiss him since he showed up at my door Friday night.
This kiss is nothing like the first one. That was tentative, uncertain, a question. This is an answer. This one is desperate and hungry and deep, years of loneliness and longing and need poured into the press of lips and the tangle of tongues and the clash of teeth. Ivan makes a sound against my mouth—something between a gasp and a moan and a sob—and his hands come up to grip my arms, pulling me closer, trying to eliminate every inch of space between us.
I push him back against the truck, my body pressing against his, pinning him there. And he arches into me like he can't get close enough, like he's been starving for this.
I don't know how long we kiss. It could be seconds or minutes or hours. Time doesn't mean anything. Nothing means anything except Ivan's mouth and Ivan's hands and Ivan's body against mine and the taste of him and the sound he makes when I deepen the kiss and the way he trembles when I press closer.
When we finally break apart, we're both panting like we've run miles. Ivan's lips are red and swollen, his eyes are dazed and unfocused, and he's looking at me like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.
"You kissed me back," he says breathlessly, like he can't quite believe it, like he needs confirmation.
"You kissed me first."
"I didn't know if you—I thought maybe you weren't—I thought I was going crazy, feeling this alone—"
"Ivan." I rest my forehead against his, the way we did last night, breathing the same air. "I've wanted to kiss you since the moment you showed up at my door. Since you recited my information and touched my scar and looked at me like I was worth finding. I've been going out of my mind trying not to. I wanted to touch you so goddamn bad."
"Why didn't you?" His hands slide up my arms to my shoulders, holding on. "Why didn't you just—"
