We lie there in silence, our breathing the only sound. Ivan's hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining on the pillow between us. Then his other hand moves to my side, tracing a line I can't see but I know is there.
"What's this from?" he asks quietly.
I know without looking. The scar on my ribs, the one he noticed last weekend but didn't ask about. "Another fight. About two years ago. Guy had a knife. A very sharp switchblade."
Ivan's breath catches, his fingers stilling. "Someone stabbed you?"
"It was more of a slash. I moved in time to miss most of it." I can still remember the sharp sting, the hot blood running down my side. "Still needed stitches, but it could have been worse. Could have been a lot worse."
His fingers move to another spot, lower on my stomach. A small round scar, puckered and white and permanent. "And this one?"
"Cigarette burn." The memory is fuzzy now, distant. "Guy at a group home when I was seventeen. He didn't like that I got a piece of pizza at dinner. Thought I was being disrespectful by eating before he did."
"Jesus, Jay."
"It's fine. It was a long time ago. I barely remember his face."
"It's not fine. None of this is fine. None of this should have happened to you."
I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything. His fingers keep moving, cataloging my damage, finding scars I'd forgotten I had. The thin line on my shoulder from a broken bottle that someone swung at me in a shelter. The rough patch on my forearm from a chemical burn at Carl's garage when I was eighteen and didn't know what I was doing. The faded marks on my back that he doesn't ask about, because he already knows where those came from. Because he has matching ones.
"Were you—" He stops, starts again. "After we got separated, were you ever—did anyone ever—"
"Hit me with a belt? Whip the shit out of me? Hit me?" I finish for him, because I know where he's going. "A few times. The group homes were rough. Lots of angry kids taking out their pain on each other. But nothing like Henderson. Nothing that systematic from an adult who was supposed to be in charge. Nothing that bad."
"I'm sorry." His hand splays flat on my chest, over my heart. "I'm sorry you went through that."
"It's not your fault. Don't blame yourself for me."
"I know. But I'm still sorry." He props himself up on his elbow, looking down at me with those blue eyes that see too much. "I need you to know—after you, after we left the Hendersons—no one ever hurt me like that again. Not once. No one hit me or beat me again."
Something loosens in my chest, something that's been clenched tight since we were separated. "Really? Never?"
"Never. The placements I had before the Reyes family weren't great. One of them barely fed us, another one kept us locked in our rooms most of the day, but no one ever raised a hand to me. No one ever hurt me like Henderson did."
"Thank God. I'm so glad. I was always so scared you might end up in a worse place without me there to protect you the best I could."
"I was careful. I used everything you taught me." His hand moves from my chest to my face, cupping my jaw. "Stay quiet, be polite, don't draw attention. Make yourself small. Don't give them a reason. It worked. You saved me. Even when you weren't there, you still saved me."
"No, I didn't save you. I got us separated in the first place."
"You protected me. That's what you did. And everything that came after—that's not your fault. That's on the system. That's on every adult who failed us."
I want to argue, but I can see in his eyes that he believes this. That he's thought about it, processed it, come to peace with it in a way I haven't yet.
"I was always so scared," I admit, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "Back then, I mean. Every single day, I was terrified they'd figure out some way to take me away and leave you alone with him. That was my worst nightmare. Henderson hurting you and me not being there to stop it."
"I was scared of that too," Ivan says quietly. "Every night. I'd lie awake thinking about what would happen if they took you away."
"And then they did. And I couldn't stop it. I couldn't protect you anymore."
"You protected me by teaching me how to survive. By showing me what kindness looked like. By giving me something to hold onto." Histhumb strokes my cheekbone. "And now—" He stops, swallows hard. "Now I'm here. And I'm not leaving you."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him. But there's a voice in my head, small and insidious and impossible to silence, that keeps whispering.
Everyone leaves. Everyone abandons you. Why would he be different?
"I'm terrified it's going to happen again," I blurt out, the words tumbling over each other. "Now, I mean. I'm terrified something's going to happen and I'm going to lose you again. You're going to wake up one morning and realize I'm a mess, that I've got nothing to offer you, that you deserve so much better than a guy who lives in a motel room and can't even sleep without—"
