"Then we deal with it. One day at a time." His thumbs stroke my cheekbones. "I'm not asking you to be perfect. I'm not asking you to be healed overnight. I'm not asking you to have all the answers right now. I'm just asking you to let me be here. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
"I don't know how to do that. I don't know how to let someone in when everything inside me is telling me to run."
"I know it's hard. We'll work through this." He leans forward and presses his forehead against mine, and I can feel his breath on my lips. "One hour at a time, if we have to. But you're not doing this alone anymore. That part is over. Do you understand me? You don't get to be alone anymore. Even if you want to be."
I want to believe him.
"What if I can't stop?" I whisper, the question I'm most afraid to ask. "The drinking, I mean. What if I need help I can't afford? What if I'm too far gone?"
"Then we get you help. Real help. Whatever that looks like." He pulls back to look at me. "There has to be options."
I let out another laugh. "Help costs money. Big money. Therapy costs more than my weekly rent for one hour. Rehab costs thousands. That's not for people like me. That's for rich people who can afford to take time off work, who have insurance that covers it. That's not my world."
Ivan is quiet, and I can see him wanting to argue, wanting to offer solutions. But there aren't any easy answers. That's the reality of being broke and broken at the same time.
"There has to be options. Sliding scale clinics, free support groups, something. I'll help you research. I'll help you find something that works."
"Maybe." I don't believe it, but I don't have the energy to argue anymore. I'm so tired. Bone-deep tired in a way sleep never fixes.
Ivan shifts, settling more comfortably on his knees in front of me. "Can I tell you something? Something I never told you before?"
"Yeah. Of course."
"Remember my safe spot? The one I told you about, back at the Hendersons? The one we drilled into each other with all the information?"
I think back to those nights in the barn, to the way we'd quiz each other until we had every detail memorized. "The barn. You said your safe spot was the barn. White walls, smell of hay, horses in the stalls."
"That's what I told you. But it wasn't exactly true." He takes my hands in his again. "Or—it wasn't the whole truth."
I look at him, confused. "What do you mean? Why would you lie about that?"
"I didn't lie. The barn was part of it. But it wasn't just the place." He takes a breath. "The barn was just—it was four walls, hay bales, the smell of animals. I tried to use it, tried to go there in my head when Henderson was hitting me or when I was locked in my room or when things gotreally bad. But it never really worked on its own. It was just a place. Just wood and straw and shadows."
"Then what was your safe spot?" I ask, genuinely confused.
"You know what actually worked? What I actually pictured when Henderson was hitting me, when I thought I couldn't survive another second?" His eyes are intense on mine. "Your arms around me. In the barn, yes, but not the barn itself. The feeling of you holding me. That's where I went. I would close my eyes and I would imagine being in the barn with you, and I would feel your arms around me, holding me safe, holding me together. That's what got me through. Not the place. The person. You."
My throat closes up completely. I can't speak. Can barely breathe.
"You were my safe spot, Jay. Not a place. You. The feeling of you holding me, protecting me, making me feel like I was worth protecting." He squeezes my hands. "That's what got me through every single time. That's what I clung to when everything else fell apart."
"Ivan—"
"So now I'm asking you to let me do the same thing for you." He leans forward, his eyes intense and desperate. "Let me be your safe spot. When things get dark, when the cravings hit, when you feel like you're falling apart and you don't know what to do—come to me. Call me. Text me. Wake me up. Let me hold you through it the way you held me. Let me be your safe spot."
"I don't know how to reach out instead of reaching for the bottle."
"Then we practice. We start small." He stands up, holds out his hand. "Right now, you wanted a drink. But instead, you're here talking to me. That's already progress."
I look at his hand. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to push him away, to protect him from the disaster I know I'm going to be. But there's another voice, quieter but more persistent, saying something different.
Let him in. Let him try. Let yourself have this one thing. Let yourself be saved for once instead of always being the savior.
I take his hand.
He leads me back to the bed and wraps his arms around me. I press my face against his chest and try to match my breathing to his. In and out. Slow and steady. Like a meditation.
"I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs into my hair, his lips brushing against my forehead. "No matter how hard you try to push me away. No matter how scared you get. I'm too stubborn to quit. You should know that about me by now."
