7. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Rye
Rye had tried to stay awake, but after he’d finished the tea Jake had brought him, he’d lain back down on the bed, pulled the blanket up over himself—the softest blanket he thought he’d ever felt—and closed his eyes, intending to just rest.
He’d fallen asleep almost immediately.
And it hadn’t been his normal sleep filled with nightmares and fear and restlessness. No, it had been almost peaceful, quiet, dreamless. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept like that.
Maybe it had been the tea.
Rye turned over, keeping the blanket pulled all the way up to his chin, and opened his eyes to look at the now-empty mug sitting on the nightstand. It had been a citrusy something with a touch of honey. Exactly what he’d wished he’d had.
Somehow, Jake had known. Or it had just been some really odd coincidence.
Either way, he’d savored every sip. And he sort of wished he had more.
The house was quiet except for the sound of rain outside, and Rye closed his eyes again, listening. He hadn’t heard rain in so long, and it was almost soothing to him. That, along with the brightness of the room, and the way the air felt warm and fresh.
It was the exact opposite of the basement where the awful man had kept him. The dark, closed-off, cold, musty basement. There had been no windows, and the only light had come from the single bulb hanging in the center of the room—which had only been illuminated when the man had chosen to turn it on.
And Rye had never been given such a soft, warm blanket. Or clean, fresh clothes. Or tea .
The comfortable quiet was broken by a muffled grunt that came from somewhere down the hallway, followed by a few words Rye couldn’t quite make out but that seemed strained. And nearly immediately, his chest seized up with panic. He gripped the blanket and held his breath.
Creaking floorboards overhead. Muffled curses. A dead bolt being unlocked, and a door opening on old, rusty hinges. The stench of cigarettes.
He heard the sounds, even though logically he knew they weren’t there. And his body reacted, his heart racing and his fingers aching as they held tightly onto the blanket.
Please leave , he thought, although he tried to stay as silent as possible.
Yet outside the room, he heard those heavy, uneven footsteps, and then another muffled word, a hissed curse and, at the same time, a thud against one of the walls.
Unable to hold still any longer, Rye pushed himself over to the other side of the bed, away from the door, and then he grabbed the blanket, tugging it off the bed with him, as he scramble-crawled on arms and legs that didn’t really work right over to the corner of the room. He curled up on the floor, pulled the blanket up over him, and hid.
His breaths were coming in fast pants now, and every one of them burned. And his arms and legs trembled.
He felt cold, too. Even as he covered himself with the blanket—the nice, soft, warm blanket—he felt a chill wash over his skin.
“Fuckin’ get out of that corner and get your ass over here. We’re gonna play a game tonight, and you’re gonna fuckin’ like it.”
No. No, no, no!
The footsteps came closer, echoing from down the hallway, maybe. And there was a heavy sort of breathing, and Rye could smell it again—the stench of cigarettes, the musty air of the basement, the foul odor that wafted his way whenever the man was close.
“You’re gonna be fuckin’ dead.”
He was here. The man. The man was here. Somehow.
Rye heard some noise rise up out of his throat—something like a strangled whimper or cry, and he released the blanket and covered his mouth with his hands to try to mute the sound. But he couldn’t stop the sobs from coming.
He didn’t want to die. And he just knew he’d done the worst thing—trying to get away. To escape. The man had warned him he’d be dead.
He pressed his hands harder against his mouth and scrunched his eyes shut tighter, tears slipping out and down his cheeks. And he heard his own noises of fear again—the not-quite-suppressed sob that shuddered and shook .
The footsteps stopped much closer now, and there was a soft knock.
“Hey there, how’re you...” The gentle voice trailed off, and Rye bit down on one finger of his left hand to keep his sobs quiet.
Not that it would matter. He was fucking dead either way.
The man cleared his throat, and then there were more footsteps. Closer now. Coming into the room and around the bed.
His tears flowed, and he tried not to move and not to make more noise, he really did. But he couldn’t stop his shaking. And he couldn’t breathe.
“Hey, are you okay?” Shuffling. A grunt as the bed squeaked. “Sorry for intruding, but I needed to check on you. Sue—she’s the nurse in town—she says I’ve gotta give her an update within the hour or she’ll be sending the coast guard out here. And believe me, she means it.”
Jake. The kind voice belonged to this man, whose name was Jake.
Because Rye had escaped from that hellhole of a basement, snuck out of that rotten house, and taken off running—somehow, even though he hadn’t run at all in however-many years. He’d run until his lungs had burned and his legs had ached, and then he’d kept going, stumbling through the thick forest, until he’d reached the beach.
And this man, Jake, had found him and had apparently brought him in from the beach, from the cold and the rain, and given him clean, dry clothes and tea with honey.
And asked him if he was okay.
And talked in such a kind voice.
And said he would take care of him.
And left the light on and the door open.
Rye heaved a breath, and even though it was deep, it felt too shallow, like he actually hadn’t taken in any air. So he tried again, and this time, it was a little better.
Jake cleared his throat. “Sorry to intrude. But I’m supposed to check that you don’t have a fever or chills, and I’m supposed to get you to drink some more. Did you like that tea?”
Yes. Very much.
Silently, Rye wiped the tears from his face and then pushed the blanket down to his chin, blinking at the bright light of the bedroom. Jake sat on the edge of the bed, not more than a few feet away, those large, soft-looking hands of his resting on his thighs. Rye’s jaw clenched, and he forced a nod. Then his eyes darted up, and for the briefest of moments, he met Jake’s gaze.
It was gentle, just like his voice. Kind, deep-brown eyes filled with concern .
Rye immediately looked away and pushed himself just a little more into the corner.
“Alright, so yes on the tea,” Jake said quietly. “So if I bring you more, you’ll drink it?”
Yes.
Rye just nodded again.
“Great, and so I can reassure myself—and Sue—that you’re doing much better than this morning and you’re not going to die on me—”
“You’re fuckin’ dead.”
Rye’s stomach lurched and contracted in the most painful way, and he gasped as he clutched his midsection, squeezed his eyes shut, and curled in on himself. He was trembling again, and he shook his head, even though he wasn’t sure what he was objecting to, if anything.
All he knew was that he didn’t want to die. He really, really didn’t want to die.
“Ah, no, I didn’t mean—shit. I’m sorry. You’re okay, you’re okay. That’s what I meant. You’re okay now, and you’re safe here. It’s safe here. I promise.”
Rye forced a breath and then another, and he looked back up at the man sitting on the bed. Some part of him wanted to believe Jake. But then some larger part of him screamed not to. Because men couldn’t be trusted. Even men who seemed nice and kind and acted like they wanted to be helpful.
“Hey, kiddo, you look lost. Want a ride home? I’d hate for you to be stuck out here all by yourself in the dark.”
His stomach constricted, and he turned away from Jake just as the tea he’d had earlier came back up.
The rain had stopped some time ago, and the clouds must have partly cleared because the yellow, orange, and pink light coming in from outside seemed to grow, its intensity concentrating as it entered through the wall of windows lining one side of the living room.
From his spot at the kitchen table, Rye stared out toward the horizon, where the sky met the ocean, and watched the sun as it descended, the vivid hues playing off the remaining clouds.
A sunset.
The first sunset he’d seen in however-many years.
He sniffled quietly and reached up to wipe another stupid tear from his cheek .
“I hope you don’t mind reheated leftovers.”
Rye startled slightly at Jake’s voice, and he lowered his eyes to the plate that appeared on the table in front of him.
“I’m, uh, not really up to cooking something else tonight,” Jake added.
The chair across from Rye scraped the floor as Jake pulled it out, and Rye glanced up to see Jake grimacing as he sat.
Why are you hurting?
Rye swallowed hard and looked away, back to his plate. Small portions of white rice, chicken, and green beans were sectioned into three neat, well-separated piles on the plate. And there was a fork. A real, metal fork. Not some white plastic spoon-fork thing that almost always broke before he could take more than a bite or two.
He lifted his hand back out of his lap and reached forward to pick up the shiny silver utensil with shaking fingers. It was cold and smooth and solid.
Rye bit his lip and shifted his gaze back up to Jake. The man had settled in his chair and was no longer grimacing, although he didn’t look entirely comfortable. Rye just watched for a moment as Jake started to eat, taking a good-sized bite of his chicken before looking back up.
The moment their eyes met, a wave of unease settled low in Rye’s stomach, and he dropped his gaze back to his plate.
Rye had thrown up earlier. Vomited all over the floor in the bedroom. And rather than get angry and hurt him, Jake had reassured him it was okay, gotten down on the floor with him, talked to him gently until he stopped shaking and his stomach stopped heaving. Despite Jake’s own obvious discomfort—whatever was wrong with his leg—Jake had then supported Rye as he’d stood up, guided him down the hallway to the bathroom, and helped him wash his hands and rinse out his mouth, all the while continuing to reassure him with gentle, kind words in a soft voice.
It had felt so different, so foreign, and Rye hadn’t known how to react. So when Jake had asked if he was hungry, Rye had been honest with him and given a small, silent nod.
Now, he gripped his fork awkwardly, his fingers not closing around the thin metal of the handle quite right. It wasn’t like he hadn’t held a utensil in years; he’d usually been given something to eat with. But it felt awkward. Then he speared a green bean and lifted the fork up to his mouth, his hand still shaking.
The flavor jumped out at him—warm and crisp and fresh and with just a hint of salt.
He closed his eyes as the fork slid out of his fingers and clinked loudly on his plate .
There was a quiet huff of a laugh from across the table. “Ah, not a fan of my cooking, huh?” Jake said, his tone sounding almost amused.
No, that’s not it. It’s amazing.
Rye didn’t answer, but he kept chewing and then swallowed as Jake continued.
“My sister isn’t either. Kris is always telling me I need cooking lessons. But I figure as long as I’m not burning the kitchen down, it’ll do for me. You just won’t get anything fancy, I’m afraid. I don’t really do fancy.”
Rye just picked the fork back up and dug into his rice.
By the time Jake had eaten all of his food some minutes later, Rye had barely finished maybe half of what was on his plate. But his stomach felt full, and when Jake asked if he was done, Rye forced a nod.
“Good, good.” Jake’s expression tightened as he pushed himself to stand. He reached across the table and picked up Rye’s plate.
Rye then watched as Jake turned toward the kitchen counter and took a couple of unsteady steps, limping heavily on his right leg.
With a sudden rush of shame, Rye looked away, back out to the windows. The sun had dipped even lower now, and Rye could almost feel its warmth coming through the glass. The light danced, shades of pink and orange reflecting in the rough water below.
It’s beautiful.
“Amazing view, eh?” Jake said, and Rye found himself nodding. “I’ve lived here for years now, and I’ll never, ever get tired of it.”
Where is here? he wanted to ask. But he kept his mouth shut.
Jake returned to the table and set a plate down in the middle of it, though Rye kept staring out the window, not really ready to look away.
“These are from my sister,” Jake explained. “I don’t bake. But she makes these huge batches of cookies about once a week and then mails some to me. I can never eat all of them. They’re chocolate chip.”
Cookies?
With a short breath, Rye pulled his eyes away from the windows and down to the plate in the center of the table. There were four very large cookies.
He wasn’t sure why, but tears started rolling down his cheeks again, and he hesitated, his hands clasped awkwardly together in his lap. He could feel Jake’s eyes on him, the question he just knew Jake wanted to ask. And he wished he could answer it. He almost wanted Jake to ask it, so he could try to come up with an answer.
But he really didn’t know what the tears were for. Maybe... maybe just because he hadn’t had chocolate in so long. Not since...
His jaw clenched, and the wound on his cheek began to throb. He lifted his eyes just long enough to catch Jake’s gaze and then looked back down, and he reached up and wiped the tears from his cheeks. Again.
“Maybe you just want half of one?” Jake asked, his voice still kind and gentle and soft. “They’re pretty big.”
Rye shook his head, and with a hand that still trembled, he reached out and picked up the nearest cookie. And he closed his eyes as he took a good-sized bite.