11. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Rye
“Wait, there it was! That was my street. Sycamore. You just passed it. Turn around, and—”
“Shut the fuck up, kid. I know where the fuck you live. We’re going somewhere else. You just be a good little boy, keep your fuckin’ mouth closed, and I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
Rye sat in the corner of the living room, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, hugging himself tightly. He’d moved to the corner a while ago, after Jake had tried again to get him to talk. He could see everything from here. He could see Jake—who now sat on the couch, his bad leg elevated and his laptop on his lap—and he could see the front door, and he could see the back door. The door that led out to the patio, which he sort of assumed led out to the beach.
He could escape if he wanted to. He could take off and run. Get farther away. Alone. Where no one would find him. But he didn’t know where he was or where he would actually go. Or how he would find food or shelter.
Or how he might, maybe, find his way back home.
He closed his eyes and tried to picture it. A small, one-story house with light-blue siding and a white garage door. The lawn kept neat and crisp and green, sectioned by a flat stone walkway that led up from the street all the way to the front porch. Small rosebushes out front, arranged in an orderly line. Pink and white and yellow blooms. The whole house surrounded by towering pines.
The image was suddenly so clear, so bright and clear, that he could almost smell the roses. And the pines. He could remember counting the stone steps. Sixteen in all. And he’d hop with both feet from step to step to step as his mom had stood and waited at the front door, amused but also impatient.
Hurry up, now, Ryan. We’ve got things to do .
Her voice. And her eyes. He saw them again, along with her smile. But he couldn’t hold onto the image of her, and it morphed into darkness, a swirling darkness with echoes of curses and anger and pain.
Mom.
He forced his eyes open and immediately found Jake, typing away at his computer. The steady clacking of the keys was the only sound in the room.
Will you help me find my mom?
The question would be so easy to ask. So easy, and yet, the second he even thought about speaking it, his stomach lurched, and he scrunched his eyes shut.
He couldn’t. He couldn’t. Could he?
If not, what was he doing? Just ... waiting? Waiting here, eating this man’s food, staying at his house, letting this man take care of him?
He wanted to go home.
That was all he’d ever wanted. Even on that very first day, that was all he’d wanted. Home.
Could he possibly . . . make it there? Finally? After . . . however-many years?
Rye’s eyes shifted to Jake’s laptop, and he continued watching silently as Jake did whatever he was doing. Typing. Occasionally taking sips from his mug.
The computer could tell Rye what day it was. What year. And then he could figure out... how long it had been. How horribly, horribly long he’d been gone.
And maybe it didn’t really even matter. He knew it had been years. He knew he was at least twenty by now. Twenty years old. An adult. An adult who couldn’t even read. Probably.
Rye scanned the room, his eyes stopping on an old-looking, dark-wood bookcase pushed up against the wall opposite where he sat. It was filled—overfilled, actually. Books of all colors and shapes, a row of yellow magazines, and papers. Lots of loose papers stuffed wherever they would fit. It looked sort of organized and sort of messy.
And he was drawn to it.
Yet he didn’t move.
His eyes darted back to Jake, who was now watching him with that same kind, gentle expression. Rye felt tears welling up in his eyes, yet again.
“I won’t hurt you.”
Jake had said the words earlier. He’d said lots of words, including promises that Rye was safe. But all Rye felt right then was nauseous. He looked back down at the grayish carpet under his feet and hugged his knees to his chest tighter. Rye had heard those same words before. And they’d been the farthest thing from the truth.
So why did he want to trust Jake ?
He glanced back up. Jake’s brown eyes were so soft, just like his smile.
Take me home , Rye wanted to say. I live on Sycamore Avenue with my mom. I’m Ryan. Ryan Henry Davis. And I was taken when I was eight. I was walking home from school. My mom was taking care of my grandma. She was sick, and my mom couldn’t leave her. A man offered to drive me. I should have said no. I should have said no. I should have said—
“No! No, no, no, no. No, no. No!” The sound of his own voice was foreign to his ears, bursting from his mouth with a hoarse panic. He’d pushed himself up out of the corner now and was scrambling toward the back door, his hands groping for the wall as he tripped and stumbled. He almost fell, but he managed to catch himself. And he could feel it chasing him. That same monster. That same darkness, breathing down his neck now, reaching out to grab him.
But then he was outside, the freezing air hitting his face, a strong breeze blowing his hair back off his forehead. He kept going. Forward. Away. Away from the monster chasing him. Away from the darkness and out to the railing.
The ocean stretched out in front of him, and down below was a crisp, clean beach. Gentle waves lapping at the curved shoreline. A bright blue sky, the sun shining down from just overhead. Birds flew along the cliff face.
He gripped the railing and sunk down to the ground, just staring. It was beautiful. The sight was beautiful.
And before he really knew what was happening, he was crying. Staring out through the slatted wood of the railing and crying. The cold breeze coming off the water stung his cheeks, but he didn’t move to go back inside. Inside. Even the word made him shiver. Even the thought that the door might be locked. That he might be locked in, held there. The thought made him sick again, and he closed his eyes and set his hands down on the wood underneath him.
He should have said no all those years ago. He should have said no and refused to get into the car with that stranger. That man sitting in his little white car, smiling his weird, icky smile at Rye, his teeth some odd shade of not-quite-white-but-not-quite-yellow.
Rye sucked in a breath, ignoring the sharp bite in the air, the chill cutting through his chest.
Where would he be right now? If he’d said no, where would he be? A twenty-something adult. He’d wanted to be an astronaut. He’d wanted to go to the moon. So would he be in college? Or maybe he’d have been working at the school. He’d loved math and numbers. They’d always made sense to him. So maybe he’d have been teaching math to kids at the school.
Some intense sadness washed over him like a wave, and it was as cold as the air around him, and it hurt. It was his fault. All of it. He’d deserved what had happened to him. Because he should have said no. He’d known better.
Stupid fuckin’ child.
“Hey . . . Hey there, are you okay?”
Rye froze for half a second before his body would move. He struggled back to his feet and turned around quickly. Jake stood in the doorway, his expression worried but strained, and he was obviously still hurting, holding tightly to the doorframe and with most of his weight shifted to his good leg.
Rye shook his head in response to Jake’s question and backed up a step until he hit the railing behind him. No. No, he wasn’t okay. Why did Jake keep asking him that? Wasn’t it obvious? He wanted to scream it again, scream the word out loud like he had inside the house. But nothing would come this time.
And Jake just nodded so gently, as though he somehow understood everything. Even though he couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly understand. He couldn’t possibly know.
“Okay,” Jake said softly. “That’s okay, you know. That’s okay.” Jake almost seemed to laugh. “I’m really not okay either. But I want to help you if you’ll let me. Why don’t you come back inside, and then—”
Rye shook his head again and took a step to his right, toward what looked like an old set of steps leading down to the beach. He reached behind him to grip the railing, though his hands almost immediately started to ache with the tension.
“Okay. You don’t have to. But it’s cold out here, and—” Jake let out a short breath and then ran a hand through his dark hair. Rye watched, and he found himself distracted by the very, very beginnings of wrinkles at the edges of Jake’s eyes. He stared, tilting his head slightly. Jake was... close to the age his mom had been. She’d had those same very slight wrinkles. Especially when she’d smiled.
What would she look like now? Would she look the same? Or would she have more wrinkles? Would her hair be gray? Would she still smile? Would she smile if she saw him?
He found himself sinking back down to the ground. And more tears. Too many fucking tears. Like a stupid fucking child.
No. No, no. A sharp pain lanced through chest as the curse seemed to echo in the space around him, the chill in the air suddenly thick and filled with the smell of cigarettes. He buried his head in his hands.
Footsteps approached, but he didn’t flinch away this time. They were heavy and uneven but careful. And somehow, he didn’t lose the fact that they belonged to Jake. The footsteps stopped only a little bit away, just in front of him and to his left .
“I know this is really difficult,” Jake said. And his voice was still so kind, so soft. “But please come back inside. It’s cold, and I’d be really worried if you stayed out here. I’m sorry if I said or did something else that bothered you. I didn’t mean to. Please come back inside.”
There was worry in the man’s tone, and it was unmistakable, even to Rye. Even though he’d heard nothing of the sort in years.
And so maybe that was why.
Maybe that was why he wanted so badly to trust Jake.
Another breeze blew in off the water, and Rye shivered as it cut right through the sweatshirt he was wearing. The one Jake had let him borrow. After Jake had fed him and cared for him and let him take a shower and sleep in a warm bed.
I’m scared.
He was. He was so scared. So scared that his stomach started twisting up into knots again and he felt lightheaded and dizzy. But he nodded, and he heard Jake blow out a short breath.
“Good, good. Uh, can I help you up?”
Immediately, Rye shook his head, and he heard what had to be a quiet laugh.
“Yeah, you’re right. If I tried, it’d probably be you who’d have to be helping me up. This leg of mine is in bad shape.” There was another chuckle, and Rye managed to look back up. Jake had taken a couple of short steps backward, and his smile seemed a bit forced. “I need to go sit. You promise me you’ll be inside soon?”
Yes.
Rye just nodded and then looked back down at his hands, which rested on his knees now. His skin was red from the cold, and when he balled his hands up into fists, he could barely feel his fingers. How had he gotten so cold so quickly?
“Alright.” Jake let out another breath, this one rougher, and Rye had to close his eyes for a second against the twinge of panic. But the feel of the wood planks under him and the railing up against his back, the cold of the breeze and the freshness of the ocean air all reminded him of where he was. Or rather... where he wasn’t .
Jake’s footsteps moved away, the wooden boards underneath Rye vibrating with each heavy step. And after another few minutes, Rye finally opened his eyes. Jake was inside, making his way slowly back to the couch, one hand gripping his right thigh.
Carefully, Rye pushed himself up to his feet, keeping hold of the railing as his body swayed a bit. When he felt steady enough, he let go and crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands under his arms to warm them up. Then he made his way back inside the house.