12. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Jake
The day passed slowly. Probably, Jake figured, because he felt every single minute so intensely. His pain didn’t go away. He knew it wouldn’t help, but he tried a hefty dose of Advil just after lunch anyway, hoping it might take the edge off just enough.
By the time evening came, Jake could barely focus enough to put something together for dinner. If it’d just been him, he would have skipped dinner altogether. But he had a houseguest who needed to eat. So, just as the sun started to go down, Jake forced himself up onto his feet and limped from the couch into the kitchen, holding back a string of curses.
He’d make something very simple. Maybe grilled cheese sandwiches and chicken noodle soup, if he had the ingredients. It was relatively quick and easy, at least.
And although he hated the stuff, he almost, almost wished he just had canned soup. Because that would take two minutes to heat up rather than twenty minutes to cook.
But he didn’t. So, homemade soup it was.
He reached the kitchen counter and paused to catch his breath. Not that he was out of breath, really, but the pain made it seem that way. And once he could sort of breathe again, he shuffled a few more steps forward, still gripping the counter, and then turned slightly so he could see his houseguest.
The man—whose name Jake still didn’t know—had spent most of the afternoon and early evening sitting huddled in the corner, his arms wrapped around his knees, watching as Jake sat on the couch with his laptop in his lap and worked.
Nothing else had happened.
The day had passed uneventfully after those tense few minutes out on the patio, where Jake had thought maybe he would be calling the coast guard to come help. He’d been sure the man was going to take off down the stairs to the beach and then... just disappear. Jake’s stomach lurched at the thought.
He gave the man a smile—the best smile he could manage anyway. “Uh, it’s about dinner time, I think. I was planning on making chicken soup and grilled cheese. Does that sound okay to you?”
The man’s face tightened, as it had on occasion when Jake had asked him a question. Maybe he was processing Jake’s words. Or maybe something else, Jake wasn’t really sure. But then the man blinked and nodded once as he lowered his eyes to his hands, which sat clasped around his knees.
And Jake swore he saw another tiny hint of a smile, like he thought he had earlier. Some small glimmer, for just half a second or so, before it disappeared.
He hoped it meant something.
“Great. Shouldn’t take too long.”
With a steadying breath, Jake moved the two steps over to the freezer and opened it up to take stock of what he had. Then he sent a silent thank you to his past self as he spotted a reusable silicone container near the back of the freezer labeled chopped chicken breast in his own messy handwriting.
Not having to thaw, chop, and cook the chicken meant at least five minutes less that he’d need to be on his feet. And that five minutes might just mean the difference between him making it through the rest of the evening or not.
He pulled out the container and set it on the counter, then closed the freezer and opened up the fridge to find the other ingredients.
It took a little longer than twenty minutes, unfortunately, because he was just moving very slowly still. Every step had to be taken carefully. And every step hurt, the sharp pains shooting deep into his thigh. Vaguely, he wondered if it was something worse than just his damaged muscles acting up, though he realized if it was, he probably wouldn’t even be able to walk by now.
Somehow, he let that reassure him, or maybe just boost his stubbornness another notch, and he kept moving forward. He cooked the soup and sandwiches and set the table, then he made some more tea—one of his favorite herbal blends that would hopefully help him sleep later. And when everything was set, he managed to coax the man out of the corner for the first time in what had to be hours.
Only when the man was settled in his seat did Jake finally sit again. The relief was instant and yet still not quite enough, and he found himself staring at the food on the table in front of him, forcing slow, steady breaths to keep himself in check.
Dammit. He hated this pain. So much .
He closed his eyes for a long beat, and when he opened them, he felt the man’s gaze on him. But he hesitated to look up, knowing how ragged his expression must be. Instead, he just moved one hand forward slowly, picked up his tea, and took a long sip.
It was immediately soothing—both the warmth and the flavor—and Jake found himself humming quietly in approval as he took another sip.
The meal, too—the meal was simple and just the perfect comfort food, at least to him. He ate in silence, not even attempting to make conversation. It would likely be one-sided if he tried anyway, so he just let the silence be. And that was fine, really. Especially since he could hear the sounds of the ocean waves just outside.
It was another thing that was strongly soothing, and as he finished eating and set his spoon down in his now-empty bowl, he wondered whether maybe he’d be able to sleep that night after all. He could crack the window open in his bedroom—even if it was quite chilly outside—so he could let the ocean distract him and lull him to sleep. And even though the pain in his leg hadn’t really faded at all, he did feel much more relaxed. He was certainly tired enough to sleep.
He finally glanced up at the man sitting across from him, and something in his heart broke, the sensation strong and abrupt.
The young man held half of his sandwich in his hand, but his eyes were closed as he chewed slowly, deliberately, like he was trying to savor the bite.
The thing that got Jake, though—the thing that had Jake holding his breath—was the tears rolling down the man’s cheeks. Big, fat, wet tears that the man appeared to be valiantly ignoring in favor of enjoying the simple pleasure of a plain grilled cheese sandwich.
God, what did that even mean? How could this young man be moved to tears over a grilled cheese sandwich?
Jake had tried to be as detached as possible the previous day when he’d had to undress the man—a huge invasion of the man’s privacy, but one that had been necessary to get him out of the cold, wet clothing he’d been wearing so that he could warm up. But he still remembered seeing the man’s body—thin and obviously malnourished—and with a sharp pang, he wondered just how long it had been since the man had had a real, honest-to-goodness meal, even something as simple as a grilled cheese sandwich and chicken soup.
And as simple as the food Jake had fed him was, he knew it was also filling and hearty and nutritious. Maybe just what the man needed. But something in the man’s expression gave Jake the impression that it was more than that, too. Much more .
The man glanced up at him, blinking back more tears, and then he swallowed the bite he’d just taken and set down the rest of the sandwich. His hands dropped to his lap, and his eyes lowered, his shoulders tensing.
“It’s pretty good, right?” Jake said gently, finally breaking the silence.
He watched, his heart still aching, as the very corners of the man’s mouth twitched up ever so slightly. It was brief, and if he hadn’t been watching for it and hoping for it, he was sure he would have missed it. But, no. He saw it, just as he had earlier—the very beginning of a smile.
A smile that he absolutely needed to see.
The thought startled Jake a bit, but he didn’t have time to think much on it, because the man’s expression quickly shifted away from whatever the hint of a smile had been to something much tighter as he nodded, his eyes still downcast.
“I’m glad you like my cooking, honestly.” Jake took another short sip of his tea and then set down his mug with a silly half-smile. “I mean, I’m going to assume you like it,” he continued. “My sister—I told you yesterday, I think—she’s not impressed by anything I cook. But maybe that’s because she was married for nearly ten years to a woman who was the executive chef of one of the most upscale restaurants in Sacramento.”
Something in Jake’s last sentence seemed to surprise the man, because he jerked his head up, his deep blue eyes wide as they landed right on Jake. There was an intensity, a... curiosity. A need to know something, maybe.
“What is it?” Jake asked as carefully as he could, and when the man didn’t immediately look away, a small inkling of hope bloomed in his chest. “You can talk to me. Ask me anything. Tell me anything. It’s safe... I promise.”
The man almost flinched at Jake’s last words, tearing his gaze away as his shoulders tightened up again.
Ah, dammit.
Jake shook his head lightly, and although he had no idea what it was about his words that had caused the reaction it had, he immediately wished he could take it back. The pain of seeing the man recoil was nearly as bad as the pain still radiating up his thigh. Trying not to frown, because any sort of negativity, even such a small thing, might have the wrong effect, Jake shifted his hand on the table to smooth out his napkin. The man’s eyes darted back up, stopping on Jake’s hand this time.
God, he just wished he knew what the man was thinking. He wished he knew what to say. “I know you have no reason to trust me,” Jake started, keeping his voice low and soft. The man’s eyes closed now, and he swallowed hard. Jake continued. “But I want you to know that you’re safe here. And I’ll do everything that I can to show that to you. Okay? ”
Though the man kept his eyes closed, his brow furrowed, and he seemed to take a couple of deep, measured breaths before nodding once. He didn’t look back up at Jake.
“Something I said was important to you,” Jake guessed, and the man didn’t immediately shake his head or refute Jake’s assumption. “Was it about... my sister being married?”
The man shook his head.
“Her wife being a chef?”
He shook his head again.
“Was it . . .” Shit. Maybe . . . “Was it about Sacramento?”
This time, the man screwed his eyes shut tighter and dipped his chin lower against his chest.
It wasn’t really an answer, but given that the man had responded with a clear no to each of his other questions, Jake thought maybe he could interpret the lack of response as an affirmative.
“Are you... from Sacramento?” he asked, trying to temper his own curiosity. But when the man shook his head rather emphatically this time, Jake had to admit to himself that he was confused. “But you’ve heard of Sacramento?”
A nod this time.
“Alright. Do you... know where we are? Right now?”
And that was obviously both the right question to ask and apparently the question he really shouldn’t have asked, because the man’s hands flew up to cover his face, and he shook his head, hard. Some unintelligible whimper seemed to escape him, and he shook his head again and then once more.
“Okay, that’s okay, that’s okay,” Jake murmured. To his complete surprise, the man suddenly lifted his eyes to Jake’s, his expression pleading—so visibly needing to know. Jake’s fingers pressed into his napkin slightly, and he nodded gently. “Do you want to know?” Jake asked, because he just had to confirm it first.
The man still held his head up, but his gaze shifted for the briefest of seconds to the back sliding door—the door that led out to the patio overlooking the beach. Then the man blinked and nodded. “Yes.”
The single word was whispered so carefully and quietly that Jake thought maybe he’d imagined it. But he also knew he hadn’t. He’d seen the man’s lips move, after all, and he was certain he couldn’t have made up the soft, almost melodic tone of the man’s voice, even if he’d wanted to. Yet it was still jarring. It was the first deliberate word the man had said, since Jake thought his outburst earlier in the day hadn’t been so planned, but this—this yes —the man had clearly meant to say it. Clearly, deliberately chosen to say it.
And when the man looked back up at Jake, his eyes were filled with a longing and intensity so deep that it almost hurt.
Jake somehow managed a small smile. “You’re at my home in Rocky Cove. It’s a little coastal town that—”
From the other side of the table, the man sucked in a sharp breath, which sounded a bit like the beginning of a sob. Then he covered his face with his hands, and his whole body shuddered.
Jake’s stomach lurched.
“Sorry, I, um...” He trailed off as the man shook his head. And then all Jake could do was watch, frozen in his spot at the table, as the man clumsily pushed his chair back, stood up, and stumbled away, down the hall toward the extra bedroom.
The loud thud as the bedroom door shut echoed through the otherwise quiet house, and then all was silent again, save for the rhythmic sound of the waves lapping at the shore outside.