Pieces of Home

13. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Rye

Rye regretted the second he closed the door because the room was almost immediately darker, the air thicker and heavier. And it was harder to breathe.

It didn’t matter, though. He needed the space. He needed that barrier—even if he knew it wouldn’t really protect him from anything. Even if he knew Jake could still follow him, find him, hurt him or... or worse.

As soon as Jake had said they were in Rocky Cove, every ounce of everything holding him together had vanished, and he hadn’t been able to breathe except to sob.

All this time. All these years. All these however-many fucking —

No. No, no, no!

Scrunching his eyes shut, Rye grabbed roughly onto his left upper arm with his right hand and squeezed. Hard. Hard enough to hurt. Maybe even hard enough to bruise. He stumbled on weak legs toward the far side of the room, and he only let go of his arm when he reached the corner. Then he turned to face the door and slid down to the ground, his back against the wall.

He buried his head in his knees, trembling.

He should have known. He should have known, and he should have... What? What could he possibly have done?

Dammit.

Damn fucking stupid child.

He gripped his upper arm again, stifling a sob as a rush of early memories bombarded him, reminding him of that first day. The first minute. The first few minutes.

And he quickly realized it hadn’t even been more than a few minutes. Ten minutes maybe.

That was how long he’d been in the car with the man.

Only. Ten. Minutes .

He wasn’t sure why he’d never realized it before—maybe it was because everything else about the memory had always overwhelmed him so much. But it all seemed perfectly clear to him now.

Perfectly clear in its horror.

They’d gone past Sycamore. Then past the turn that would take them into town. Then the man had turned left, and they’d driven for only a few more minutes down a long, winding, bumpy dirt road as the sun had inched lower and lower in the sky and the shadows had grown darker and Rye’s tears and cries to please take him home had been met with more cursing and then a rough smack across his face and a hiss of “shut the fuck up you damn fucking stupid child.”

God.

God, he’d still been in Rocky Cove.

He’d still been in Rocky Cove, and no one had found him, and he hadn’t somehow escaped sooner. And... god, was his mom... ? Was she even...?

Another strong, sharp shudder ran through him, and he couldn’t hold back his sobs anymore. He curled up onto his side, his back still against the wall, and his entire body shook as he cried. He didn’t even try to be quiet; it didn’t matter anyway, did it?

No one would hear him. And even if someone did, no one would care. At least, not in the way he would want them to. And he’d be just as stuck and just as alone and just as... just as hopeless and sad and desperate as ever.

He wrapped his arms tightly around his midsection, ignoring the pain that spread through his side, and he cried and cried and cried.

And just as he’d expected, no one came for him—neither to comfort him nor to punish him.

His tears ran out after a while—he couldn’t be sure how long—but he didn’t move from his corner, even when the evening light streaming through the window faded and disappeared, leaving him in darkness. He wiped his cheeks but stayed curled up on his side, and he kept his eyes scrunched closed, his back to the wall, its solidness giving him something to anchor himself to.

And he used it. He focused on it now—the wall. It was solid and smooth and... warm, somehow. And the floor, too—a soft, light-colored carpet that almost seemed to pull some of the deep chill out of him. It really made no sense, but that was what he felt.

Rye lowered one hand to the floor, splaying his fingers. Then he ran his hand across the top of the carpet slowly, feeling the individual fibers underneath his fingertips.

It was nothing like the cold, hard concrete he was used to. Nothing like that basement. Nothing like anything he’d felt in... however-many years .

He kept his hand moving across the carpet and his back pushed up against the wall, and every slow stroke calmed his racing heart just a little more. From outside, he heard the ocean waves, and he blinked his eyes open to the darkness and glanced toward the window. Weak moonlight shone in. And in the small bit of inky black sky he could see from where he lay curled up on the floor, a few stars twinkled.

Stars.

The same stars in the same sky over the same ocean he’d known when he was a kid.

A memory came back to him then, hazy as it was. Uncle Jon sitting with him on the beach. Both of them lying back on beach towels—Rye’s a bright blue with a huge cartoonized sea turtle in the middle. Staring up at the dark night sky, Uncle Jon talking, but Rye not quite hearing his words. Talking and pointing up, telling him about... a... a constellation.

He couldn’t remember which one.

As quickly as it had come, the memory faded, leaving him with an emptiness that was all too familiar. More tears rolled down his cheeks, and he pushed himself up from the ground with shaking arms and then crawled on his hands and knees over to the window.

The same stars in the same sky over the same ocean.

The sky appeared more vast from here, stretching out as far as he could see, until it met the moonlit horizon of the water. Rye stared through the window and upward, finding the tiny little dots in the sky and watching as they flickered.

He stayed right there, looking out the window, out into the night, until his eyes were too heavy to keep open anymore. Then he curled up with his back against the wall, right there, right under the window, and he wrapped his arms around himself again and fell asleep.

Sounds from elsewhere in the house woke Rye sometime later—quiet creaking of the floorboards, dishes clinking together, then a phone ringing. He heard Jake answer after two rings, his low voice muffled through the still-closed bedroom door.

Rye’s gaze landed on the door, barely visible in the dim light of the room, and he hugged himself tighter as he listened to muted words he couldn’t quite make out. Muted words, creaking floorboards, dark room, door closed. An uncomfortable churning started in Rye’s stomach, and he found himself pressing one hand into the floor again. Into the soft carpet. But this time, the softness didn’t really soothe him.

Instead, his heart began to pound. Hard and uneven. And even though he was lying on his side, a dizziness hit him.

The closed door.

He’d closed the door.

He’d closed the door himself.

He pushed himself onto his knees and then managed to get both feet underneath himself. A moment later, he was standing, wobbling, tripping over his own feet and grasping for the wall to steady himself as he staggered to the door.

His heart was in his throat now, thrumming so hard it was making his dizziness worse, and he stopped right in front of the door, his hand hovering just over the handle. He could hear Jake now. Sort of. Every few words were still too muffled or too quiet or something.

“Yeah, when I mentioned Rocky Cove . . . Maybe I should . . . I’m worried, Kris . . . No. No, he’s . . . Yeah. Yeah, something like that. What should I do? He’s been . . . No, I don’t wanna . . .”

Rye’s chest tightened. Jake was obviously talking about him to his sister. He wasn’t sure why that made him even more uncomfortable, but he pulled his hand back from the door handle for a minute, straining to listen to more of Jake’s words. But now, all he could hear was the occasional “mm-hmm” and “yep.”

And the darkness surrounding him started to feel much too heavy again. Heavy and thick and cold.

Sucking in a breath through clenched teeth, Rye forced his hand to move. Shakily, trembling, he managed to grasp the door handle. Then he closed his eyes against the nausea.

“Don’t even fucking try it. The door locks from the outside, and if I hear you messing with it—fuck, if I hear you at all, crying or yelling or any shit like that—you’ll fucking regret it. Got that, kid?”

His chest hurt. If it was locked . . . if Jake had . . . if Jake had locked him in . . .

He couldn’t even finish his thought. It was too terrifying to even imagine. He stifled a sob, bringing his other hand up to cover his mouth, and tears fell—the damn tears again—slipping silently down his cheeks. He gripped the door handle harder.

Then he turned.

And the door clicked open.

Rye almost collapsed with relief, and the air immediately felt warmer and breathable .

From the other room, he could hear Jake’s voice louder and clearer now. There was a short “I hope so,” followed by a pause and then “Yeah, I don’t mind him being here, of course, Kris. I... I just want him to get whatever help he needs. A medical checkup, at least. Sue called me a little while ago and asked... Yeah, but I... I think...”

Rye stood there, leaning heavily against the doorframe, his whole body feeling much too weak for him to still be standing. Jake’s conversation turned to something different that Rye didn’t totally understand, and he took a deep breath, released the doorframe, and stumbled over to the bed.

So tired. He was so tired. And even though he felt like he’d slept more in the last two days than he’d slept in a long time, he crawled under the covers, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and closed his eyes, hoping he could just rest more.

But he didn’t fall asleep. Instead, he lay there, listening to Jake’s soft, deep voice as he talked more with his sister. Something about white abalone conservation and an article he was writing for a magazine. Jake was a writer. And he sounded smart. And kind—worried about keeping the white abalone from becoming extinct.

Rye sort of remembered what that meant. Maybe. He grasped onto a memory of a field trip he’d taken in first grade... or was it kindergarten? They’d gone to a small aquarium in town—one his mom had always said she’d wanted to take him to but never had the time. And Elsie had been there. And Liam. And they’d learned all about whales. Elsie had started crying when Mr. Brock had explained some whales were being killed and were in danger of dying out—becoming extinct. Rye had hugged her and promised her he would make sure that never happened.

He shouldn’t have made such promises.

Jake’s voice cut through his thoughts. “No, Kris. It’s bad but... Yeah, I know, I know. I’ll try, I promise.”

Rye shuddered and pulled the covers up over his face. Promises, promises. What had Jake promised him earlier? That it was safe to talk to him? Rye bit his lower lip as he listened to Jake continue.

“I did stay off of it as much as I could this afternoon,” Jake said, although his voice was a bit harder to hear now that Rye had the blanket over his head. “But with everything, you know... Yeah. I’m gonna try some more Advil. I know it won’t really help but... I know. I know... Okay, yeah. I’ll talk to you tomorrow night, unless anything—” Jake sighed, almost with exasperation. “Fine, I’ll call you in the morning. You’ll be at work? Should I call your cell or... Okay... Yeah. Good night, sis. Love you.”

Rye lay still, trying to keep his breathing steady .

“You can talk to me. Ask me anything. Tell me anything. It’s safe... I promise.”

That was what Jake had said. Anything. Rye could ask him or tell him. It was safe. Safe.

God, what the f—

He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head, even under the blanket. No. No cursing. No cursing, and he knew what safe meant. He just couldn’t... bring himself to believe it. To trust it.

A gentle knock at the door startled him, though he managed to not bury himself more under the blanket. Instead, he pulled the blanket down slightly, his eyes darting toward the open door. Jake stood there, not looking quite as imposing as he had the day before. In fact, he just looked tired. Maybe even more tired than Rye. And worried.

Jake was worried. About Rye.

“Hey...” Jake reached up and scratched his beard, frowning ever so slightly. “I’m glad you’re awake. I, uh, wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry for whatever I said earlier, when we were eating. I, um...”

Jake paused and shifted, obviously uncomfortable, and Rye clutched the blanket tighter and did his best to try to not look away. But it was hard, and the voice in his head was telling him mean things. Screaming curses at him. Threatening him. And he just wanted to cower, to tug the blanket up over his head and hide. He fought it as best he could, holding onto Jake’s kind, worried gaze.

After another few seconds, Jake seemed to gather himself, offering Rye a weak shake of his head and a barely-there half-smile.

“I need to ask again if I can check your vitals and take a look at the cut on your cheek. Sue—I think I mentioned her yesterday—she’s a nurse, and she called earlier to ask me how you were doing. She’s really pushing me for an update. You can say no, of course. It’s okay to say no. I know you probably don’t want, um... me to...” Jake’s smile disappeared, and he seemed to swallow hard. “I mean, it’ll be quick. I just need to check your heart rate and temperature and then take a look at your, uh, cheek.”

Rye did want to just refuse again, because he really didn’t want anyone close to him or touching him or—or looking at the gash on his cheek or asking questions about where he got it. He didn’t want to feel the need to answer or the pull to talk, to ask more questions of his own. And he didn’t want to feel the fear already starting to grow in his gut—the knot that just tightened more and sent a tremor through him.

But at the same time, Jake seemed so nice and kind. And he wanted... he just wanted to trust him. He wanted... to be safe .

Jake seemed to take his silence as a refusal, and he gave Rye another small, knowing smile. “It’s okay, really. You can say no. You can always say no,” he repeated softly.

With a sharp inhale, Rye pinched his lips together and closed his eyes. Then he nodded slightly, and when he looked back at Jake, he saw Jake’s expression immediately brighten, the tension in his eyes softening.

“Yeah? Are you sure?” When Rye nodded again after only a brief hesitation, Jake smiled and stuffed one hand in his pocket. “Great. Thank you. Uh, I’ll go get my first aid kit. Okay?”

Rye didn’t answer this time, because the temporary relief he’d felt from seeing Jake’s worry ease disappeared much too quickly as soon as he saw Jake shift again, his large body taking up most of the doorway. Jake gave Rye another gentle smile and then turned and hobbled back down the hallway toward the kitchen.

His stomach twisted more, but Rye just closed his eyes and waited, listening as Jake’s footsteps left and then returned. There was another light knock on the door.

“Back. May I come in?”

God, his voice was so gentle and careful. Like maybe he actually cared. And like maybe if Rye changed his mind, Jake would actually... respect that? Rye bit his lip but nodded.

“Okay. This should only take a few minutes, okay?” Although it was a question, Jake didn’t seem to expect an answer. He flipped the light switch on and then made his way toward the bed, his limp still heavy and uneven. There was a chair tucked away next to the nightstand, and Jake pulled it over to the side of the bed and slowly lowered himself into it, muffling a quiet grunt into his shoulder.

Rye’s stomach lurched for a different reason this time, and he looked away and closed his eyes.

Jake was true to his word. He worked quickly and was just as gentle as he’d always been with Rye. And he explained everything he was going to do before he did it, always asking Rye’s permission before he did anything. He had to touch Rye only twice—once on his wrist to check his pulse and then once to apply a cream of some sort to the gash on Rye’s cheek. The cream stung, as Jake had warned him it might, but it was nothing really compared with the aching, occasionally sharper pain in his side, where he knew he had dark, deep bruising.

When Jake asked if Rye could lift up the sweater he wore so Jake could take a look—because Jake had no doubt seen the start of the bruising yesterday morning when he’d had to undress Rye—Rye did refuse, shaking his head and pulling the blanket back up to his chin. It hurt, but it was just pain. It would go away. It usually did, anyway .

And, true to his word, Jake immediately said, “Okay, that’s okay,” and he straightened up and pushed his chair back a bit, as though wanting to make sure Rye understood he wasn’t going to go against Rye’s wishes. A minute later, Jake had packed his first aid kit back up and was standing slowly. “I’m heading to bed after I give Sue a call to update her. But there’s more cookies on the table if you get hungry. I know you didn’t finish dinner, so feel free to help yourself.”

Rye kind of nodded, or he tried to, and Jake responded with another of those soft, kind smiles that made Rye hope, again, that everything Jake was telling him was actually the truth. That his promises were actually real. That Rye was actually safe .

And he was struck by a strong urge to tell Jake thank you because Jake really had been nothing but kind and gentle.

But Rye said nothing, his chest too tight and the pain in his side now throbbing. Instead, he closed his eyes and turned onto his side, facing away from Jake. And he tried not to tense as he listened to Jake shuffle away, his steps uneven and slow.

Quiet words from the doorway echoed through the room. Something like, “Good night. I hope you sleep well.” Then the lights switched off, and Rye’s whole body stiffened. Only, not half a second later, Jake spoke again.

“Oh, sorry, did you want the lights on? I can leave them on if you want.”

The lights turned back on with a quick click, and Rye let out the breath he’d been holding, unable to keep it from shuddering.

“There we go. Better?”

Yes. Thank you.

Somehow, he managed a small nod, though he wasn’t really sure Jake would be able to see it, since he’d pulled the blanket up high again. He swallowed and let out a short breath. “Th-thank you.”

There was a full second of silence this time. Then Jake murmured, “Of course, of course. You’re welcome... Good night.”

And the footsteps shuffled away, leaving Rye alone.