Pieces of Home

15. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Rye

Jake was not okay. At least, not by any definition of okay Rye knew. So he wasn’t really sure why Jake was telling his sister everything would be fine.

From his spot in the corner, Rye lifted his chin just enough that he could see Jake. The older man had his eyes closed and his head resting back on one of the couch cushions, and even to Rye’s inexperienced eye, he looked completely exhausted. The slight wrinkles at the corners of his eyes—the ones Rye had noticed the day before that had made him think about his mom—were more pronounced now, and he was so tense—his jaw clenched, his shoulders tight. If Rye hadn’t known better, all of that tension might have scared him. But given the state Jake had been in when Rye had come out of the bedroom minutes ago, he knew it was only because of Jake’s pain.

God, he’d had to help Jake up off the floor. Him. Rye. Tiny, weak little Rye. He wasn’t sure how he’d managed. Jake was... huge, and Rye was not strong. At all. His heart was still racing from both the physical effort and his nerves. Being so close to Jake, standing right next to him, Rye’s arm around him... it had been scary. He’d been scared.

He was still shaking, in fact, and he still couldn’t make his heart slow back down.

Jake let out a long breath and grunted quietly as he shifted. That certainly didn’t help Rye’s unsteady heartbeat.

“Yeah. I’m... not sure,” Jake said to his sister. “If it gets worse, then yeah, I might need to do something. I-I don’t know what...” Jake trailed off but nodded slightly, obviously listening to whatever it was his sister was saying, and Rye finally lowered his eyes again.

He flexed his toes into the carpet, wishing he wasn’t wearing socks so he could feel its softness.

Jake said a few more words to his sister, mostly the same sort of “I’ll be okay, please don’t come,” and then, with a short sigh, he said, “It’s fine, really. No, I’ll... No, he helped me , Kris.” Jake’s voice became quieter and softer, and Rye looked back up. Jake was watching him now, his eyes just partway open. His expression was strained but kind. So kind, somehow, despite the obvious pain he was in. Jake’s lips twitched up into a small half-smile. “He’s helping me. I’m glad he’s here.”

Blinking, Rye dropped his gaze back to his feet and tightened his fingers around his knees. Jake continued talking to his sister for a few more minutes, but Rye didn’t really hear anymore. His heart was still thudding too hard, and now there was a buzzing too—some distracting buzzing in his ears that almost hurt.

Jake was glad he was here. Here at Jake’s house in Rocky Cove.

But Rye didn’t want to be here, did he?

He wanted to be home. With his mom.

Or... He closed his eyes and inhaled a long, shaky breath. He thought he wanted to be home with his mom. He should want to be home with his mom.

He did. He did want that. How could he not?

She doesn’t love you. She never loved you. She’s happy to be free from you. You were a burden. A fucking stupid child. And now that you’re gone, she’s happy and carefree.

He shook his head, fighting against the awful things the man had told him. Those ideas the man had planted in his head. They weren’t the truth. They couldn’t be the truth. And yet, they made him doubt. And he hated that.

“Sorry about that,” Jake said, his voice a little rough, some edge to it that Rye instantly recognized as pain.

Rye swallowed back the bit of fear flickering in his chest, gripped his knees harder, and lifted his chin. Jake had set his phone down on the coffee table, and he smiled at Rye weakly when their eyes met.

“My sister worries about me. A lot.” Jake shifted uncomfortably in his spot on the couch. “Our mom left when I was just a kid,” he started. “I think I was only five. And Dad worked all the time, so Kris sort of had to take care of me. I know she can be a bit too much sometimes, especially after my accident.” There was a short pause, and Rye saw Jake sort of flinch. “It was—uh, a boating accident, and I, um, almost died. She worried about me before, of course, but then afterward, when I finally recovered enough to be independent and I moved out here, she insisted on checking in on me every day. It’s sort of become her thing? And with everything going on the last few days—I mean, with you here and my leg acting up and... everything—she’s just a bit more intense. But I love her, and I know she’s just trying to look out for me. ”

Jake let out a short huff and then shook his head. “Sorry, that was probably more than you wanted to know. I’m trying to talk to distract myself. My leg is really—uh, screwed up.” He grimaced. “Talking helps, at least for a few minutes. And I normally don’t have anyone to talk to, so...”

It was a lot, but it also answered a question Rye had almost wanted to ask—how Jake had hurt his leg. A boating accident.

Rye closed his eyes. Boating. He’d been on a boat before, hadn’t he?

“Oh, Ryan, look! Look, a gray whale! Do you see it, sweetie?”

“I see it, I see it! It’s huge, mama! Uncle Jon, Uncle Jon! A whale!”

“I see it, buddy. It’s huge, huh?”

“It’s so big! Bigger than the boat!”

“It sure is.”

A clean, crisp ocean breeze. His mom’s arm around his shoulders. His uncle’s hand ruffling his hair.

The memory faded, even as he tried to hang onto it longer, to hang onto her longer.

God, he missed her. She had to miss him, too. She had to . And his uncle, too. Uncle Jon had to miss him, too.

He sniffled and reached up to wipe a tear from his cheek. And when he glanced over toward the couch again, Jake had shifted to sit up a little more, one hand on his thigh, as he watched Rye with a sad smile.

Or what Rye thought looked a bit like a sad smile.

Rye pursed his lips and shook his head. Please don’t be sad , he wanted to say. I like to see you happy. I want to be happy too.

And he wanted to talk. To tell Jake these things. But a rotten sort of nausea hit him, intense and uncomfortable, and he scrunched his eyes shut, unable to control his reaction. His heart’s uneven, too-fast beating seemed to redouble its efforts, leaving him feeling lightheaded and weak, his chest aching.

“I’m sorry if I said something to upset you.” Jake’s voice was quiet and gentle. Inviting, really. Yet Rye couldn’t get himself to respond. “I meant what I said to my sister, though,” Jake continued softly. “I’m glad you’re here. You helped me so much just now. I—I don’t know how I would have managed without you. Thank you.”

It hurt less now, whatever it was. It felt a little less uncomfortable and icky. Rye breathed in, and when he exhaled, his breath shuddered. He brought his hand back up and rubbed his eyes. Why was he suddenly so tired?

“I wish...” Jake’s voice was even softer now, and despite all the emotions and uncertainty and worry churning inside him, Rye opened his eyes partway and lifted his gaze to see Jake. Jake’s expression was kind and warm, and it eased a tiny bit more of his discomfort. Jake gave Rye another small smile. “. . . I wish I knew your name. It feels like I’m not thanking you properly, or something. Which maybe doesn’t make any sense.”

Jake laughed lightly, but then grimaced. And Rye’s racing heart faltered.

He should tell Jake.

It would be so easy, wouldn’t it?

My name is Ryan. Ryan Henry Davis.

So easy.

He wasn’t really even sure why he was holding back. Except... except that he was terrified. For several reasons.

The man knew his name. Knew where he’d gone to school. Knew where he’d lived. On Sycamore. With his mom.

And his mom . . .

All his worries from earlier came flooding back to him, and he hugged his knees tighter to his chest as he tried to forget all the man’s horrible words. Those words that had now rooted themselves deep in his mind, convincing him his mom wouldn’t want him anymore.

But they weren’t true. They couldn’t be.

So... so he could tell this man. He could tell Jake. He could look Jake right in the eye and say, “My name is Ryan Henry Davis, and when I was eight years old, I was—”

A rough cough rattled his chest, and then another and another, and he instinctively turned his head to cover his mouth with one elbow as a burning sensation filled his lungs and throat.

“Shoot, are you okay?”

Rye heard the worry in Jake’s voice over the sound of his own coughing, and he tried to nod in response, but it was several more long, painful seconds before the coughing fit subsided. Tears slipped out of the corners of his eyes, and his breathing was shallow and weak. And every breath burned his lungs.

He finally lowered his arm when he was sure he was done coughing, but he felt even more tired now, and even more shaken. He sniffled and swiped at his eyes, and then, without looking up at Jake, because he didn’t want to see the concern he somehow knew would be in Jake’s eyes, he lay down and curled up on his less-bruised side, resting one hand under his head like a pillow.

“Are you okay?” Jake repeated, a little more insistence to his question this time. Rye just nodded again, even though he wasn’t really sure. He was probably fine. Sort of. Jake cleared his throat quietly. “That sounded terrible,” he said. “I wish I could get you some water to drink, or some tea with honey. That would probably help both of us, honestly. But I’m afraid I, um... can’t. ”

It’s okay.

The aching in Rye’s chest forced his eyes open, and he glanced across the room. Jake had pushed himself up a little so he was sitting on the edge of the couch, and though he was watching Rye with gentleness and concern, his own pain was still so clear in his eyes.

It’s okay. You’re hurting more than me. I can... I can do it.

Ignoring the heat and pain in his chest, Rye sat up and then gathered his energy and courage and stood. He’d make them some tea. It couldn’t be that hard, right? He used to watch his mom make tea all the time, didn’t he?... However-many years ago that was.

He wobbled, a reminder that his strength was low, but he managed to start toward the kitchen, his gaze fixed on the floor. From the corner of his eye, he could see Jake shifting on the couch, though he didn’t try to get up. Which was good. Rye wasn’t sure if he had the energy to help Jake off the ground again.

“Are you . . .”

Rye stopped in the kitchen, suddenly unsure now that he was standing in this unfamiliar space, and his eyes skimmed over the shiny black stovetop, pausing for a second on the small light-blue kettle that sat on top of the corner burner. He swallowed hard and then looked up at Jake.

“I-I’m sorry, are you...” Jake frowned and shook his head slightly. “Are you going to make tea?”

Before he could change his mind, Rye nodded, and he reached out to pick up the kettle. All he had to do was heat the water and then... He froze, holding the kettle in one hand, his other hand gripping the counter to help himself balance.

How much water did he need? How did he turn on the stove? How would he know when it had heated long enough? Where did Jake keep the tea bags?

He bit his lower lip and glanced back at Jake.

How do I do this? he wanted to ask. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t form any words.

And even still, that seemed to be okay with Jake. Jake’s expression, which had been tight with concern, softened, and he smiled gently.

“Okay, okay. It’s easy. You just fill the water about halfway—that’ll be a good-sized cup for each of us,” Jake explained.

An odd shiver, somehow warm and not at all uncomfortable, rippled through Rye, and he nodded and then turned to the sink to fill the kettle. They continued that way, Jake giving Rye simple, easy-to-follow instructions, and several minutes later, Rye very, very carefully carried Jake’s slightly-too-full cup of honey vanilla chamomile tea over to the couch.

Not a drop spilled .

He set the mug of hot tea on the coffee table and then straightened up as another odd feeling hit him. It was a warmth and lightness in his chest, and it sort of... bloomed. He pursed his lips and looked toward Jake, whose smile seemed filled with the same feeling. And that made him feel even better.

Jake spoke again, quietly. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

Rye backed up a step and then one more when Jake leaned forward and reached a shaky hand toward the mug.

I hope it’s okay , he wished he could say. But he just clasped his hands together and swallowed hard, fighting the urge to back up more, back into his little corner of the room where he could see the front door and the back door. Where he felt less exposed and safer.

And then he watched as Jake took a cautious sip, the liquid still steaming. Jake made a small sound of contentment, a hum or something, and closed his eyes.

“Perfect. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

The feeling in Rye’s chest—the warmth and lightness—grew more, and he dropped his eyes to the floor, even as he felt a small smile tugging at his lips.

He swallowed again, and the rawness in his throat reminded him of his coughing fit earlier. He wrung his hands together and turned to go get his own tea, still sitting on the counter. Hopefully it would help both him and Jake. It had certainly smelled fragrant—soothing and calming, somehow—and he imagined it probably tasted wonderful too.

A moment later, Rye settled back in his spot in the corner, scooting against the wall as he held his warm mug in his hands.

God, he was tired. Tired, but... okay, maybe.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and then peered up at Jake over the top of his mug. Jake seemed better too. Or at least he was more comfortable than he had been earlier, which wasn’t really too much of a surprise. That made Rye happy, though.

Was he actually... happy? There was something like happiness inside him right now, he was sure. Plus that other feeling. Pride, maybe? He was proud of himself for doing something to help Jake, after everything Jake had done for him.

He closed his eyes and took a small sip of his tea. And a tiny bit more of his tension left him.

From his spot on the couch, Jake cleared his throat lightly, and Rye opened his eyes.

“Thank you,” Jake repeated, lifting his mug. “Seriously. Thank you.”

That small smile Rye had felt tugging at his lips earlier peeked out again, awkwardly, Rye thought. The expression was foreign to him now, even if he wasn’t quite controlling it. But Jake beamed, his face lighting up, though still with a softness to it. Rye nodded, and his careful smile tightened.

He held Jake’s soft, kind gaze for another moment, and then, his voice low and raw with emotion, he said, “Rye.”