16. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Jake
“Rye.”
The single word carried across the room, the man’s quiet voice uncertain and raw in a way Jake had maybe never heard before. Jake was confused for half a second, and then a heaviness seemed to settle on his chest.
“Rye?” he asked slowly. Then, to clarify, he added, “Your name is Rye?”
There was a hesitation that he sensed more than saw, and for once, the man didn’t break eye contact. But the fear in his eyes made that heaviness in Jake’s chest even more difficult to bear. Then the man nodded— Rye nodded—and blinked several times, forcing a tear to slip out, down his cheek. Rye nodded again and finally dropped his gaze to the mug in his hands.
Rye. What an interesting name. Probably short for something, Jake assumed. Not that it had to be. He’d just never known anyone named Rye. He kinda... liked it. And it seemed to fit the man somehow.
Taking another slow sip of his tea, which was now the perfect temperature, Jake watched Rye carefully, unable to ignore the deep aching in his heart. God, how he wished he knew what else to say or what it was that he’d said or done that had made Rye feel comfortable enough to finally tell Jake his name.
Rye.
“Thank you, Rye,” he said after another few seconds. “Thank you for helping me earlier and for making the tea. And”—he grinned, hoping to insert some levity into the moment—“for listening to me ramble on about my sister.”
Rye didn’t look up from his tea, but Jake thought maybe some of his tension eased. His long, thin fingers still gripped his mug tightly, but his shoulders seemed to relax, and he gifted Jake with another of those tiny, fleeting smiles.
And the impatient part of Jake—the part of him that often pushed and pushed himself and refused to let up, even for a second—that part ached for more. That part wanted to try another something silly. Make a joke or tell some funny story. Get this man to smile a real, full smile. To laugh, even.
The other part of him—the smarter part that was pretty darn good at reading people—knew that he couldn’t push. It had obviously been difficult enough for Rye to say even just his name, and only his first name at that. If Jake pushed for anything more, it could—probably would —set them back, or worse, send Rye into a panic.
So instead, Jake quietly sipped the rest of his tea and let the silence settle between them. Eventually, he managed to convince himself to shift on the couch so he could elevate his leg. The move reignited the intense, stabbing pain that had attacked him earlier, but he somehow kept himself from cursing out loud, and he closed his eyes and waited it out for another few minutes, when the pain finally dulled to an intense, aching throb.
What a Monday morning. The whole last few days, really.
Damn.
He sat up slightly and set his mug down. Rye looked at him from the corner, his eyes filled with that same uncertainty they’d had earlier.
Jake gave him a gentle smile, or at least, he tried the best he could, given the level of pain he was in. “I should get some work done,” he said, and he grimaced as he reached over to where his laptop sat on the coffee table. “Sorry I can’t, uh, make breakfast. But you’re welcome to anything I’ve got. There’s bread and eggs, or you can heat up some leftover soup. Or cookies.” Jake glanced behind him to the kitchen table. The chocolate chip cookies he’d set out last night were still there, on a plate right in the center of the table. He straightened up and tried for another grin. “I won’t tell anyone if you just want to have some cookies for breakfast.”
That earned him another half-smile—one that was accompanied by a softening of the tension in Rye’s deep blue eyes. And for a brief moment, Jake couldn’t look away. Rye’s smile, tentative and transient as it was, captivated him. There was something so very special about it, like it was a precious thing, something fragile that needed to be cultivated. And protected.
Or maybe... maybe he was just making things up in his head because god, his leg still hurt.
Rye looked past him to the table and then back to Jake, and Jake nodded. “They’re all yours if you want.”
A flutter of emotions passed over Rye’s face, each one tiny and reserved but visible nonetheless. And when Rye looked back at Jake, he almost seemed to be pleading, as though he needed more reassurance.
“I’ve got plenty. Really. ”
After another moment of hesitation, Rye shifted his eyes back to the mug in his hands, then stood slowly, his jaw clenching as one hand moved to wrap around his side. He walked silently around the couch, giving Jake a bit of a wide berth, and Jake heard sounds of the mug setting on the counter, then a cupboard door opening and closing. A moment later, Rye reappeared, his eyes downcast and his shoulders tight. He held two small plates in his hands, a single large cookie on each plate. Moving carefully, Rye set one plate on the coffee table near Jake. Then he backed away, headed into the kitchen to get his tea, and made his way back to his corner.
Jake just stared at the plate for a few seconds, rattled. He hadn’t expected... that. Not at all. First helping him to the couch. Then the tea, and now the cookies. Finally, he managed to lift his eyes. Rye had just settled back on the ground, his knees pulled up to his chest and his own plate sitting next to him.
“Thank you,” Jake murmured, and he almost had to laugh at himself. God, his voice sounded all deep and emotional. But that was how he felt too.
It was probably a mixture of pain and exhaustion.
Rye didn’t say anything, but he glanced up at Jake, his expression a little strained, and he nodded. Then he sort of huddled into the corner more, gathered his plate closer to himself, picked up his cookie, and closed his eyes as he took a small bite.
The morning’s partial sun gave way to a darker afternoon, and as Tim had predicted on the phone earlier, it did indeed rain. Hard. Much like it had on Saturday morning.
Jake tried not to think about what that might mean.
Forcing himself to stay off his feet, which meant not moving from his spot on the couch, Jake managed to finish writing the first draft of his article and complete a heavy round of self-editing before sending the manuscript off to his editor for approval. He was happy with the article, and like his last article on microplastics, he hoped this one would also do a lot of good in raising awareness for a topic he cared greatly about—recent concerted efforts by various organizations to restore populations of white abalone along the California coast.
Rye, for the most part, stayed in his corner. Jake had tried a couple of times to coax him out, and it wasn’t until Jake had mentioned that he was free to read any of the books or magazines or anything Jake had in his bookcase that Rye had finally gotten up and moved.
He’d spent a long time standing in front of the bookcase, and Jake had tried not to pry, but he’d seen tears on Rye’s cheeks when Rye had finally chosen something to read—the most recent issue of National Geographic , with Jake’s article on microplastics highlighted on the cover.
He’d wanted so badly to ask why Rye was upset. It couldn’t be the topic of the article. Sure, it was sad what was happening to the oceans and marine life, but just reading the title of the article on the front of the magazine shouldn’t bring someone to tears.
It had to have been something else.
Jake closed his laptop quietly and glanced over at his houseguest. Rye sat in the corner still, his knees bent up and the magazine open, resting on his thighs. He had one hand on the page, moving slowly from left to right as though he were tracing the lines of text, and his mouth was twisted up in a bit of a frown. He paused and blinked, squinting a little, then continued on, his expression still taut.
It reminded Jake of something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Outside, a gust of wind coming in off the ocean blew huge raindrops up against the back door, and Jake had been so focused on studying Rye that he flinched, then promptly laughed at himself. There’d been a steady background noise from the rain for some time now, and the wind had been howling on occasion as well. The sudden sound shouldn’t have surprised him.
He stared off out the back door for a minute, watching as the raindrops pounded on the glass. And an intense longing hit him. He wanted to see the ocean—stormy and dark and wild, the huge waves crashing against the shore.
The pain in his leg had dulled somewhat, thanks to the hours he’d spent sitting with it elevated on the couch. And he needed to get up anyway—use the bathroom, grab something to eat. But he hesitated, remembering his tumble from that morning.
God, he wished he had his cane. Or a cane.
When his stomach growled a moment later, he sighed and shifted to set his laptop on the coffee table next to his empty plate and mug. Then he carefully but clumsily lowered his bad leg to the floor, biting back a grunt as a fresh wave of pain shot up through his thigh. Rye seemed to flinch at his sudden and no doubt ungraceful movement, and Jake had to force a smile.
“I’m, uh, going to use the bathroom and probably get something to eat. I should be okay to walk, I hope.”
Rye had closed the magazine and set it next to him, and he looked ready to stand now too. But then he just nodded and hugged his knees .
Rather than getting up right away, since he needed to give himself a moment—the pain would hopefully settle?—Jake motioned toward the magazine Rye had been reading. “That’s a good issue there. Just came out last week. It took a bit of convincing to get the editor to put together an entire special edition focusing on marine pollution. Especially when there’s so much else going on in the world right now, with politics and all. But it’s such an important topic. Did you read my article on microplastics?”
Rye picked up the magazine again without responding, and his fingers traced over something on the top of the cover, the tension returning to his eyes. He looked back at Jake, biting his lower lip. Then, still holding the magazine tightly, he stood and moved across the room in Jake’s direction. He stopped a couple of feet away. Jake could feel the tension now, coming off Rye in waves, and when Rye reached over to hand the magazine to Jake, Jake saw his hands were trembling.
Jake took the offered magazine but shook his head. He opened his mouth to ask why Rye had given it to him but stopped himself as Rye pointed slowly to the very top of the front cover.
Just above the words National Geographic was the issue date. November 2024.
Rye quickly pulled his hand away, but when Jake looked back up at him, he saw new tears at the corners of the man’s eyes. His stomach sank as he tried not to think of all the implications of what was clearly Rye’s question.
“That’s... yeah. It’s... November.” Jake hesitated when Rye’s eyes seemed to plead for more. “Today is Monday, November 4.”
Rye shook his head and frowned. Then he reached out again, his hand still shaking but with some greater insistence this time. He pointed at the year next to the month and actually tapped on it twice. A tear slipped down his cheek and fell, landing on the light-gray sweater he wore. And Jake’s stomach clenched again.
“Yes,” he said, though he had to almost force the word out. “It’s 2024. Monday, November 4, 2024. Is that...” He trailed off, unsure what he’d been about to ask, unsure whether he even should ask something more.
The immediate pain that sprung to Rye’s eyes told Jake no, and he waited quietly, watching as Rye’s hands flew to his face, his fingers swiping uncomfortably at his tears, which now fell unchecked.
Why . . . ?
Rye shook his head as though rejecting the fact that it could possibly be the year 2024, and then he turned and headed down the hallway toward the extra bedroom, walking quickly but unevenly, each of his steps looking forced and unnatural .
Jake just stared after him, still holding the magazine in his hands, and it wasn’t until Rye disappeared into the bedroom, leaving the door open this time, that he looked back down.
Why would Rye care that it was 2024? What significance did that have?
And had he really not known?... What significance did that have?
Christ, Jake was so confused. He swallowed hard, set the magazine down on the coffee table, and gritted his teeth as he stood, holding onto the side of the couch for support. Pain lanced up his leg, and he closed his eyes against it. But his pain seemed almost secondary right now.
Gripping his thigh, Jake lifted his head again and looked down the hallway. The door to the extra bedroom was still open, the light still on. And Jake found himself moving—slowly and carefully, finding things to hold onto as he went. He felt only mildly steadier on his feet than he had that morning, and his sense of self-preservation was screaming at him to turn around and go sit back down. But he just clenched his jaw more and kept going.
When he reached the bedroom too many long seconds later, he could feel himself shaking, his bad leg threatening to give out again. He stuffed his own fear down, took a long breath, and schooled his expression as best he could to something he hoped appeared as gentle as possible. Because even though he wasn’t sure why, that seemed particularly important right now.
Then he knocked lightly on the door and peeked in. He found Rye huddled in the far corner of the room, where he’d ended up sleeping that first night. His back was to the wall, his head buried down in his knees, and his blond hair fell in loose, messy waves, hiding the rest of his face. He was crying, that was painfully obvious in the way his body shook and shuddered.
Jake’s chest felt heavy and tight at the sight. He stepped into the room, using the doorframe to help support him. “Hey, um, I—”
Rye’s head lifted suddenly, as though he hadn’t known Jake was there. And Jake nearly stumbled backward as he saw the fear in Rye’s expression. The younger man’s hands shifted from where they’d been gripping his calves to the ground, and he seemed to try pushing himself back more into the corner, his eyes wide and intense.
Quickly, Jake shook his head. He’d seen this reaction of Rye’s before; he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t been expecting it this time. He should have done better. “It’s just me,” he said softly. “Sorry, I... It’s just me, Jake. I didn’t mean to upset you. And I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk. I just... want to help.”
The uncomfortable churning in Jake’s stomach continued when Rye didn’t really respond except to keep trying to push himself back into the corner. God, what the hell had happened to him? It wasn’t the first time Jake had had that thought. But right now, watching helplessly as the young man seemed to grow more and more frightened by the second, Jake wished he knew. He wished he knew so he could avoid doing whatever he had done that had caused Rye’s reaction.
He let go of his thigh and shifted just a little closer to the doorframe, letting himself lean more against the wall.
“Rye...” The young man froze at the sound of his name and squeezed his eyes shut. The tension didn’t leave his shoulders, and Jake thought it looked like he was probably holding his breath. Jake swallowed and did his best to soften his voice even more. “Rye, may I come in, so we can talk?” After a pause, Jake added, “You can say no. You’re... allowed to say no.” He’d said the same thing to Rye the day before, but it seemed like he needed to repeat it then.
When Rye didn’t respond, Jake’s stomach dropped. He backed up a step, pursing his lips against the pain. He needed to sit back down very soon.
“Okay, okay. That’s fine, and I’m sorry. I’ll be out in the living room in a few minutes if you want to talk. But it’s up to you, okay? It’s up to you.”
That was the best Jake could do for the moment.
And when Rye didn’t respond again, Jake forced himself to back out of the room—slowly, because that seemed important. Then he turned and headed down the rest of the short hallway toward his bedroom, one hand on the wall to support himself.
He’d use the bathroom and do his best to make himself something to eat, maybe just a plain turkey sandwich, then he’d settle back on the couch and send a few emails. There was a new documentary on swordfish that he wanted to watch. Maybe he’d do that. And if the storm passed, he could open the windows back up and let in the fresh ocean air. Maybe step out onto the patio for a bit so he could watch the stormy ocean. And maybe there would be enough leftover soup from last night for them to have dinner without him having to cook. And maybe...
He limped through the doorway into his bedroom and eyed the bed. God, maybe he’d be able to sleep tonight.
Maybe Rye would also be able to sleep.
Jake paused and let out a long, shaky breath, unable to ignore the feeling growing in his chest. It was warm and bright in a way, but also heavy, unsure, new. The same thing he’d felt earlier when he’d thought how fragile Rye’s smile was and how he wanted to protect it, cultivate it.
This man meant something to him. Even though they were still total strangers, Jake couldn’t deny that fact. And he knew he would do everything in his power to make sure Rye felt comfortable and safe.
He only wished he knew what it was that he needed to do .
With another sigh, he continued on to the bathroom, keeping a hand on the wall as his crutch.