18. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Jake
Jake’s thoughts hadn’t stopped racing for hours. Never mind that it was now two in the morning and he still hadn’t slept a wink and he was so physically exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open. And not that he wanted to keep his eyes open—god, he’d so much rather be sleeping right now—but whenever he closed them, all he saw was Rye’s face as he’d stared at the TV, mesmerized. His blue eyes wide, captivated by the image on the screen.
At first, Jake hadn’t really thought anything of it. But then the image had begun to haunt him. Sort of. It had been a beautiful thing, watching Rye finally settle down on the couch and let himself enjoy the documentary.
The more Jake’s thoughts churned, though, the more he’d started to realize how odd of a thing it was, to be that enthralled by the pictures and videos on the TV screen. To be so captivated that, for once, Rye hadn’t seemed to be fearful and distracted by Jake’s presence.
What the hell did all that mean?
Jake groaned quietly as he reached down to fluff the pillow keeping his bad leg elevated. And he gazed up at the ceiling, distracting himself from his thoughts by following the outline of the ceiling fan, just barely visible in the darkened room. Moonlight peeked in through the shutters, and he turned his head sideways to stare for a moment at the strings of light cast on the far wall of his bedroom.
His sister had asked him a bunch of questions earlier, when they’d talked just a few minutes before Rye had come out of the bedroom. And at the time, he’d had no answers. Hell, he still had no answers, but at least then, it had been easy to say that, to tell her he just didn’t know. After that, however, after he’d hung up with her and then sat with Rye through the entire hour-and-a-half-long documentary and then watched as Rye had fumbled around the kitchen to heat himself up some leftover soup... Jake’s brain had started speculating, wondering, questioning .
The man hadn’t really known how to work the microwave. It was a small thing, but another piece of the convoluted puzzle.
And Jake wanted to know.
What was Rye’s story? Who was he? And just where had he come from?
It wasn’t like Jake’s home was right off the main road. Completely the opposite, actually. He lived off a dead-end street that ran past his house and continued for another mile or so until it reached a tiny, two-car parking lot overlooking the ocean. It wasn’t really a popular or well-known spot, even though it was public. Plus he had no real neighbors. The closest was probably at least two or three miles away, back toward town. And the city of Rocky Cove itself was already quite off the beaten path.
It wasn’t even summer, when peak tourist time brought small but noticeable crowds to the couple of motels and few bed-and-breakfasts in the area.
Rye had to have come from somewhere. And with the injuries he’d had and the condition he was in and his obviously fearful reactions and moments of panic and...
God, Jake didn’t even like to speculate. It hurt his heart.
But the painful truth was that wherever Rye had come from, there was no way it could have been pleasant.
They needed to talk—or at least communicate in some way—because Jake needed to know what to do. When the road was passable, he needed to go into town for his own reasons—the medication he desperately needed, a new cane, groceries. And he probably needed to make the much longer drive to Sacramento to see Dr. Snow. But he had no idea what Rye would want to do.
Did he have a place to go? A... safe place to go, that was? And if so, why wasn’t he there? Why had he ended up on Jake’s beach instead? Was he... running from something or someone ?
Jake needed to know at least something more than just Rye’s first name if he was to help the man. He really thought Rye should probably be seen by Sue for a quick medical checkup at minimum. But then... did they need to go to the police station? Was Rye in some sort of trouble with the law? Or was he in some other trouble, and going to the police might help him?
Rocky Cove was a tiny town, the population hovering just above five hundred on a good year. But they did have a small police station that was manned about half of the time, except during peak tourist season when they hired a couple more officers. Even now, though, Police Chief Wayne Harris and his daughter, Lieutenant Rachel Eisenberg, were always available. Jake had spoken with Rachel on Saturday morning, in fact, when he’d called in an attempt to get an ambulance. Since then, he’d been mostly keeping contact with Sue to update her on Rye’s health. But he wondered whether a trip to the police station might be in order.
Not that it was his decision, really. It was one hundred percent Rye’s decision.
And Jake had been so preoccupied with everything, including his own pain and discomfort, that he hadn’t even really thought to bring the subject up. At least, not until Krista had asked him earlier what he was going to do as soon as the road cleared.
He’d try to deflect, turning the conversation to her tentative plans to visit on Friday and over the weekend. And he’d suggested they put off the visit for another week or so; the road might not be ready by this Friday anyway, especially after the storm that had just passed through. And since he wasn’t sure what was happening with Rye, he didn’t know whether the extra bedroom would be available for her and Phil by then. She’d argued, of course, which he’d expected. But he’d insisted that he’d be okay, that he could take care of himself. And he’d promised her that he’d let her know if anything changed and if he became unable to walk or unable to drive himself into town to get his medication.
In any case, the conversation had definitely made him think.
Rye needed help. That was clear. Jake just didn’t know what kind of help he needed.
A sudden unease rattled through him, and Jake closed his eyes, listening. The house was quiet, as it had been since he’d crawled into bed hours ago. The quiet should have been reassuring. After all, quiet meant Rye was probably sleeping. However, whatever it was inside Jake that just really cared about this man—that part of him needed to see for himself. To know.
Slowly, he pushed himself up to sit and then scooted to the edge of the bed and stood. His leg complained, but it wasn’t as awful as it had been most of the day or the night before, and he managed to straighten up without needing something to hold onto. He limped heavily across the room and then out into the hallway, which was partly illuminated by the light coming from the extra bedroom. He slowed his steps just before he reached the bedroom and flattened his hand against the wall to support himself as he peeked in.
The bed was empty, but he sort of almost expected that by now, and he found Rye curled up in the far corner, the comforter wrapped all the way around him like a cocoon. His face was relaxed, his eyes lightly closed and his mouth just slightly parted in sleep. The cut on his cheek had begun to heal, but the bruising was still quite prominent, and in the well-lit room, the black and purple splotches were clearly visible.
Yet a wave of relief hit him, and the tightness in his chest eased as he let out a long, quiet breath .
Rye was okay.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. He’d just had to know. He’d had to check. And now that he was here, he realized he shouldn’t be. It wasn’t his place. Or, at least, now that he’d checked on Rye, he shouldn’t linger. It would be too intrusive.
He took another deep breath, watching Rye for a few more seconds to assure himself that Rye really was okay, and then he turned and hobbled slowly back toward his bedroom.
He still had so many questions, and given how Rye didn’t really talk, he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to get any answers. However, in the morning, he’d try to start a conversation. He’d just have to be really careful about it.
A few minutes later, as he stuffed the pillow under his bad leg, lay back, and then closed his eyes, Jake found his thoughts drifting, once more, to the intrigue and amazement in Rye’s eyes when they’d watched the documentary. Only this time, his thoughts were warm and hopeful, and he finally, finally felt himself floating off to sleep.
Jake stared at the carpet, contemplating, one hand lightly gripping his thigh. He could probably do it today. His exercises, that was. The muscles in his bad leg still hurt much, much more than normal but maybe not quite as badly as they did yesterday. Yet. But Krista’s words from one of their phone calls yesterday still echoed in his head.
“Please don’t push yourself, Jake. Let your leg rest. I bet Cora said the same thing.”
She had, of course. Nine out of ten times, Cora and Krista were on the same page. But that little part of Jake’s brain that just hated giving in, that stubborn part of him that Krista was always calling him out for, it wouldn’t listen.
He had to try again.
And it wasn’t that he didn’t believe in the advice of his sister and his medical team. It was just that he couldn’t stand the idea of becoming complacent, even just for one day. He was worried that if he stopped, if he broke his routine, he’d eventually lose all the things that were precious to him—his strength, his mobility, his independence.
So, he took the few steps from the hallway and then slowly—very, very slowly—lowered himself to the floor. His leg didn’t spasm this time. It ached, but it didn’t spasm, and somehow, he managed. Fifty push-ups. One hundred sit-ups. A two-minute plank. Twenty-five single-leg squats on his good leg, and a half hour of massage and physical therapy exercises for his bad leg.
He’d finally finished the last of his exercises when he heard sounds from down the hallway. Footsteps and then the bathroom door closing. And he thought maybe he heard the shower turn on.
And something about that pushed him to keep moving.
About fifteen minutes later, just as the eggs, toast, and tea were done and Jake had gotten everything moved to the table, he heard the bathroom door open. He glanced up from where he stood, his hands now gripping the back of his chair so he could take some of the weight off his leg, and a smile spread across his face as his eyes met Rye’s. The younger man looked so much better than he had three days ago—there was color in his complexion, and his cheeks didn’t look quite as sunken. He had indeed showered, his wet hair tucked neatly back behind his ears, and he’d shaved too, the thin layer of stubble he’d been sporting the night before now gone.
“Good morning,” Jake greeted, pulling out his chair so he could sit. The aching in his leg was going to start getting worse again pretty damn soon if he wasn’t careful, and after yesterday, that was exactly what he didn’t want. He lowered himself into his chair and then smiled up at Rye through the pain. “I, uh, see you found the clothes I left for you in the bathroom.”
Rye paused, still a few feet away, and glanced down at the oversized black sweats he wore before nodding. Then he looked up again—at his plate sitting on the table, not at Jake—and several emotions flickered in his eyes in rapid succession, too fast for Jake to follow. He pursed his lips and stepped up to the table to join Jake, not taking his eyes off the plate of scrambled eggs and toast.
“I hope you don’t mind eggs and toast again. I’ve got plenty of food, but most of it’s frozen or, you know, cookies.” Jake huffed a light laugh and scooted his chair in. “I’m out of fruit and other things until I can get back to the grocery store.” He wanted to say more, but he waited, watching as Rye slowly, silently pulled his chair out and slipped into the seat.
Then, the younger man lifted his eyes and looked right at Jake, his expression filled with some sort of deep uncertainty or something. It tugged at Jake’s heart.
“Is it okay?” Jake asked gently, and god, the response he got...
A smile. A real smile. Small, but unmistakable. And warm, bright, hopeful even.
Or maybe that was just Jake’s optimism.
Regardless, Rye did smile, and then he nodded. But then he dropped his eyes and bit his lip and lifted one hand out of his lap to fiddle with the edge of the table, tracing the lines in the wood for a second .
“I... like eggs.” Rye’s voice was soft and smooth and quiet. And oh so beautiful.
Jake wasn’t even sure where that last thought came from—how the man’s voice could sound beautiful. But it did. It sounded beautiful and precious, like something that needed to be treasured. He let a short breath escape him, and then he nodded.
“Ah, good. I’m glad to hear that. Me too, actually.”
At that, Jake was gifted with another small smile, though Rye sort of hid it quickly as he reached up to rub his eyes. Then, they both settled in to eat their breakfast. Jake finished his eggs and toast pretty quickly, and normally, he’d have his computer out to get started on emails and work for the day. Today, however, he had other things on his mind.
He sipped his tea slowly and tried not to be too obvious about the fact that he was watching his houseguest. His thoughts from the night before—all of his too-many questions—began swimming around in his head again, jumbled and out of order. But he closed his eyes and took a breath, letting everything settle.
The tea helped.
Rye was taking his last bite when Jake opened his eyes again, and Jake pursed his lips to hide his own smile as Rye used the last piece of his toast to wipe the edges of his plate, collecting the last few bits of his scrambled eggs.
Peculiar. But that was Rye, really.
Jake cleared his throat quietly, not wanting to startle Rye. Then he said, “I can make more, if you want.” With a smile, he glanced up to the counter. “Or we’ve still got a few cookies from that batch. Do you want one?”
When Rye didn’t answer, not even to shake his head, Jake frowned slightly. “No? Ah, well, I suppose cookies should only be eaten for breakfast once in a while, huh?”
It was a poor attempt to get a reaction, and Jake wasn’t surprised when Rye didn’t respond. It was okay, though. That wasn’t the important question anyway.
Jake’s chest tightened as he set down his mug. The important questions. He needed to ask them carefully. And make them easy to answer.
Don’t be a lunkhead. Don’t screw this up. God, he could almost hear Krista’s voice in his head. He nearly laughed at himself.
“So, uh, today is Tuesday,” he started, trying his best to keep his voice light and level. Rye frowned slightly and stared at his empty plate, his hands now in his lap. Jake imagined they might be clasped together, mirroring the tension that suddenly appeared in Rye’s face and jaw, but he couldn’t see. “The road isn’t going to be fixed for another few days, probably. ”
Still no other visible reaction from Rye. Although maybe his breathing had faltered a bit. He was sitting so still, it was difficult for Jake to tell.
“I hope I’m not being too forward to ask, but... do you have a place to go? Somewhere I can take you when the road is passable?”
Rye’s eyes closed, and that tension in his jaw became even more obvious as he swallowed hard. He didn’t say anything, though. He didn’t nod or shake his head or offer Jake another one of his rare, precious words. He did, however, seem to shrink in on himself a bit, and that made Jake’s heart clench.
“You’re welcome to stay here longer if you need to,” Jake inserted quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. “I just...” God, what the hell was he supposed to say? Rye looked about one wrong phrase away from bolting. Jake swallowed slowly. “I just... don’t know what you need.”
No response. Jake’s heart thrummed a little louder.
“Are you... from around here?” Nothing. “Or, uh, do you have family nearby?”
Nothing. Except Rye’s eyes closing tighter. Shit.
“I’m sorry,” Jake said. He took a deep breath. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anything, okay?”
Rye finally opened his eyes and met Jake’s gaze. His expression held so much. Pain. Uncertainty. Fear. Sadness. God, it was hard to look at. Rye dropped his chin again.
And all Jake wanted to do was comfort him. Make a silly joke to take away his pain and sadness. Say something reassuring that would ease whatever his fear and uncertainty were. But he couldn’t do that, because he had no idea what it was that was bothering the man in the first place.
“It’s okay,” he murmured instead, repeating words he knew he’d already said. “That’s okay. Um, just...” Rye’s eyes darted up very briefly before he looked back at his hands. Jake continued. “Whenever you decide what you need, you can tell me, okay?”
Did that make any sense? Jake wasn’t sure.
“I have to head into town as soon as the road is ready. I need medicine and groceries and—yeah. So, um...” Rye’s eyes had closed again, and Jake realized he should just stop talking before he said something stupid, but a few more words came out anyway. “So, um, if you want, I’ll take you wherever you need to go. The medical clinic or the, uh... police station, or, you know, whatever you need. I’m sure we can find you help. Okay?”
There was a short silence that stretched into a longer silence, and Jake’s stomach twisted into a tight, uncomfortable knot.
Lunkhead. No, not lunkhead. Idiot .
Not that he knew how he could possibly have done or said anything differently.
Jake opened his mouth to apologize again, or at least to try to say something that maybe didn’t sound so stupid, but before he could, Rye fidgeted in his seat and then lifted up a hand to trace his fingers along the patterns in the wood at the edge of the table again, as he’d done earlier.
“Thank you,” Rye whispered, his voice still with that same softness to it, that same something that was so unique and so warm and almost melodious.
And Rye’s hand on the table sort of balled up into a fist then. Not a tight, angry fist, but something nervous, anxious, agitated. He looked up at Jake, and their eyes met only for the briefest of seconds before Rye tore his gaze away again.
Jake’s heart just . . . ached.
“Of course. You’re welcome,” he said gently.
Then, without another word, Jake began to gather up his dishes. Only this time, as he stood and started toward the kitchen to clean up, he found himself almost appreciating the pain in his leg. It provided an excellent distraction for whatever the hell was going on with his heart.