Pieces of Home

21. Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

Rye

Rye couldn’t stop trembling. Even after Jake left and went inside and Rye was alone. Even when he tried over and over to remind himself of where he was. Even when the cool, fresh ocean breeze ruffled his hair and the sounds of the waves echoed up from the beach below.

He still couldn’t stop. Because the voice in his head—the man’s voice—wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop, and, worse, it kept overlapping with Jake’s words.

“Hey, kiddo, you look lost. Want a ride home?”

God, he did. He wanted to go home. All he’d ever wanted was to go home. Back then and right now. He just wanted to go home.

He tried to breathe, but his chest was too heavy and too tight. And it hurt.

“Wait, there it was! That was my street. Sycamore. You just passed it. Turn around, and—”

“Shut the fuck up, kid. I know where the fuck you live. We’re going somewhere else. You just be a good little boy, keep your fuckin’ mouth closed, and I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

I won’t hurt you.

I promise.

Promise.

I promise.

Rye gasped for breath, flashes of the same two rotten memories ripping through him with crystal clarity.

An offer of help to get home. And then a promise.

A promise that had been nothing but an awful, horrible lie.

Because that was what adults did. Especially strange adult men. They lied to you and then they stole you from your family and then they hid you away in a cold, dark basement and hurt you in the worst ways possible .

For fifteen years.

Fifteen years had been taken from him by that man. That awful man.

And he was so scared it would happen again.

He just wanted to go home.

“Hey, Rye. I, uh, managed to reschedule the meeting for next week.” The quiet voice came from several feet away, and somehow, it didn’t startle him. The sofa shifted and creaked a bit on the opposite end. “Is it okay if I sit here?”

Rye’s chest tightened.

“...keep your fuckin’ mouth closed, and I won’t hurt you.”

He said nothing. And he didn’t move, not even to breathe.

“We don’t have to talk, not unless you want to. But I didn’t like leaving you out here alone, and I, uh, want you to know that... that I’m here to help. If you want. Otherwise, I’ll just be here so you’re not alone. Is that okay?” Jake let out a short breath. “God, I’m a rambling idiot when I’m nervous. I’m sorry. And I’m so sorry about earlier too—I didn’t mean to say anything to hurt you. I just... I just want to help, whatever you need me to do.”

Something cracked inside him, and he started crying into his knees again. But it was a different crying than before. It was filled with pain and sadness and grief.

He heard Jake’s kindness. He heard his gentleness, his softness. And he heard the apologies and the questions. Jake was giving Rye a choice. Again. Still giving Rye a choice.

Daring to test it, he suddenly shook his head, his hands gripping tighter to his legs.

“Ah, um . . .”

Rye held his breath, waiting, his heart thundering in his ears now.

“Alright. Okay. If that’s what you want, yeah. I’ll go back inside.” After some seconds, Rye heard Jake’s heavy, slightly uneven footsteps walking away and then the back door opening. “I’m, um, going to leave the door open. Okay? For whenever you want to come back in. And I’ll be here if you want to talk, too. Okay?”

Then there was silence, and Rye was alone again.

Hours passed. Maybe. Rye wasn’t great at keeping track of time. But the sun had shifted high overhead, and he was a little warm, still bundled up in Jake’s coat.

Twice, Jake had come out and asked Rye if he wanted company. And each time, when Rye had shaken his head in response, Jake had left and gone back inside.

He’d calmed down a little, his intense, uncontrollable emotions from earlier no longer forcing his body to tremble. The aching in his chest, however, wouldn’t leave. All he could really think about was how much he wanted to believe Jake.

Jake had said he would help get Rye home. He’d said Rye was safe and that he wanted to help. And everything Jake had done—before and since—seemed to support that. He’d saved Rye from the beach, given him food and warm clothes and a bed. And blankets and pillows. And a shower. And cookies. He’d talked to Rye with a soft, kind voice. Taught him how to make tea. Stopped cursing when he’d found out it bothered Rye. He’d let Rye watch that documentary and play video games and read magazines. And he’d listened.

When Rye had said no, Jake had listened.

Rye hadn’t had anyone listen to him in fifteen years. In fact, he hadn’t been allowed to talk in fifteen years. He’d been told to shut the fuck up. Don’t fucking cry. Or else.

So maybe the next time Jake came out, Rye would tell him he could stay.

Rye lifted his eyes for the first time in all those hours. It was bright, and the sunlight felt harsh. Yet it was also incredible and warm. And he suddenly knew—he remembered, without any doubt at all—that he used to love the sunshine.

Summer sunshine and warmth. And he’d loved when his mom would take him to the beach. She’d sit on her big yellow beach towel and watch him dig holes and build sandcastles. And... they had ! They had seen those dolphins before! The ones with the two-colored fins on their backs. What had Jake called them? Pacific white... something.

He turned his head slightly and looked out toward the ocean, and then he just sat there for some more time, watching the waves break as far out as he could see them.

It was a while longer before he heard Jake’s footsteps come up behind him again. They sounded more uneven than they had before.

“I made lunch. We’re a little low on bread, so I made us each half a sandwich. But I’ve got some potato chips, and then I made some strawberry smoothies too. I had this frozen strawberry and banana mix, and... yeah. Um, can I bring it over for you?”

Rye closed his eyes and nodded.

“Yes?”

He nodded again .

“Good, great, um, yeah. Here you go.”

Turning his head just a little, Rye saw Jake step around the far side of the sofa and then set a white plate and small glass on the low table just in front of him.

Jake straightened up and then backed away. “Would you be okay with me eating out here too?”

A weak churning in his stomach made him hesitate, but then he managed to nod.

“Alright, good,” Jake said, and he disappeared back inside for a minute before returning with his own lunch and settling on the far side of the couch.

They ate, mostly in silence. Every once in a while, though, Jake commented on something. The birds or the warmth or the... smoothness of his smoothie.

Rye had never had a smoothie before. Or at least, not that he could remember. But after his first sip, he figured it might be his favorite drink. Probably ever.

When he was finished, he set his plate back on the table next to his glass and then brought his feet back up onto the sofa and hugged his knees into his chest. Jake had finished a while ago, and he seemed to be lost in thought. Or something. Just staring out toward the water, much like Rye had been doing earlier.

If he asked Jake to leave, would he? The thought popped into his head as he looked at Jake, sitting there not more than a few feet away, one hand on his bad leg, rubbing it lightly.

I want to be alone again. That was all Rye would have to say. And somehow, he knew the answer. Somehow, he knew if he told Jake he wanted to be alone, Jake would do as he asked. He’d leave and go back inside.

But was that what Rye wanted right now? To be alone again?

What he wanted hadn’t mattered in so long. Not until... the last few days. Not until Jake had made a point of asking.

I want to go home. I want to see my mom. I want...

Rye closed his eyes. Jake had said earlier that the road would be fixed in two days. Or maybe three days. Then what? Then, could he ask Jake to take him home?

A sharp pain sliced through his stomach, and he fought it. He fought against the horror that suddenly flashed through his mind. Jake telling him he would take him home. Then Jake driving right past Sycamore Avenue. Then Jake laughing at him, cursing at him, hitting him, taking him back to the man’s house and tossing him down into the basement.

He fought against it with everything he had, pushing those images out of his mind and replacing them with other things. Jake speaking so kindly to him. Jake smiling gently. Jake oh-so carefully treating the wound on his cheek. Jake cooking for him, making him tea. Jake... asking permission to touch him, and respecting when his answer was no. Jake laughing, but in some happy, joyful way, and Jake somehow getting Rye to laugh too. Laugh and smile, like he hadn’t been able to in fifteen years.

And by the time he opened his eyes again, a warmth had replaced the forever chill that had been stuck in his chest for too long. Jake was watching him now, kindness and concern in his eyes. Rye tried for a smile, but it was too hard, and instead, he ended up blinking back tears. He looked away.

Thank you.

He’d said the words before, but right now, his voice wouldn’t work, and he didn’t even want to try. But he desperately hoped Jake knew, somehow.

And even more, he hoped that all of this was real.

He heard Jake clear his throat quietly, and then his soft, warm voice broke the remaining silence. “Can we try again? To talk? I kinda messed everything up earlier, and I don’t want to do that again.”

Guilt swept through Rye, making his stomach feel... strange.

You didn’t mess up. I’m messed up. I’m broken. You’re... so nice to me.

He said nothing, but he nodded. The sofa shifted, and Rye expected Jake to start talking again, but he didn’t say anything right away. It was probably a few minutes later when Jake finally began.

“I don’t know your story, and I’m not entitled to it.”

Entitled. God, he didn’t even know what that meant. Stupid, fucking —

“I’m here to listen if you want to talk, but I won’t ask. You can tell me, or not. That’s completely fine. What I do need to ask is what you want to do when the road is fixed. Do you...”

Jake trailed off, and Rye’s stomach did that weird thing again. It didn’t feel good. He glanced over at Jake, whose expression was a little tight. Worry, maybe. He was worried? Jake smiled softly and shook his head.

“Sorry, I don’t want to upset you. But I have to ask again. Uh, when the road is fixed, do you... do you have a safe place to go?”

He couldn’t answer, but not because he couldn’t speak. Well, that was partly it. But actually, he just didn’t know. And that hurt. A lot.

He swallowed and dropped his forehead down onto the top of his knees. Would home still even be there, on Sycamore? Was his mom still there? Would she remember him? Did she... love him? Would she... want him?

God, he was so scared to find out.

His silence probably confused Jake, who was quiet for a moment as though wanting to give Rye enough of a chance to answer.

When Jake spoke again, his question was hesitant. “Before I found you on my beach, were you... at a place that wasn’t so safe?”

It hurt again. Worse this time. And Rye held back a sob and nodded.

He didn’t want to think about it, though. He didn’t want to think about there , where everything had been pain and fear. No, he wanted to think about here . And so, he kept his head down on his knees, but he opened up his eyes and stared at the dark material of the sweatpants he was wearing. Soft and clean. Not icky and tattered and dirty. And he moved his hands to rest on either side of himself, feeling the slightly rough fabric of the sofa against his fingertips.

“I’m so sorry, Rye,” Jake said softly. “I don’t want you to feel unsafe. Do you feel unsafe here?”

Yes and no. Mostly no. But... everywhere is unsafe if you can’t trust anyone. It made sense in his head, but of course, Rye didn’t say it out loud. He just pressed his hands down into the sofa more and forced himself to keep breathing.

Jake was also silent for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice still quiet, still gentle. “I want you to feel safe. I don’t know what to do about that except what I have been doing. But, uh, if I say or do anything that makes you feel unsafe, you can tell me, and I’ll change. Okay?”

There was another long pause. Then Jake asked, “Are you still okay with me being here?”

Yes. And no.

Rye nodded slowly.

A breeze blew in, and in the stillness that followed, the sounds of the ocean seemed to become louder, like he was sitting down on the beach. The waves crashed and then crashed again, and the rhythm was soothing in a way.

“When the road’s fixed, I’d like to take you into town,” Jake suggested after another few minutes. Rye scrunched his eyes closed as Jake continued. “I think we should go to the police station. I think... I think they’ll be able to help you there. And if you’ve got family nearby or somewhere safe... I think the police can help you find them.” There was a short pause, and then Jake asked, “Do you think we can do that? Hopefully on Friday, when the road is ready?”

A heaviness sat on his chest, the pressure like a massive weight. Yes! he wanted to say. And he wanted to nod and smile and be excited. Yes, we can do that! After all, it did sound like the best plan. The police could help him. He could tell them his name and his mom’s name, and they could find her for him. Even if she wasn’t here anymore.

But the fear trickled back in, the man’s words making him doubt. Even as he fought them. Even as he told himself the man had been wrong.

The man had been wrong.

The man . . . had been wrong.

Mom . . .

“Y-yes. Please,” Rye stuttered, and he forced himself to turn his head and look at Jake. The kind brown eyes that met him seemed to somehow hear all the other words he hadn’t said. And suddenly, he just wished Jake knew all of it—everything he’d been thinking and feeling, and all the reasons this was all so, so impossible and difficult for him. He started to tremble again.

“That’s what we’ll plan, then, okay?” Jake said, nodding so, so gently. “We’ll find you help. We’ll get you home.”

Home . . . Mom . . .

Rye started crying then, silent tears that slid down his cheeks. “Home?” he repeated.

And Jake nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, we’ll get you home. Okay?”

An ache of longing for something he needed so much and just didn’t have spread through his chest, filling the empty hollow. And one more time, he managed a nod, though it was small and scary.

Then he closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his knees and let himself cry some more.