Pieces of Home

22. Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

Jake

“That’s it, that’s it. Think you can do two more?”

Rye shook his head and then collapsed onto the ground and rolled over onto his back with a groan.

Jake chuckled as he lowered himself onto his back as well. “You did great. Push-ups aren’t easy. Doing even a few in a row is more than a lot of people can do.”

He turned his head to look at Rye, who was pushing himself up to sit. Rye had been wide awake this morning when Jake had gotten up, and after a little coaxing, he’d agreed to try some of Jake’s exercises with him. Jake was grateful; it was something to keep Rye’s mind off whatever was going to happen that afternoon.

And admittedly, Jake was feeling anxious about it too.

All day Thursday, he’d been on and off the phone. He’d called Sue to set up a checkup for himself since he wouldn’t be able to see his physical therapist for at least another week. Sue also managed the small pharmacy at her medical clinic, and she’d confirmed that his prescription was ready and that she’d received the special cane he’d asked her to order for him. Later in the day, he’d called the post office to see when he could pick up his mail, since they hadn’t been able to deliver it for nearly a week. And he’d called his sister, of course.

But all the while, he’d been waiting—he and Rye had both been waiting, really—for an update from Tim. It had finally come late in the day, and with good news.

The road would be passable by early afternoon today, Friday.

Today, he’d be able to do what he’d told Rye he would. What he’d promised Rye he would.

He’d be able to help Rye get home .

Rye was silent now, as he had been most of the day yesterday and all of the morning so far, and he’d scooted back to rest against the wall in the position he always sat—with his knees pulled up to his chest.

“You feel up to trying another set while I do my PT stuff?” Jake asked. “I bet you can do a few more.”

When Rye frowned and shook his head, Jake laughed again. “Yeah, I don’t blame you. The push-ups are probably my least favorite.”

Jake rested his head back on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. Then he bent his knee on his good leg, and, keeping his bad leg straight, he lifted it up slowly until his foot was about level with his knee. He closed his eyes against the aching throb in his thigh and repeated the motion. Three sets of ten reps, if he could handle it.

It was rough today—not just the pain but also an odd sort of weakness in his hip that had him worried. Nevertheless, he pushed on. He finished all of his physical therapy exercises and massage in about a half hour, as usual, with Rye watching silently from his spot against the wall. Then, when he was done, he closed his eyes for a beat.

Breakfast.

He had to make breakfast. Then he needed to take a shower and write up a shopping list. He should probably start a load of laundry too.

And he needed to make one more phone call. He needed to call the police station.

He needed to call and talk to Police Chief Wayne Harris or Lieutenant Rachel Eisenberg and let them know he’d be bringing Rye in. He wasn’t sure why that made him so worried, but as he turned his head to look at Rye, his eyes landing on the now almost -healed gash and slight discoloration from the bruising on Rye’s cheek, Jake felt a coil of something uncomfortable in his stomach.

He’d been dealing with the feeling for the last couple of days, and he knew it was probably just concern. Rye’s situation was still so much of a mystery, and until he was sure Rye was safe and comfortable, he didn’t really expect the unease to go anywhere.

Even once they got to the police station, there would still be the matter of finding the place Rye called home. Where was it? And when they found it, would there be someone there who loved him? Someone to help him and take care of him?

Rye frowned slightly, his arms tightening around his knees, and Jake realized he’d been staring. He shook his head and blinked away his unease.

“Sorry, I was just thinking. Are you hungry? We’ve got two eggs left, and they’re all yours if you want,” Jake offered, bending his elbows and then pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Or...” He trailed off and glanced toward the patio briefly, remembering lunch two days before. How Rye had closed his eyes lightly as he’d taken a sip of the strawberry and banana smoothie Jake had made. Then the small but not insignificant smile that had brightened up his face. Jake turned back to Rye and said softly, “I can make you another smoothie if you want.”

And there it was, that small hint of a smile again. Rye’s gaze dropped down to the floor in front of him, but he nodded slightly, his cheeks tinged light pink, maybe with embarrassment. Jake grinned and said a quick “Smoothies it is.” Then he let his eyes linger for just a second longer before he shifted his focus to standing up.

With a quiet groan, he bent his bad leg under himself and then pushed himself up to his feet, stumbling slightly when pain shot through his hip. He reached out and set his hand on the wall to steady himself, shaking his head. God, he was in poor shape.

Taking a deep breath, Jake forced his eyes back open. He had other things to worry about today, other more important things. Like Rye, who now stood just a few feet away, his arms crossed low over his midsection and his shoulders hunched. He looked concerned too.

“I... can help,” Rye said in his beautiful, soft voice.

“With... breakfast? You want to help with breakfast?” Jake asked to clarify, and when Rye nodded, his movement tentative as though he wasn’t really sure, Jake’s heart ached in his chest. The offer was so kind, and the gift of hearing Rye’s voice was still so precious. He managed another smile and carefully pushed himself away from the wall. “I’d appreciate that,” he said. Then he tilted his head toward the kitchen. “Shall we?”

Rye nodded again and followed Jake, and together, they got started on breakfast.

Just like the other day when Jake had told Rye how to make the tea, Rye was quick to follow directions, although the part where he had to crack the eggs into a bowl got a bit messy. And the loud whirring of the mixer as it pureed the frozen strawberries and bananas for their smoothies seemed to frighten Rye, at least when it first switched on. But they managed, and when it was done and everything was on the table, ready to eat, Jake felt a tug of pride.

He glanced up at his companion as they both took their seats, and his chest tightened. Rye was picking up his fork to start in on his eggs, and that little hint of reservation that had always seemed to accompany him—that little tremble in his hand whenever he’d lifted his fork—wasn’t there. Or if it was, Jake couldn’t see it. Rye did the same thing he’d always done since that first morning they’d eaten together—he carefully piled some of the scrambled eggs onto one of his slices of toast, then set his fork back down and picked up the toast to eat it.

It was such a good thing to see, that newfound steadiness in Rye’s hands.

Jake blinked and then picked up a slice of his own toast. He paused before taking a bite. “Thank you for the help,” he said softly. “I really appreciate it.”

Rye looked up at Jake from across the table, and that ache, that tug at his heart happened again. Rye’s eyes—his deep blue eyes that seemed to hold so much pain so much of the time—they sparkled with something different. Something like happiness. Or hope.

God, yeah, that was it, Jake realized. There was hope there, maybe for the first time.

And then Rye smiled, a little bigger than before, and it was warm and bright, just like Jake had always known it would be. It only lasted a second. But it was beautiful, even in its transience.

Rye nodded once before lowering his eyes back to his plate, and they both finished the rest of their breakfast in a comfortable silence.

As the afternoon approached, Jake could feel Rye’s tension growing.

After breakfast, Rye had spent a little bit of time sitting on the couch, reading one of Jake’s magazines, but he’d seemed to get more and more agitated with each page he flipped, and he’d eventually moved back to the corner. Jake’s attempts to coax him out and back to the couch had failed. What had Jake more worried, though, was that Rye hadn’t really been able to eat lunch. Jake had heated up some leftover casserole—the last of the bit he’d cooked the other day—and although Rye had joined Jake at the table, every time he’d gone to pick up his fork, his hand had been shaking. Again. And maybe worse this time. He hadn’t managed more than a bite or two at most before he’d given up and gone back to sitting in his corner, staring at the floor.

After lunch, Jake had cleaned up the kitchen and then tried to talk to Rye a bit, to help distract him from whatever was bothering him. But he’d been unsuccessful, and all of his attempts had just seemed to make Rye more agitated.

So instead, even though he’d hated leaving Rye alone when he was so upset, Jake had gone out to sit on the patio with his laptop and phone to work while he waited for Tim’s call .

It came just after four. And it was short and to the point, as Tim usually was. The road was passable. Jake and Rye could go into town. Finally.

As he hung up the phone, Jake heard a quiet noise behind him, and he turned to see Rye standing in the doorway, one hand up holding his opposite arm just above the elbow. His brows furrowed together in question, and Jake nodded, a small smile inching onto his lips. “That was Tim. We can go now.”

The change in Rye was immediate and obvious. His eyes flashed with relief first, but then fear—something intense, even as brief as it was—and Jake swallowed thickly as he watched Rye seem to battle with himself, gripping harder onto his arm.

“It’ll be okay,” Jake said softly, and Rye actually looked back up at him for a moment, holding his gaze. His eyes were filled with emotion—scared and yet hopeful—and it sent a ripple of warmth and a wave of fierce protectiveness through Jake. He nodded again. “I’ll be there with you, and we’ll talk with the police, and we’ll figure it all out, okay?”

Rye dropped his chin but responded with a small nod.

“Alright,” Jake said, and he turned and closed his laptop, which was sitting on the patio table in front of him. “So, let me just put my stuff away, and then if you’re ready, we can go, yeah?”

He wasn’t expecting an answer, so he wasn’t surprised when he looked back at Rye over his shoulder to see the man just standing there, still holding onto his arm, his jaw tight.

Very, very briefly, Jake wondered what he might do if Rye still wouldn’t talk when they got to the police station, but when he saw a single tear slip down Rye’s cheek, that thought quickly left him.

“You, uh, you know what?” Rye blinked and looked back up at him. “We should... find you some shoes to wear. Yeah, yeah, shoes. Um, mine will probably be too big, I think. What size do you wear? Kris left a pair of something here a while ago. Some fuzzy slippers. Not ideal, I guess, but better than nothing. And probably better than trying to tromp around in mine. I think they’re in the closet in the extra bedroom. Maybe those will work?”

Rye sniffled and let go of his arm long enough to reach up and brush the tear off his cheek, then he looked down at his feet, flexing his toes in the plain white socks he was wearing. When he looked back up at Jake, he’d pursed his lips as if to say he didn’t know.

“Here, let me just...” Jake scooted closer to the armrest on the couch so he could use it to help him stand, then he picked up his laptop and phone, tucked the phone into his pocket and the laptop under one arm, and pushed himself to his feet .

Fuck, it hurt. The pain in his thigh and hip burst back to life, and he pressed his hand down into the top of the armrest to hold himself upright as he allowed his leg to adjust to standing up again.

He’d been sitting in one place too long. He should have known better.

The pain faded to a not-so-dull ache after a few seconds, thankfully, and Jake straightened up with a grunt as he turned toward the house.

A few minutes later, they’d found Krista’s old slippers, which were pink and light blue and quite fuzzy. They looked a bit silly, especially when combined with the oversized dark-gray pants and blue long-sleeved shirt Rye was wearing today, but they seemed to fit his feet well, and that was more important than anything else. Jake also let Rye borrow a spare coat, since it was getting chilly. Then he grabbed his wallet from his nightstand and dug his keys out of the drawer near the front door, and they were ready to go.

Sort of.

Rye hesitated in the doorway, his eyes locked on Jake’s small silver sedan parked in the driveway. Only after Jake laughed and reassured him that he knew how to drive did Rye finally seem to force himself to move, his steps stiff and measured and his arms wrapped tightly around his midsection.

Then Rye hesitated again when they got to Jake’s car, stopping at the rear door on the passenger side. And this time, his face had gone pale, and he seemed to have shrunken in on himself more, like he was trying to hide from something. Jake attempted another simple joke about his driving abilities, but Rye only looked even more ill.

Ill or terrified. Or maybe both.

“Hey, Rye, it’s going to be okay,” Jake said gently, leaning on the car to take some of the weight off his leg.

But Rye maybe didn’t believe him. He closed his eyes and shook his head, and then he backed up a step. And suddenly, Rye’s legs seemed to buckle, and he collapsed to the ground with a pained whimper.

“Shit,” Jake cursed as he pushed himself away from the car and hobbled around to the other side as quickly as he could.

Rye was sitting up, both hands on the ground and his legs folded underneath him. And he was wheezing, his eyes screwed shut. His face was as white as a sheet.

Jake stopped a few feet away and hesitated, not wanting to get down on the ground but also scared of whatever was going through Rye’s mind. He set one hand on the car and knelt down, ignoring the sharp, stabbing pain that lanced up his thigh.

“Hey, Rye, you’re okay. You’re okay.” He repeated the words several more times, keeping his voice low and gentle .

Eventually, after several minutes, Rye’s breathing calmed or at least stabilized somewhat. He didn’t open his eyes, though, and the tension in his posture remained, his fingers pressing into the ground.

“Okay, Rye. You’re okay,” Jake said one more time, and this time, Rye looked up at Jake. His red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks sent a shiver of sadness through Jake. “Are you scared?” he asked carefully.

Rye let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes again, his chin dropping to his chest. Then he nodded.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want you to be scared. Can you tell me what you’re scared of?”

A huff of air escaped Rye’s lips, and he shook his head hard. Jake frowned inwardly.

“Alright, that’s okay. You know what my sister used to always tell me growing up?” Jake said, and when Rye glanced up at him again and shook his head, Jake smiled as encouragingly as he could. “She used to tell me that you can still do important things, even if you’re scared. You just... do it scared. I know that’s much easier to say than it is to do, but don’t forget that I’m going to be there with you. Whatever you’re scared of, I’ll be there to help you get through it. And if it’s my driving, well, really, I’m not a bad driver. You can call Kris and ask. She’d tell you the truth.”

Jake had no idea whether he’d said the right thing in his god-awful ramble or what it was Rye was actually scared of, but it was a huge relief when Rye took a deep breath and then looked at the car and nodded, his lower lip starting to tremble.

“S-sorry,” Rye stuttered.

“Ah, no, no. No need to be sorry. I just want you to know you’re not alone, okay? I won’t leave until you tell me it’s okay. And whatever you’re scared of, it’s okay to be scared. We’ll still get you home. I’m sure of it. Okay?”

Fresh tears fell down Rye’s cheeks, but he nodded then gathered himself and pushed himself up to his feet again.

Jake was a bit slower to stand, though he did his best to hide his pained grimaces from Rye. When he was up on his feet again, he brushed off his pants and then tilted his head toward the car. “Let’s go?”

Rye wiped his cheeks again and then hugged himself as he nodded.

“Great.”

Jake reached out and opened up the door to the front passenger seat, holding his breath as he watched Rye hesitate again. More tears slipped down Rye’s cheeks, and he glanced from the front seat to the back seat several times before taking a step toward Jake. He took another step and then another, and then he was lowering himself into the seat, his face still pale and tears still falling. When his legs were both inside the car, Jake shut the door as carefully as he could. Yet Rye still flinched and screwed his eyes shut, then he buried his head in his hands, rocking himself forward and back ever so slightly.

God, of all the things Jake had worried about, getting Rye into the car definitely hadn’t been one. He frowned as he limped back around the front of the car to the driver’s side door, took an extra second to compose himself, and then climbed in.

Thankfully, the rest of their trip into town was fairly uneventful. Rye fumbled a bit with putting on his seat belt, and then, as soon as Jake started up the car, Rye pulled his feet up onto the seat, buried his face in his knees, and covered his head with his hands. And he stayed that way the entire ten-minute drive.

Jake was almost too preoccupied worrying about Rye to remember that his leg hurt and that driving when his leg hurt this much was kind of awful. He also didn’t pause to take a look at just how bad the damage to the road must have been when they passed by the newly paved part, but he did notice the orange traffic cones set up along the edge of the road and the caution sign indicating that roadwork was still ongoing.

Even when Jake pulled up into the tiny parking lot outside the small building that doubled as the police station and fire station and parked his car in the single empty parking spot next to Rachel’s pickup truck, Rye still didn’t lift his head up.

Jake turned the car off and unfastened his seat belt as he looked up toward the single-story building. The lights were on inside, which was good, and he figured Rachel was probably waiting for them.

He cleared his throat lightly. “Hey, Rye, we’re here,” he said softly. “Ready to go?”

Without the car running, Jake could hear Rye’s labored breathing, and he frowned as his stomach knotted up with worry. He felt so inadequate then, unable to do anything to comfort Rye, and he just sat there for another minute or two, waiting. Eventually, Rye let out a short breath and then lowered his hands down to grip his knees as he turned his head toward the building, sniffling.

“Rachel is a police officer. She’s really wonderful. I think you’ll like her,” Jake explained, hoping he was right. “Should we go meet her?”

Rye nodded, finally, and Jake breathed a sigh of relief. Then he got out of the car, ignoring the stiffness and pain in his leg—yet again—and closed the door before limping around to the other side. Rye hadn’t moved, and it took Jake another couple of minutes to convince him it was going to be okay .

And actually, Jake wasn’t even sure he had Rye convinced. But at least Rye had gotten out of the car. He stood next to Jake, his much shorter frame hunched and tense, and he stared at the building, taking stilted, measured breaths.

“It’ll be okay,” Jake repeated, and then he finally gave in to that pull he’d felt several times now—the one that had him wishing he had some better way to comfort Rye—and very, very slowly reached out to set his hand on Rye’s back.

But even before his fingers came in contact with the coat Rye was wearing, Rye flinched and nearly jumped forward a step, shaking his head.

And Jake’s stomach twisted. He started to apologize, but then Rye took a step forward and then another. They were small steps, hesitating, yet they moved him forward, and this time, it was Jake who was following.

When they reached the building, Jake carefully moved ahead of Rye to open the door, and they both stepped inside. It was a small space and sparsely furnished, with just a bench near the doorway, a couple of desks in the main room, and two offices off to the left side.

Rye stopped a few feet in past the doorway, and Jake could see his hand had moved up again, crossed over his midsection to hold his opposite arm. He was gripping tightly, squeezing with some sort of pulse to it, like he was deliberately distracting himself. And although he’d lifted his eyes and was looking around the room, everything about him was tense.

“Alright, we made it, yeah?” Jake said gently, and just as he was about to suggest Rye take a seat so he could go find Rachel, a petite, middle-aged redheaded woman wearing the beige-and-olive-colored uniform of the Humboldt County Sheriff’s Department peeked her head out of the closer of the two offices.

“Heya, Jake and Jake’s friend. Good to see you finally made it!” she greeted as she stepped out of the office fully, leaving the door open behind her.

Jake gave her an awkward sort of half wave. “Hi, Rachel. How are you doing?”

“Ah, well, can’t complain, you know. Dad’s on his way over, but he was havin’ to make another stop on his way, so he’ll be a few. Hope that’s not a problem.”

Jake shook his head in response, and Rachel grinned and nodded, her bright green eyes jumping from Jake to Rye and then back again.

“Why don’t you both come on over and have a seat,” she suggested, motioning to one of the desks in the main room. “And then we’ll see how I can help you.”

Rye didn’t move for a count of three, but then he started walking again, his steps small and hesitant, like the ones he’d taken in from the car. His fuzzy pink-and-blue slippers shuffled across the carpet, and Jake struggled to not grimace at how out of place Rye looked, especially with the oversized, ill-fitted clothing he wore .

Jake followed right behind him, careful to leave enough space this time. And when they made it to the desk, Rachel moved around to the opposite side and sat down, then pulled a notepad and pen out of the desk drawer.

“Okie doke, hun, why don’t you go ahead and sit right there,” Rachel said to Rye, indicating to the single chair positioned on Jake and Rye’s side of the desk. Rachel looked down at the notepad and started to scribble something at the top. “Jake said you’re a bit lost and you’re trying to get home? What’s your name, hun?”

The office was silent except for the low hum of a heater unit and the scratch of Rachel’s pen on the notepad. When Rye didn’t answer after several seconds, Jake cleared his throat and took a small step forward.

“His name’s—”

“Ryan,” Rye cut in, his voice so quiet, Jake wasn’t sure he’d heard right. But then Rye closed his eyes and tucked his chin down against his chest and said, a little louder this time, “I’m Ryan Henry Davis.”

All the air left Jake’s lungs as decade-and-a-half-old memories slammed into him. He knew that name. He’d watched the news. Him and his dad and his sister, they’d huddled together in their living room, watching news story after news story. Day after day after day of the frantic search happening out along the coast for the boy who’d gone missing on his way home from school. Ryan Davis. Rye. The boy who’d been just a few years younger than Jake. Eight to Jake’s thirteen at the time.

Rachel’s eyes darted up from her notepad, and Jake knew she’d remembered too. Holy fuck, she’d... worked here then. Her eyes met his just as his stomach dropped with all the implications of everything, and Jake shook his head, not knowing what to say. She pursed her lips and looked back at Rye, straightening up as she seemed to study him.

“I’m sorry, hun, what was that?” she asked gently, as though she just couldn’t believe it, because, well... damn.

Rye didn’t look up, and this time, when he spoke, his voice caught in his throat. “R-Ryan Henry Davis.”

Holy. Shit.