35. Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Four
Rye
Rye’s fingers fumbled with the tiny white bow on the package in his hands, and he glanced up at his mom for the third time in probably the last minute. She caught his eye and gave him a wink and an understanding smile as she finished drying the last of the dishes from breakfast.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about. He’s going to love it, sweetie,” she assured him, also probably for the third time.
He wanted to believe her, but he wasn’t so sure. After all, he’d never bought anyone a gift before. At least, not that he could remember. And Christmas... it just hadn’t existed for him for the last fifteen years. Not really, anyway.
All he had were little snippets of fuzzy memories that probably didn’t mean much. Times when the man had stayed gone for a really long time—multiple days, maybe—and then been extra mean when he’d returned. Rough. Violent. Angry. More angry than usual. And he’d ranted and raged and taken out his anger on Rye.
The last time had been the worst that Rye could remember. By far. He’d been so weak from hunger when the man had finally returned, and the man had wasted no time taking what he’d wanted. Rye could still hear his words, harsh and angry, as the man had held him down and hurt him.
“Merry fucking Christmas, huh? My least favorite time of the year. Goddamn holidays.” A rotten breath reeking of alcohol and cigarettes on his cheek. A hand pushing his head against the wall. “Stay fucking still, would you!”
Rye’s stomach churned, and he suddenly felt sick. If that really had been Christmas, it’d been the most awful Christmas ever. Awful and painful and dark, and he’d hated every minute of it. He could still feel—
No !
He closed his eyes with a sharp breath, willing himself to push the memory away before it could hurt him more. No, he wouldn’t go there. He wouldn’t go there. He’d stay here. Here, now, with his mom, in this warm, safe place.
His home.
He ran his fingers along the edges of the small package in his hands to try to keep himself present, or however his mom always said it.
The wrapping paper was smooth, the bow silky and soft. And though the package was small, it had weight to it. It was solid and real.
He took a deep breath in and then let it out slowly, though it shuddered a bit.
The gift was real. His mom and his home were real. Warmth and food and... happiness and joy and safety were all real. And his friend, Jake, who was coming over and should be here any minute, he was real.
This was a much, much better Christmas. A real Christmas.
Opening his eyes again, Rye looked down at the package. He’d picked out the wrapping paper himself—blue and white with an ocean theme rather than traditional Christmas white, green, and red, because Jake loved the ocean. Rye had even wrapped it himself and tied the bow and everything. He’d planned to probably give it to Jake later that week, since they were supposed to have lunch again on Friday, when his mom had work. But then, when he’d texted Jake earlier, his mom had suggested inviting Jake over so Rye could give it to him today. She’d said maybe it would be more special that way.
So he had. Sort of. At least, he’d been about to when Jake had beat him to it.
And the gift itself... He thought Jake would love it. He’d immediately thought of Jake when he’d seen it in a magazine he’d been reading at the bookstore a couple of weeks ago, and his mom had agreed when he’d shown it to her. She’d said it was perfect. And he really did want to believe her.
Still, uncertainty gnawed at him. He looked up at her from where he sat at the dining table, and then he lowered his eyes again to the package.
“It’s... not much,” he managed. That wasn’t quite what he’d wanted to say, but his words were stuck, as they often were. And his chest was still tight, that earlier memory of what might have been last Christmas tugging at him, trying to bury him. He shook his head and glanced back up at his mom.
She’d just stuck the last dish into the cupboard with the other washed-and-dried dishes, and she smiled softly before walking around the island to join him at the dining table. She took the seat next to him and set her hands on top of his to steady his fidgeting.
The heaviness on his chest lifted slightly, and he took another deep breath. “He’ll... like it? ”
“He will. It’s a lovely gift,” she said quietly. “And I just know he’ll appreciate it. You’re a thoughtful friend, Ryan. Jake will see that too.”
There was a light knock at the front door, and Rye tightened his fingers slightly on the gift.
His mom leaned over and kissed his temple, then patted his hands and stood. “Do you want me to answer it for you?”
He shook his head. “N-no. I can do it,” he said, and he pushed himself up to his feet.
“Okay, sweetie. I’m going to go to my room and finish wrapping a few more gifts.”
“O-okay.”
“It’ll be great. You’ll see.”
His mom hugged him briefly and then gave him an encouraging smile before hurrying off down the hallway.
And Rye turned and headed over to the front door.
A rush of cold air blew in through the door as he opened it, and he shivered and stepped back, lifting his eyes to meet his friend’s.
“Merry Christmas, Rye.”
Jake stood back a couple of feet, bundled up in his Stanford beanie and heavy gray coat. He held a gift wrapped in bright red paper with a big white bow, and his smile was as soft and kind as ever, just like his voice.
Despite the cold, Rye suddenly felt quite warm. Warm and happy. And he returned Jake’s smile.
“Merry Christmas, Jake. I’m... I’m really glad you could come over.”
Yeah, this was what a real Christmas was supposed to feel like, he was sure of it.
He stepped back another step and motioned Jake inside, then he shut the door as Jake removed his hat and coat.
“Did you have anything special for breakfast?” Jake asked.
Rye grinned and started over to the dining table. “We did,” he said, and for once, the words seemed to come almost easily. “My mom showed me how to make something she called monkey bread. And we had quiche. Do you... know what that is?”
Jake’s nod was eager. “I love quiche.”
“It had . . . ham and peppers in it. It was . . . it was really good.”
“My sister cooked this morning, too. Actually, she’s still cooking.” Jake laughed and set the gift on the table. His gaze seemed to linger on the present Rye had for him. He cleared his throat and looked back up at Rye. “She does this every time she comes over. She’s making soup right now, and she made enough breakfast foods for me to eat the whole week. I think she might also have plans to make me another casserole or something to freeze.”
“She’s really nice. I... I thought...” Rye felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment, and he shook his head.
“You thought she might be a little more intimidating, huh?”
Rye frowned. “Intimidating?”
“Uh, yeah... Scary? Sort of. Or threatening. Formidable. Ah, I guess that one’s not much easier, is it?”
“No, actually, I... I know that one,” Rye said, an odd feeling filling his chest. “It was in this book I was reading last week.”
Jake’s expression brightened, and then he nodded. “That’s wonderful. And yeah, hah, sometimes I guess I talk about Kris that way. But she’s actually one of the kindest people I know.”
Rye nodded in agreement, and then he motioned to the table, trying to ignore the twinge of nervousness tickling him again. He’ll love it. “I-I got you...” The words wouldn’t come again, but when he looked back up at Jake, his friend almost seemed at a loss for words too. Rye tried once more. “I got you a gift. It’s... not much. But...”
Together, they sat at the table, and Rye felt a little flurry of excitement as he handed Jake his gift. He’ll love it. The words repeated themselves in his head, and he could almost feel that they were true, especially when he saw the twinkle in Jake’s eyes. He’ll love it.
“I-I hope . . . you love it.”
Jake smiled again, but there was some other emotion in his expression that Rye couldn’t quite place. Jake looked down and started to unwrap the gift slowly, as though he was taking care not to rip the paper. “Thank you, Rye. This is so nice of you. I, uh...”
Jake’s eyes widened, and he trailed off as he placed the wrapping paper on the table. Turning over the small, light-blue box in his hands, Jake blinked and started reading the text on the front, then on the back.
“Rye . . .”
“O-open it,” Rye urged, even though his heart skipped a couple of beats.
“Yeah. I... Rye, this is wonderful. I...” Jake fumbled to open up the box, and then he pulled out a braided bracelet that was dark blue and gray and about half an inch thick.
“It’s . . . made f-from . . .”
“Recycled plastic removed from the ocean, yeah,” Jake finished for him. “I’ve heard of this company. They do great work, and I think...” Jake looked back down at the box and turned it over again, his eyes scanning the words .
Rye reached over and pointed at a line written on the bottom of the box. “This?”
And Jake nodded and grinned. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Half the cost of the bracelet goes to fund the removal of five pounds of plastic from the ocean. Wow. Rye, I...”
The smile on Rye’s face grew even more. “I... made you speechless this time,” Rye said, and he huffed a small laugh.
“You did. You did. I just . . . Wow.”
Jake blinked, his eyes glistening, and Rye watched, that same feeling blooming in his chest, as Jake slid the bracelet on his left wrist and tightened it a little. It seemed to fit perfectly. Jake twisted it around a few times as though admiring it. Then he shook his head and looked back up at Rye.
“I just love it. Thank you so much. Um, here. Open yours.”
Rye nodded and picked up the gift Jake pushed over toward him. It was heavy and rectangular and about the size and thickness of his mom’s laptop computer. He glanced up at Jake briefly before copying Jake’s actions early, carefully unwrapping the gift while trying to keep the paper from ripping.
And when it was fully unwrapped, all he could do was stare in wonder, his chest tight with some other new emotion.
“It’s . . . it’s just . . . beautiful.”
It was a framed photograph—a close-up of a small, bright-yellow bird, its wings spread as it soared through the air against a backdrop of green trees with soft white flowers.
“I have a friend—a colleague who works as a wildlife photographer for National Geographic ,” Jake explained quietly. “He took this photo as part of a series last winter when he was down in Mexico.”
“That’s where... they migrate to,” Rye said, and when he looked up, Jake was nodding.
“Yeah. I, uh, thought you might like it.”
Rye bit his lip and nodded once and then again and again. “I do. I do. I...”
I love it. It’s beautiful, and I think I have the perfect spot on my wall in my room to hang it. And I wish I knew how to thank you for this and for everything.
“I... love it. I... can hang it in my room. It’s... perfect. Thank you. This is my favorite gift. Thank you.” It wasn’t everything he wanted to say, but it was okay for now.
And Jake seemed to understand him, as he always did. He nodded and said something, a quiet “you’re welcome,” and he looked about as happy as Rye felt, his smile lighting up his eyes.
It was wonderful. Just perfect and wonderful, and Rye grinned back .
Then he dropped his gaze to the photograph again and reached up to touch the glass, his finger tracing along the bird’s outline.
He did. He loved it, absolutely loved it. And he thought maybe this was his favorite day ever. His favorite Christmas ever.
“Can you... help me put it up?” he asked, and Jake nodded.
“Of course, yeah.”
And with another smile, Rye stood up and cradled the photo carefully against his chest as he led the way to the garage so they could find a hammer and nails.