Pieces of Home

45. Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Four

Rye

“There’s enough mustard, right?” Rye frowned as he watched his mom take a second bite of the potato salad he’d just finished making. She tilted her head slightly as she chewed and then nodded, and Rye grinned.

“Mmm, it’s perfect, sweetie. You did a wonderful job,” his mom assured him, and she smiled crookedly and picked up a clean spoon, then scooped up another spoonful. “Mmm, it’s my favorite recipe. My mom—your grandma—she used to make it every summer when she’d have that big party at her house. Do you remember, sweetie?”

“Um...” Rye turned away, moving the bowl of potato salad to the other side of the two small plastic containers he’d set out. Summer parties at grandma’s house—a grandma he couldn’t remember and who had passed away several years ago. Summer parties with potato salad. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to find any hint of a memory.

His mom’s hand set gently on his arm. “She had a pool,” his mom said, “and you loved to swim in it. You were kind of fearless. You’d leap into the deep end with just your little floaties on and then...”

A splash of cool water. Laughing. And a bright . . . red . . .

“Umbrella.” The word escaped him as he flattened his hands against the counter. “There... was a bright-red umbrella n-next to the pool.”

That was it—that was all he could find, and even still, even with that piece of the memory, nothing else came into focus. But it was more than he had for a lot of the rest of his childhood.

He forced his eyes open and glanced sideways at his mom, who was wiping a tear from her cheek and obviously trying to hide it.

“It’s not much, mama,” he said, frowning again. “Just an umbrella.”

“Oh, but it’s wonderful, sweetie.” She slipped her arm around his waist and squeezed him gently. “Any little thing. ”

Rye let out a slow breath and nodded, then he straightened up and started scooping the potato salad into the two containers. “I... I need to finish. We... have to...” The words stopped coming, and he took another deep breath and reset himself. “We have to leave soon. Right?”

“Yeah,” his mom said, and she stepped away and over to the refrigerator. “You got everything else you need packed?”

Rye nodded but didn’t say anything. He finished portioning out the potato salad and then put the two containers into the insulated tote his mom had let him borrow, next to a couple of reusable water bottles and all the ingredients he’d put together for their sandwiches.

“Oh, oh! You need forks!” his mom declared, and he laughed quietly and turned around as she pulled open a drawer to grab the utensils. When she handed them to him, she was smiling, but something about her smile was different than normal. Tighter, maybe.

He was ready to ask her about it when a knock came at the front door, followed a second later by Uncle Jon’s voice calling out a greeting.

“Good morning! Sorry I’m almost late,” Uncle Jon said, closing the door behind him. He was carrying a blanket, bright blue and white with some random floral pattern, and he held it up. “This is what you wanted, right, Shirl? The beach blanket? I had to dig it out of the bottom of my closet. We haven’t used it in years.”

“Yes! That’s the one. Thanks, Jon.”

“No problem. You two headed over to the beach today? I thought you had to work soon, Shirl. And Rye, how are you doing? I feel like we keep missing each other lately.”

“I-I’m okay,” Rye managed, and he glanced at his mom, frowning. She’d want him to try. She always encouraged him to try. But he just could not talk to Uncle Jon, still, even after six months. Or at least, he couldn’t seem to manage anything more than short, stunted sentences and a nod or shake of his head. He clenched his jaw as she gave him another of her supportive smiles. And he tried again, sort of pretending he was talking to her instead of to his uncle. “I’m going... to... to the beach. Me and Jake. F-for a picnic.”

That was a lot more than he’d managed to say to Uncle Jon in a long time, and when he lifted his eyes, the older man’s smile was kind.

“That sounds like a good day, there. Hah. I remember when we used to go down to the beach when you were little. You’d dig holes in the sand deeper than you were tall, and then you’d try to build these sand bridges across them.”

Rye swallowed hard. He had vague memories of going to the beach and building sandcastles, but no memories of digging deep holes in the sand or making sand bridges, just like he had no memories of his grandma. Or her summer parties .

A flicker of anger burned in his chest, but it was short-lived. There was maybe something more important that he did remember.

He closed his eyes and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I... wish I could remember,” he said. “But... it’s okay that... I can’t.” He spoke quietly, focusing on each word, hoping that whatever it was that made it so difficult to speak to Uncle Jon would just leave him alone long enough for one more sentence. “It’s okay because I’m... I’m making new memories.”

“Oh, that’s so true, sweetie,” his mom agreed.

Uncle Jon nodded. “Definitely.”

Then his mom mentioned that they really did need to leave soon so she wasn’t late to work, and Uncle Jon agreed he needed to get going too. They said their goodbyes, which were always a bit awkward because he was nowhere near ready for goodbye hugs, and then Rye’s mom excused herself to finish getting ready.

Alone in the kitchen, Rye pulled out his cell phone, smiling as he saw Jake’s name pop up in his notifications. He clicked on the message.

Jake (7:41 a.m.): Are you sure you want chocolate chip *only*? I found some cookies with M)

Rye (7:53 a.m.): K

With another grin, Rye stuck his phone back in his pocket. Then he double-checked everything in the tote one last time, hoping he didn’t forget anything, and he hurried off to his room to finish getting ready for his day—a day he was really, really looking forward to.

A day where he’d be making new memories with his best friend.

“Do it. That’s why we’re here, right?”

Rye grinned and pushed the tote with their lunch back a bit to give Jake more room. They’d just settled on the big blue-and-white blanket Uncle Jon had brought over that morning, and they hadn’t even eaten yet, though Rye was also quite excited to share the potato salad he’d made. This was more important, however, and he nodded eagerly as Jake hesitated.

“Go on. I mean, unless you have weird feet or something, and you don’t want me to see,” he teased.

Jake groaned and then shook his head, laughing. “No, I don’t have weird feet,” he retorted, but he was grinning now, his brown eyes sparkling with amusement. And it felt good, warm, happy.

Rye wanted to hang onto that feeling as long as he could. “I don’t know. You look like you might have weird feet,” he said, and when Jake huffed another laugh, Rye continued. “I read a book last week where one of the characters had really long toes. Like, the second toe and third toe were longer than the big toe. So weird.”

Jake’s face suddenly turned bright red, and he shook his head again and then leaned forward and started untying his shoes.

“Oh my gosh, you... do have weirdly long toes, don’t you? ”

“I do... not. I mean, it’s not weird,” Jake argued. Rye could see him struggling to hold back another smile, obviously pretending to be serious. “It’s actually called Morton’s toe, and about a fifth of the population has it. It’s totally not... uncommon.”

When Jake glanced sideways at him, the corners of his mouth twitching up, Rye snickered. “Totally not uncommon at all,” he said through his laugh, nodding.

Jake rolled his eyes. “Okay, so maybe I do have weird feet.”

“Yeah. But mine are kinda weird too,” Rye admitted. “Probably everyone has weird feet.” He looked down at his feet, already sticking off the end of the blanket, and then he curled his totally-normal-length toes, burying them into the soft sand.

“You’re right, I’m sure,” Jake said. “And yours are kinda weird too.”

The tease made Rye chuckle again, and he looked back over at Jake, who was now slipping off his shoes. Jake was still smiling, although he let out a short breath as he set his shoes just off to the side and then hooked his fingers under the tops of his socks. He paused and closed his eyes lightly. “That’s, uh, not why I hesitated, though,” he said, and there wasn’t sadness in his tone so much as uncertainty—an uncertainty Rye understood all too well.

“I know,” Rye said softly. He set his hands down on either side of him and turned to look out at the ocean. The waves lapped quietly at the shore, white foam disappearing into the sand. He didn’t want to tell Jake just how much he understood the feelings Jake was having. Their situations were very different, after all, and today was about Jake, not him.

“It’s just been a long time,” Jake said. “It almost feels silly, maybe, how much I’ve been looking forward to this since you suggested it yesterday.”

“It’s . . . something that’s important to you.”

“Yeah.”

“If you want . . . I won’t watch.”

Jake was silent, and when Rye glanced back at him, he was staring down at his now-bare feet—feet that didn’t really look weird at all, even with his long toes. Jake had stuffed his socks into his shoes and shifted his feet all the way to the edge of the blanket, and his lips were pursed, his brow furrowed.

“It’s silly,” Jake repeated, though his voice was quiet again, filled with all that uncertainty.

“No, it’s not,” Rye reassured him. Then, even though he didn’t want to, he added, “I think I understand how you feel. And I... I really don’t think it’s silly at all. I think... I think it’s a beautiful thing to want to find joy in.” He curled his toes again, feeling the sand squish between them. “Especially when you’ve... been denied something so... so simple for so long.”

He wasn’t really sure that what he’d said made sense or that he’d said exactly what he’d meant to, but Jake nodded slowly and then took a deep breath. And Rye watched as Jake closed his eyes and inched his feet out ever so slowly into the sand. The tightness in his jaw faded, and as he buried his toes, he let out a soft sigh.

“Wow,” Jake breathed, and Rye grinned as Jake shook his head with a quiet laugh. He didn’t say anything else, though, which was fine. Rye understood that too. Maybe all too well.

For several minutes, they both sat there without talking, the silence comfortable, and Rye glanced at Jake one more time before turning back to the ocean and watching the waves. A flock of gulls glided down from one of the cliff faces to the south, settling in the water a few hundred feet out. And just beyond that, a string of kayakers rowed through the crisp waves, warning of the busy tourist season about to start.

Jake and his mom had both been telling Rye that things got much less quiet in their quiet town as soon as summer vacationers started to show up. Although it wasn’t officially summer for another month and a half, the weather had started to warm up, and already, Rye had noticed a change. The bookstore where he spent a lot of his time—officially still an “intern,” although Janice paid him a small salary now since he’d started helping out a bit with her bookkeeping—had recently started to see an uptick in customers. Slow but steady. And Rye wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to work there. There had already been a couple of times just in the last few days alone where a stranger had come in and he’d started to feel that familiar panic building in his chest—heart racing, a heavy weight making it harder to breathe. He’d gotten better, really, and it seemed totally random sometimes, whether he’d have that reaction or not. Usually it happened with strangers who were older, bigger men with graying hair or if he heard a low, gruff voice. But it could also just happen if the front door shut too loudly or if he heard cursing or for no apparent reason at all. Being in the back office when he was working on paperwork or accounting didn’t help too much; there was no exit in the back, and so that only added to his feeling of being trapped when something would trigger him.

He didn’t even want to think about how busy it would get in the middle of the summer.

Rye blinked and shook his head, trying to push away the thoughts. Then he glanced over at Jake, who had his eyes closed again and was breathing slowly and deeply, looking perfectly content. And that made Rye smile .

“Are you hungry?” he asked quietly, hesitant to break the silence but also eager to show Jake what he’d made. “I made the potato salad just this morning and brought stuff for sandwiches.”

“Hmm? Oh, right.” Jake straightened up a bit and nodded. “That sounds perfect. And I brought the cookies.”

“All the cookies?” Rye shot Jake a silly smile, and Jake’s eyes did that thing again where they lit up, tiny wrinkles crinkling just at the edges. It was pure joy, and it brought a burst of warmth to Rye’s chest.

“Alllll the cookies,” Jake confirmed with a wink.

Rye scooted back, grabbed the tote, and started pulling out containers filled with food while Jake fished the cookies he’d brought out of a small backpack. They both started building their sandwiches, and when Jake grinned as he piled an extra slice of tomato on his, Rye wrinkled his nose with an exaggerated “ewwww.” They both laughed.

Several minutes later, they’d turned to look out at the ocean again, and Jake had slipped his not-really-so-weird-looking feet back into the sand. Another string of kayakers rowed by out on the water, and Rye thought maybe he saw a few dolphins surface not too far from the shore.

“This is really good, Rye. You made this yourself?”

Rye pulled his gaze away from the water and glanced at his friend, nodding. He swallowed the bite of sandwich he’d had in his mouth. “Yeah. It’s...” He swallowed again, remembering that morning—the hint of a memory of a red umbrella. Then he remembered his resolve. He wanted new memories. Good new memories. Especially new memories that meant enough to replace all those awful ones. He smiled and lifted his chin a little. “It’s my grandma’s recipe. My mom shared it with me last night. I... like cooking.”

Jake’s eyes softened, and he gave a small nod. “Good thing, because I don’t. That’s why we make a good team.”

Rye scrunched up his nose. “We make a good team... because I can cook and you can’t?”

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds selfish of me, doesn’t it. I did bring the cookies, though.”

“The cookies that your sister made for you.”

“Yeah, she loves me.”

Rye had no idea what that had to do with anything, but he snorted out a laugh and shook his head. Jake was laughing, too, his eyes soft and bright again. And Rye held his gaze for an extra second, feeling all the joy of the moment.

This is wonderful .

The thought nearly burst from him, and he wasn’t even sure why he didn’t let it. After all, it was the truth. This was a wonderful moment, a wonderful new memory—sitting here on the beach, watching his friend enjoy sticking his weird, long toes in the sand while eating homemade potato salad.

It was wonderful.

But he suddenly felt a little too warm, like an odd amount of heat had traveled up into his cheeks, and he blinked and turned to look back out at the ocean.

The heat didn’t go away, though. In fact, when Jake started talking again, explaining how his sister had tried and tried and tried to teach him to cook over the years, but he just hadn’t cared enough to put any effort into it, that feeling only intensified. It must have been happiness, he assumed. Because right then, sitting out on the beach with his friend, sharing potato salad and cookies, talking and laughing and teasing, Rye felt happier than he thought maybe he’d ever felt before.

And he felt like maybe, just maybe , he’d be... okay.

Maybe he’d found enough pieces of home, enough of what used to be, and maybe... maybe the rest of his broken self could be “fixed” with moments just like this.