Pieces of Home

49. Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Eight

Rye

The small get together Wednesday evening probably couldn’t really be called a party, but Rye’s mom seemed intent on making it feel like one. She cleaned the house and had the gardener over to tidy up the backyard. She also baked and decorated a huge cake, and with Rye’s permission, invited Uncle Jon and Aunt Tanya and Janice and then a couple other very close family friends who lived in town.

Uncle Jon manned the barbecue, grilling up burgers and hot dogs, and Aunt Tanya brought so many other dishes, Rye thought she’d meant to feed the whole town. There was potato salad, fruit salad, veggies, chips and dip, some pasta dish, baked beans, and coleslaw.

And everyone sat outside around a big table Uncle Jon had set up, and they ate and talked. His mom thoroughly embarrassed him by standing up about halfway through the meal and giving a short, tear-filled speech saying how proud she was of him, how happy she’d been the whole last year, and how much she was looking forward to the future now. Then she hugged Rye and kissed his cheek, and everyone was quiet for a few minutes, except for more sniffles and a few low murmurs of agreement, before the chatter picked back up again.

Rye... managed. Surprisingly well, he thought. Maybe because he knew everyone already and they all seemed to know to give him space to avoid overwhelming him.

Maybe it was that.

Or maybe it was because Jake had been sitting with him nearly the whole time. And having his friend nearby made him feel safe. And brave. Like he could handle things.

Rye stared down at the empty cup in his hands, half listening to the vague chatter going on around him. From his right, Jake laughed, and the deep sound resonated, surrounding him. He closed his eyes .

It was true.

What his mom had said to him the other day—that maybe he’d started to care about Jake as more than just a friend—it was true.

And also terrifying.

For the last few days, Rye hadn’t been able to speak much, even to Jake. He’d tried to carry on with their “normal,” where he could usually find the words if he really needed them, especially when it was just him and Jake. But it had been worse even than most of the summer. As frustrating as that was to him, Jake had taken it all in stride, filling the silence when it had needed to be filled. He’d told Rye stories about his life, or talked about his work, or helped him with the last-minute studying Rye needed to do before Friday.

Or, when the silence wasn’t uncomfortable, Jake had just been there. He’d just stayed. Not seeming to mind in the slightest.

In fact, he’d seemed almost eager, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be, even if Rye couldn’t talk.

And it wasn’t just that. Rye had started to notice other things, too. Some big, some small. It hadn’t really been hard, not when he’d been paying attention.

The lingering looks that somehow had the power to cause a gentle warmth to spread through Rye’s chest.

The thoughtfulness that seemed to go into everything Jake did.

The softness in Jake’s voice that seemed to be reserved only for Rye.

All of those things, plus at least one other big one that Rye hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.

“Hey, Rye, did you hear that?” Jake’s soft voice surrounded him with warmth, just like his laugh had moments ago, and Rye opened his eyes, blinking against the dimming sunlight of early evening, and tilted his head to look at Jake. Deep brown eyes, so kind and soft, met his. “Your mom’s heading inside to cut the cake,” Jake continued. “Did you want some?”

Rye smiled but shook his head. He was too full from dinner to eat any more, and even though he couldn’t seem to say that, Jake somehow understood.

“Too full now, huh? Maybe later?” At Rye’s nod, Jake grinned and said, “Well, I’ve always got room for cake”—Rye raised his eyebrows in amusement, which earned him an eye roll—“so, I’ll be right back. Gonna grab a piece and see if your mom needs any help. Is there anything you want? More water? Or I can make you some tea?”

Rye shook his head again, and Jake gave him a small, warm smile.

“Okay. I’ll be right back. ”

And as soon as he left, Rye felt it—that other thing that he’d noticed so much in the last few days and hadn’t been able to stop thinking about. When Jake wasn’t around, Rye... wanted him to be.

It was a quiet ache in his chest. Not uncomfortable, just... expectant.

He’d mentioned it to his mom last night in a short, mostly one-sided conversation they’d had where he’d actually managed to force a few words out. And his mom had smiled knowingly and nodded and said, “I’m guessing Jake feels that same way, sweetie.”

He’d wanted to ask her more questions, but he hadn’t been able to. The few words he’d said had been as much as he’d been capable of.

Rye watched Jake disappear into the house, then he set his cup up on the table in front of him and waited, feeling the ache even more acutely. Uncle Jon came up and asked him if he wanted anything else, and he shook his head in response. Then Janice came over to say goodbye, wishing him good luck on his GED exams on Friday. He forced out a quiet “thank you,” which earned him a smile.

A few minutes later, Jake came back outside, carrying two plates, not one. He shrugged and set the first plate down in front of Rye.

“Your mom insisted, but you don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to,” Jake said quietly as he slipped back into his seat.

Rye just nodded and swallowed back the lump in his throat. The ache in his chest was gone again.

He didn’t eat the cake—he really was too full—but he watched as Jake polished off his piece and then settled back in his chair, resting both hands across his stomach with a satisfied grunt. It made Rye laugh, which earned him another eye roll.

A couple of hours or so later, after the last of the guests had left and almost everything had been cleaned up, Rye stood next to Jake at the sink, loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher while Jake scrubbed the cake pan. Jake had stayed to help clean up, because of course he had.

And Rye really didn’t mind.

He really didn’t mind one bit.

In fact, he found himself hoping Jake would stay even longer. And it wasn’t that that was an entirely new feeling. No, now he was just much, much more aware of it and starting to question what that feeling really meant.

Jake set down the scrubbing sponge he’d been using and turned the hot water back on to rinse the pan. “So, are you ready for tomorrow?” he asked casually. “Are you packed? Or planning to get packed in the morning? ”

Rye nodded, then frowned, realizing that hadn’t really been an answer. He cleared his throat with a light cough, staring down at the plate in his hand. “Um, I’m ready. I’m packed.”

They were probably the first words he’d actually said to Jake all day, and he was glad they’d actually come fairly easily.

“Nice. I’ve still gotta finish in the morning,” Jake admitted. “Oh, and since we should be getting to Redding in the late afternoon, I thought we’d—”

The quiet click of the slider door opening behind them cut Jake off. They both turned to see Rye’s mom stepping inside and shutting the slider.

“Whew, alright. That was the last of the trash. The bin’s quite full,” she said, wiping her hands on her pants as she started in their direction.

She looked happy, Rye thought, but also completely exhausted, and he quickly loaded the last dish into the dishwasher and then closed it up just as she reached his side.

His mom wrapped an arm low around his waist and pulled him against her for an awkward side hug as he dried his hands on a dish towel. “How are you doing, sweetie? That was okay, right? You seemed like you had a good enough time?”

Rye nodded and set down the dish towel. “Yeah, it was... really good. Um, thank you... for everything,” he said slowly.

He’d fought for every word, and she seemed to know it. Her eyes lit up, even through the clear exhaustion in them, and she reached up and touched his cheek. “I’m so proud of you, Rye. I hope you know that. I’m sorry I can’t be there with you on Friday.”

“It’s okay, mama. I... I know you have work,” Rye said. And he managed a small smile, hoping to see her eyes brighten again. “Jake will be with me. And... and I... I’m going to do really well, I think.”

That did the trick; her eyes brightened, and she pulled him in for another hug, this one a full, proper hug. She held him tightly and kissed his cheek, and then she whispered in his ear, “You’re going to do great. I know it.”

When she backed away, she was still smiling. Her eyes held his for several seconds, and she gave him a little nod. He didn’t know what the nod was for, but it felt every bit as encouraging as her hug just had.

“I’m gonna head to bed,” she said finally, and she glanced at Jake. “Thank you again for the help with cleaning up, Jake.”

“You’re welcome, Shirley. Thank you for having me over.”

Rye almost laughed, seeing as Jake had been over almost every day since the beginning of summer. But he held back and watched as his mom stepped over and gave Jake a hug. Then she said good night and padded off down the hallway toward her bedroom, leaving Rye and Jake alone in the quiet kitchen .

And that little ache in Rye’s chest grew as he stood awkwardly, his hands now shoved in his pockets. It was dumb, right? He’d see Jake again tomorrow. Yet he couldn’t deny that he didn’t want the evening to be over.

Next to him, Jake leaned back against the counter and cleared his throat lightly. “So, um, I’ll pick you up tomorrow at about eleven?” he said, but his voice sounded reluctant—a lot like how Rye felt.

Rye stared up at him and swallowed hard. Was Jake feeling it, too? That same little ache in his chest? Did he want to stay right now as much as Rye didn’t want him to leave?

He really, really wanted to ask. Something inside him needed to know.

Not that it would matter. Even if his mom was right, no matter how much Jake cared for him, Rye was broken. He’d been broken. All this time. And even thinking of the possibility—of having a relationship that was more than just friends, a relationship that came with expectations —only brought up awful memories.

Memories of being hurt. Forced. Touched against his will. Memories that made him feel weak and powerless and hopeless.

Jake wouldn’t hurt him like that. He knew Jake wouldn’t hurt him like that. Jake was his friend, and he was kind and gentle. Rye knew that. But as hard as he’d tried, he still couldn’t seem to envision anything different. Anything not forceful, painful, terrifying.

So he had no idea how it could possibly work if they tried for... for something more. He had no idea if he could ever even be something more.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything changes,” his mom had told him the other day. “Or it can, if you want it to.”

Did Rye . . . want it to?

A few days ago, his answer had been a strong and immediate absolutely not . But now... now he wasn’t sure. Because that ache in his chest meant something now. That feeling of safety he had with Jake meant something now. The fact that he could still feel Jake’s fingertips brushing his cheek meant something now.

And he just didn’t know.

The only thing he really knew he wanted in that moment was for Jake to stay just a little bit longer. So, he dropped his chin and looked down at the floor and did the only thing he could think of. He said, “Do you want more cake?”

Which didn’t answer Jake’s question or ask the question Rye really wanted to ask.

The short silence was thick and heavy, and after several seconds, Rye risked a look up. Jake’s eyebrows were pinched together in semi-confusion, but his eyes were bright with amusement. He shook his head lightly .

“No, I don’t think so. I, uh, had enough earlier, but, um, if you don’t want me to leave yet, I can stay?”

Rye pursed his lips and held Jake’s gaze, letting himself feel its warmth. God, his mom had to be right. He forced a small nod, and the light in Jake’s eyes shone with something that looked a lot like hope. Rye tore his gaze away, staring back down at the floor.

“I... I want to talk,” he said, and the words didn’t want to come—again—but he tried harder. “If that’s okay? Can we talk?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Jake’s answer came right away, no hesitation in it at all.

And Rye’s heart started racing with an unusual rhythm. He couldn’t quite decide if it was pleasant or not.

Jake cleared his throat quietly. “How about I make us some tea?”

“Lemon balm with honey?”

“Yeah, sure. And then we can talk.”

Thank you.

Rye nodded.

A few minutes later, Rye cradled his mug in his hands, staring down at the steam coming off the top of the liquid. He sat cross-legged, his back resting firmly against the armrest of the couch. Jake sat on the opposite side—all the way on the opposite side—and that suddenly seemed much too far away.

Which was a strange feeling.

All the questions he wanted to ask swirled around and around in his head, and he didn’t know what to do or where to start or whether the knot in his stomach was what was making him slightly nauseous.

He could feel Jake watching him, too, even as he kept just staring at his tea. His fingers tightened around the ceramic, and he closed his eyes.

“It’s okay, Rye,” Jake murmured softly from his spot way too far away on the other side of the couch. “Whatever you want to say, I’m here to listen.”

You’re too perfect. The thought popped into his head, though it surprised him. He took a deep breath and looked back up.

Jake’s eyes were full of a soft concern that just washed over him, warm and comforting, and Rye let himself linger there in it for several seconds. Then he blinked and nodded.

“I . . . wanted to ask you something.”

He had to force the words out, and he still wasn’t even sure what he wanted to ask or how he wanted to ask it. Or even if he could. He scrunched his eyes closed and shifted his knees up, bringing them in tight against his chest.

Then the couch creaked, and he heard Jake’s soft voice, a little closer than it had been a moment ago. “You’re okay. You’re okay, yeah?”

Rye managed a nod, and he gripped his mug tighter. He was okay. He was. And he... liked that Jake was sitting closer now.

Maybe... maybe he should just say that. I like that you’re sitting closer. Just a few simple words. And if Jake cared about him, like his mom thought, maybe Jake would tell him that.

Although, he already kind of had, hadn’t he? The other day. Outside at Jake’s car. “I like you—”

Maybe that was where Rye should start.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and then another, and since his hands were shaking and he didn’t want to spill his drink, he leaned over and set his mug on the coffee table. Then, he hugged his knees tight to his chest, lifted his eyes to meet Jake’s, and made himself speak.

“What did you mean last week when you said y-you... like me?” His words weren’t eloquent or probably even coherent, but he’d said them nonetheless.

And Jake’s eyes widened, his lips parted slightly. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he blinked and looked down, then he seemed to swallow hard.

“Well, I, um . . .”

Jake blew out a short breath, leaned forward to set his tea on the coffee table, too, and then raked a hand through his hair. He was... nervous?

Or maybe just unsure of what to say.

Or maybe he was nervous because he was unsure of what to say because he’d meant what he’d said before and—

“I think I like you too,” Rye blurted out, and as soon as he did, the voice in his head nearly shouted at him, telling him how juvenile he was, how broken, how unlikeable. It told him to keep his mouth shut, or else...!

But he didn’t want to listen to it. He didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to hear Jake’s answer. He wanted to hear Jake’s answer in Jake’s kind voice that always made him feel better and safe. And he wanted to know.

So he kept his eyes open and on Jake, holding his breath, waiting.

Several long seconds passed, and just as Rye started to wonder whether he’d said something terribly wrong, Jake lifted his chin and looked up again. His smile was soft, just like his eyes. Soft and hopeful.

And Rye’s heart did something strange, a warm flutter in his chest. He liked that too .

“Do you really mean that?” Jake asked quietly. “Because I don’t want to say anything that would upset you or... or pressure you or... anything.”

Rye nodded once, and he forced more words out. “Tell me. Please. Tell me what you meant.”

Jake looked back down, wringing his hands together, and he seemed to be searching for the right words. Finally, he took a deep breath and lifted his eyes. His soft smile had a hint of worry to it, but he spoke clearly and without hesitation. “When I said that—when I said I like you,” he started, “I meant that I feel a connection with you that I’ve never felt with anyone else before. I... want to be around you all the time, I want to be here for you when you need me, I want to show you how wonderful you are. You mean more to me than I can even say. That’s what I meant when I said I like you.”

Rye’s cheeks felt warm, and his heart did that strange thing again, that flutter, only it was more intense this time. And he felt a pull, like something was drawing him closer to Jake, trying to get him to move. To scoot over just to be closer.

He held himself still.

“Like... more than friends?” he asked, and because he felt like he needed even more clarity, he added, “Like in a... romantic way?”

He immediately worried that he probably sounded dumb. After all, he really had no idea what he was talking about. His mom had even had to point out to him what his feelings might mean because he just had no idea.

But Jake’s reaction didn’t make him feel dumb at all.

Jake’s cheeks flushed a deep red, and he pursed his lips and nodded and said, his voice low and deep and kind, “Yeah. Yeah, like that.”

Rye ducked his head, resting it on his knees as some overwhelming emotion rippled through him, strong and fast, and the couch shifted again. Jake had moved closer. Rye could feel him, a warmth and presence that Rye had come to find so much comfort in.

“I think... I like you like that too,” he said. “I-I just—”

He sucked in a breath and pressed his forehead against his knees. God, it hurt. He hurt. Because even with Jake’s warmth there—his closeness, his comfort—the uncertainty and fear were still so strong.

“Rye,” Jake said, and Rye’s chest tightened, but he tilted his chin up so he could see Jake.

Jake had indeed moved a little closer, as Rye had felt, and he’d shifted so he was facing Rye, one leg hiked up onto the couch and his arm resting along the back cushion. Closer now and yet still too far away.

“Rye, I don’t want to pressure you. That’s the last thing I want. And I don’t want to make you feel like I expect anything from you. I’ve been so, so happy just being here for you, just being your friend. I... um, didn’t lie last week, when I said I like you, but I also appreciate your friendship more than anything, and I don’t want you to think otherwise.”

What if I want otherwise? Rye clenched his jaw and gave a tiny nod, but the questions started swirling around again. Did he want... more? And what did that mean? And could he handle it? And... and would it be fair to Jake if they tried and... it didn’t work? If they tried, and Rye couldn’t make himself... less broken?

“Whatever questions you’re asking yourself,” Jake continued quietly, “we can talk them out, if you want. When you’re ready, or, I mean, if you’re ready. It doesn’t have to be now or tonight or tomorrow. If you want to talk, I’ll wait for you. Whenever you’re ready, however long it takes. No rush. No pressure. Nothing like that. You mean a lot to me, and I... I’ll wait. Gladly.”

Rye found himself nodding, even though he wasn’t answering any specific question.

Or maybe he was .

Maybe he was answering his own question. Maybe he did want more.

Rye reached up and touched his cheek, the spot where Jake’s fingers had brushed so gently across his skin days ago. A warm rush to his chest brought a small smile back to his face, and he closed his eyes for a second and inhaled deeply.

When he looked back up, Jake was watching him, his expression unreadable now. Rye swallowed and nodded again, and then he made the next move. He gave in—just a little—to that pull he’d been feeling in his heart. He set a hand on the couch and scooted himself out of his corner. A few inches and then a few more. And when he was close enough, he reached out slowly and slid his hand along the back of the couch until the tips of his fingers brushed lightly against Jake’s.

He heard Jake’s sharp inhale, but he didn’t look up. He was watching their hands. His small, pale fingers caressed along the back of Jake’s, and he stopped and stayed there, their fingers barely touching, just a whisper of contact.

It was nothing. And yet, it was everything.

When he did finally lift his gaze again, the expression he saw in Jake’s eyes left no doubt that Jake was feeling it too.

“I-I like . . . this,” Rye said.

And Jake gave a soft nod. “Yeah, I do, too.”