57. Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Six
Rye
Rye stared at himself in the mirror, which was something he really, really didn’t like to do. It still felt like the person staring back at him was not him, even after over a year of seeing himself this way. It was part of the strangeness of his existence—how a lot of the time, he still felt so immature, like he was still eight years old, and then other times, he felt almost too old. Weary. And broken.
He frowned at himself and then closed his eyes as he reached back to pull his hair into a low ponytail, looping the still-damp strands through the elastic band he’d taken out of his overnight bag.
Maybe it felt even odder tonight than what he’d normally feel. This was his first time staying overnight at Jake’s since that one week they’d been stranded here together after Rye had escaped.
And maybe it also felt odd because of all the new stuff between him and Jake.
He’d kissed Jake’s hand.
He’d kissed Jake’s hand, and it had been wonderful. More than that, even. Wonderful and exciting. And he’d wanted to do it again. He’d wanted to tilt his head back and give Jake a consenting nod and feel as Jake bent down and pressed their lips together.
But then he’d frozen, overcome with too many feelings to name them all. At the very forefront had been an overwhelming shame—one he knew all too well. It had several meanings now, including the relatively new look-what-you’re-doing-to-your-boyfriend shame that felt heavy and just awful.
He’d gotten into that car. He’d put himself in that position. It’d been his fault the man had taken him. And therefore, everything after—all this difficult, gut-wrenching everything he dealt with every day, all the difficult emotions he was forcing Jake to have and go through, all the waiting and waiting and waiting for the “huge” reward of a tiny, not-really-a-kiss kiss on the back of his hand—that was all Rye’s fault .
He lowered his hands to the sink counter and took a long, deep breath. The warm air in the bathroom—still steamy from his shower—soothed his lungs, and yet, a rotten, foul smell started to invade his senses.
It was like cigarettes and alcohol. And staleness. And pain. And he hated it.
Shaking his head, he lifted his chin and opened his eyes. A man he barely knew stared back.
You’re beautiful.
A warm, comfortable shiver coursed through him.
You’re beautiful, Rye.
Did Jake really think that? He studied himself, but all he saw was the still-unfamiliar face of a now-twenty-four-year-old man who looked... lost, unsure, definitely not his age. And he didn’t think he looked beautiful at all. He thought he looked one wrong move—one tiny trigger—away from panic.
He turned and gathered up his things, stuffing his toothbrush and comb back into his overnight bag, and then he quietly opened up the door to the bathroom and glanced down the hallway. The lights were all off except in the extra bedroom, and the glow cast out of the partially open door looked almost eerie rather than inviting. Down at the other end of the hallway, Jake’s bedroom door was cracked open a few inches, but the room inside was dark. And everything was quiet.
Maybe even a little too quiet.
Rye’s chest hurt. He reached back with his free hand to shut off the light in the bathroom, but his hand stopped on the switch and wouldn’t move. In fact, he couldn’t move for a count of three. Or five.
He scrunched his eyes shut, fighting back a curse, which he knew would just make him feel even worse. And instead, he called out for his friend.
“Jake?”
It was a cowardly thing to do. Cowardly and childish, and he immediately hated himself for it.
His hand fell to the doorframe, the bathroom light still on.
A door creaked open down the hall.
“Hey, yeah, what’s up? Are you okay?” Jake’s voice came closer, accompanied by his uneven footsteps.
More shame.
Rye shook his head. “I . . . I . . .”
Frustrated, he balled his hand into a fist and clenched his teeth. Now he couldn’t even tell Jake what was wrong because his words were stuck.
“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here,” Jake murmured, calmly and gently, and his hand settled on Rye’s upper arm, his skin warm and smooth. “Are you trying to get to the bedroom? Is it—oh...”
There was a quiet grunt as Jake shifted away, and then a click, and even through his closed eyes, Rye sensed the hallway light come on.
“I’m sorry, I forgot about the light. Was that it? Was that the problem?” Jake sounded so earnest and caring, and that, combined with the illumination, allowed Rye to breathe again.
He nodded, his hand still grasping the doorframe. “S-sorry,” he forced out, and he took a small step forward, blinking his eyes open to the now brightly lit hallway.
Jake stood in front of him, concern etched across his face. His hand was on Rye’s arm, although he stood slightly lopsided, his bad leg bent a little as though to take the weight off of it. Rye frowned and shook his head.
“Sorry. Thank you. I-I’m okay now,” he said. He wasn’t sure he believed his own words, however, and Jake maybe didn’t either. He gave Rye’s arm a light squeeze.
“Let me help you to the bedroom? Make sure everything’s okay? I’m sorry about the light,” Jake repeated, and he backed up half a step, barely putting any weight on his bad leg.
Rye lowered his eyes, noticing Jake’s bare legs for the first time. He was wearing sleep shorts rather than sweatpants, and his right thigh—
With a sharp inhale, Rye tore his eyes away to look up. Jake’s brow was furrowed, and his dark eyes still showed his concern. And his pain.
Rye’s stomach dropped. Jake had been in pain a lot of the day because of the cold and rain. He’d told Rye a long time ago that the weather sometimes made things hurt more. But he still always tried to hide it or downplay it, Rye knew, unless it was really bad. And he’d never shown Rye his scars. Not that Rye had asked or that Jake had seemed terribly self-conscious about it. Rye had only touched Jake’s bad leg that one time at the hotel in Redding. He’d felt the old injury—the indent and scar tissue from what must have been an inches-long wound right over the top of his thigh. Rye had never seen the scar before now, though.
Jake’s eyebrows were still pinched together in confusion, and he gave a light shake of his head. “What is it?” he asked softly, and he slowly let his fingers trace down Rye’s arm to his wrist. Rye still held his overnight bag, the straps gripped tightly in his hand, though he itched to intertwine his fingers with Jake’s right then.
“I . . .”
He tried. He closed his mouth and shook his head and tried. But the words wouldn’t come, hiding behind a barrier built up over years and years .
“It’s okay, don’t worry. You’re okay.” Jake shifted, still barely putting any weight on his leg, and then he offered his hand to Rye. “How about I’ll help you get settled in the extra bedroom, and we’ll just leave this hall light on. Do you think that’ll help?”
Yes. But also no. And I don’t want you walking all the way with me because you’re hurting. And I’m sorry. And—
Shame and guilt bubbled up again, but Rye managed a small nod, and he let go of the doorframe and took Jake’s hand. Warmth immediately coursed up his arm as their fingers threaded together, and he closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled slowly and deeply.
“It’s better just like that, huh?” Jake said quietly. And Rye nodded, though he couldn’t quite make himself smile. Jake squeezed his hand. “Come on.”
And they walked together, down the hallway. Each step felt a little lighter, maybe. At least Jake wasn’t limping as much as Rye had expected, given how he’d been standing. When they reached the bedroom, Rye pushed open the door, letting even more light into the hallway, and he froze again.
Memories hit him—memories of his pain, his fear, his uncertainty from that very first day. But then came more memories, and they were so much more hopeful. Happy, even. The very first kind voice he’d heard in fifteen years. The softness and warmth of the bed. A gentle touch. Words of understanding and compassion.
With a quiet sob, he leaned against Jake. He felt Jake rebalance himself a bit to take on Rye’s weight. Then Jake’s hand left his, and a strong arm slipped up and around Rye’s shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” Jake murmured, the warm words whispered into Rye’s hair. “I didn’t realize how hard this might be, to be back here. I mean, um, I know you’ve visited my house here plenty, but to be staying here in this room again. I—I should think things through better. I didn’t—”
“No,” Rye cut in, and he shook his head and turned to Jake, burying his face against Jake’s chest and wrapping his arms low around Jake’s waist. Jake smelled good. Like his shampoo and something else. Clean and fresh and... vanilla, maybe. “No, I...”
Words were still too hard, and his throat constricted when he tried to speak again, so he stopped, knowing that any effort would just hurt more.
And Jake would understand enough anyway.
He wasn’t sure, though, whether he’d be sleeping tonight.
Slowly, he pulled out of the embrace and turned back to the bedroom. It was brightly lit, and the bed was neatly made, the dark-gray comforter tucked up under a row of fluffy pillows with matching gray pillowcases. A cup of hot tea, still steaming, sat on the nightstand next to the bed, because Jake was wonderful like that and somehow always seemed to anticipate what Rye needed.
“Will this be okay?” Jake’s hand settled on Rye’s back.
Rye nodded. It would be okay. It would have to be.
“If it’s not, it’s not too late to head back to your place. I could sleep on the couch or, you know, wherever. Your mom had mentioned an extra bedroom.”
An image of Jake trying to fit himself into that tiny bed flashed in Rye’s mind, and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing as he shook his head.
“N-no. The bed... it’s...” He didn’t finish, but he managed to step away from Jake and into the room, toward the bed. And he tested his words again. “This... this is...”
Fine. This is fine. I’m sorry.
Glancing back at Jake over his shoulder, Rye tried to hold a smile on his face. Jake’s lips twitched up in response, and he nodded.
“Okay. If you’re sure?”
Rye nodded again but then stopped and frowned. Jake was leaning against the doorframe now, most of the weight off his bad leg, and his scar was more easily visible—the rough, pink skin several inches long, disappearing up under the hem of Jake’s shorts. Rye pursed his lips and lifted his eyes back to Jake.
“You’re hurting?” he managed to ask, and Jake’s expression tightened briefly.
“Nah, I’m okay, it’s—” Rye lifted his eyebrows, and Jake cut himself off with a short huff. “Sorry, yeah, it is hurting. But it’s not too bad, really. It’ll be fine in the morning, I’m sure, so you don’t need to worry or anything.”
Rye dropped his overnight bag next to the bed, then stepped back over to Jake and took his hand. He tugged gently, guiding Jake over to the bed, and then he forced the words out.
“Sit here. I’ll be right back.”
Jake looked confused, but he did as Rye said, and after he sat, Rye turned and headed back out into the hallway—the nice, brightly lit hallway. He set one hand on the wall and closed his eyes just before he got to the end of the hallway. Then he groped around until he found the light switch that turned on the living room and kitchen lights, and he flipped it on.
He felt light and warmth, enough to settle the unease in his stomach, and then he opened his eyes, swallowed, and headed into the now-familiar kitchen.
“He has medicine, but he doesn’t like to take it unless he basically can’t walk. He’s stubborn like that,” Krista had told him some time ago. “I wish he’d take it when he needs it so he wasn’t hurting so much. But it has to be his decision, you know.”
Rye did know. It did have to be Jake’s decision. But maybe Rye could encourage him, too .
He opened up a cupboard and then the next one, and after another moment or two of searching, he found a small orange pill bottle with Jake’s name on it. He grabbed the bottle and then filled a glass halfway full with water, and he hurried back down the hallway to the extra bedroom, not even trying to stop and turn the lights off.
When he entered the room again, Jake was still sitting right where Rye had left him, and his hand was on his thigh, rubbing the muscles slowly. Rye stopped and sat next to him and then held out the medicine and water.
“It... will help,” he said, without quite as much hesitation as he’d had before. When Jake didn’t move, Rye added, “Kris told me it will help.”
That did the trick. Jake chuckled and lifted his hand up from his leg to take the pill bottle from Rye. “Yeah, she’s right. But when—ah, it doesn’t matter. She’s right, and, well, I’m too stubborn to admit it sometimes. I... worry about becoming reliant on things, um, other than myself, I guess.”
Rye nodded, and he held the glass of water out, too. “I... know it will always hurt, but if... if this can help you, at least when it’s hurting a lot, I hope... it’s okay.”
The words were jumbled and not very eloquent or articulate, which pretty much matched how he was feeling right about then. But they seemed to do the trick. Jake turned his head and held Rye’s gaze for a moment, his expression soft, and he looked like he really wanted to say something. Instead, however, he just gave a small nod.
“You’re right. Thank you, Rye,” he said, and he twisted off the cap to the pill bottle, shook one pill out into his palm, capped the bottle, and took the water from Rye. Then he popped the pill in his mouth and washed it down with a quick sip. He set the pill bottle on the bed next to him and then stared at the glass in his hands.
Rye scooted a little closer and leaned his head on Jake’s shoulder. “We’re...”
“. . . quite a pair?” Jake finished for him.
With a laugh, Rye nodded. “You came to help me because I... because I’m so broken, I’m still scared of the dark, and—”
“You’re not broken, Rye,” Jake interrupted lightly, and Rye just shook his head a little.
But then he saw the pill bottle again, sitting on the other side of Jake, and he finally made some connection. Some dumb, silly little connection that probably wouldn’t actually make much sense if he sat and thought too hard on it. And he knew he wouldn’t really be able to explain it anyway, but he wanted to try.
“I’m... exactly as I am,” he started, and he felt Jake nod. “Stuff happened to me. All those awful things. And I sometimes blame myself for it.” He paused and then closed his eyes and worked really, really hard to force out the next words. “It wasn’t... it wasn’t my fault. But it feels that way, sometimes. And... and it hurts a lot of the time—sometimes just a little, and sometimes it hurts a whole lot. So much that it’s almost too much. But I have to... survive. I have to get by. I have to let people help me when it gets really hard. Like... like how you helped me a few minutes ago.”
“And like how you helped me just now,” Jake whispered.
“Yeah.” He blinked his eyes back open and stared at the glass of water in Jake’s hands.
Jake wasn’t broken. Rye had never thought Jake was broken. He just... endured. Sometimes in a little pain. Sometimes in a lot of pain. If only Rye could think of himself in the same way, maybe... maybe he could heal. Someday.
“Maybe... I’m not broken,” he said. “Maybe I just need help... turning on the light sometimes.”
Jake murmured an agreement, and then Rye felt the light pressure of Jake’s cheek resting on top of his head. It was more comfort and warmth, and he breathed deeply and closed his eyes one more time.
Maybe he would be able to sleep tonight.
And maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to kiss his boyfriend tomorrow.
A real kiss this time.