Pieces of Home

58. Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Jake

Jake’s exercise routine took a bit longer than usual the next morning, partly because he was stiff from the cold, rainy weather and partly because he was distracted.

Quite distracted.

Rye had decided to join him, and the whole time, Jake had been having trouble concentrating. He found every little thing intriguing—from the way Rye stuck his tongue out in concentration as he pushed through the single-leg squats to the way his messy blond hair fell over his face when he lowered his head during the two-minute-long plank. And then there were other reasons too. Other not-so-innocent reasons.

Rye seemed to have some sort of plan or something for the morning, and Jake wasn’t sure he was going to survive it. Three times already, Rye had touched Jake’s hand—that same spot he’d kissed yesterday—and each time, he’d looked up at Jake with a question in his eyes, almost like he was asking What did it feel like?

By the time they finished all of Jake’s regular exercises, he was brimming with some energy that felt new and different. He pushed himself up to sit against the wall and motioned for Rye to join him, and Rye did, scooting up next to him and curling against Jake’s side, his head settling right in the crook of Jake’s shoulder.

“Maybe I should make breakfast while you do your PT stuff?” Rye suggested after a moment.

Jake hummed noncommittally and tightened his arm around Rye’s shoulder.

Rye chuckled. “Or I can stay here. This is comfortable.”

“It is,” Jake agreed, turning to rest his cheek on top of Rye’s head. Then Jake lowered his free hand to his left thigh, and Rye’s almost immediately joined his, their fingers intertwining in the now-familiar touch. They just sat there in the warm silence for a few minutes, neither of them too keen on moving .

It felt good, safe, comfortable . Hell, even Jake’s leg, which had been bothering him a bit during a few of the exercises, seemed less achy. Or it was his distraction at work again.

He let his thumb rub back and forth along Rye’s skin, and Rye sighed contentedly, the sound sending heat into Jake’s chest and... lower. With a sharp inhale, Jake cleared his throat and straightened up a bit, glancing out the wall of windows on the ocean-facing side of the room looking for something else to distract him.

“It looks like the rain stopped, maybe?” he said, and he felt Rye nod against him.

“I was outside a bit earlier, before you were up. No rain. Just the fog. And it’s not too cold, either. Actually, what do you think about going on a walk this morning? Down on your beach, I mean. Would it be too hard for you today? For your leg?”

The pleasant feeling that had been building in his chest morphed into something not so pleasant, and Jake swallowed hard and closed his eyes. “Um, I’m not sure,” he said.

And that wasn’t true at all. Yeah, his leg was achy, but that wasn’t the reason for his hesitation. Nausea roiled in his stomach, hot in an uncomfortable way, and he frowned, about to backtrack on his fib. But Rye squeezed his hand lightly.

“Maybe we can give it a try after you do your PT exercises. And after we eat breakfast, I mean. I’d love to see your beach, and I bet the fog will be starting to lift by then.”

“Ah, um, yeah, I . . .”

Rye had been having trouble speaking the night before, but he seemed like he had all the words he needed this morning, because he kept going, even as Jake’s stomach continued to churn.

“I can’t believe it’s been a whole year—more than a year, actually—and I’ve never been down there. I mean, um, not since that night. It’s so beautiful from up here. I bet it’s even better—”

“Yeah,” Jake cut in, and he coughed and shook his head. “Um, I...”

Rye twisted and looked up at him, the clear enthusiasm in his expression turning quickly to concern. “What is it?” he asked, his eyes searching Jake’s.

“I, um...” Jake closed his eyes and shook his head. He’d talked about this plenty with his therapist, and he’d tried approach after approach after approach in months and months of therapy sessions. He understood his trauma and how it was related to his accident and to finding Rye down there, huddled up, unconscious. But still, even with diligence and effort, the most he’d been able to do was walk up to the stairway and look down. He could talk himself through it, he could tell a story about him doing it—walking down the stairs. But he still couldn’t even imagine Rye with him, safe and healthy, taking one step and then another and another down the stairs to reach the bottom. And he certainly couldn’t get himself to do it either.

It still made him sick to his stomach and worse... Worse things happened in his head if he tried to push himself any more than that.

Just like Krista, Jake’s therapist had recommended he consider talking to Rye about it months ago, but he’d been reluctant. He didn’t want to make Rye uncomfortable, to trigger any of Rye’s own traumas, or to make Rye feel like it was his fault or his responsibility to help Jake get better.

But maybe... maybe it was time. And in any case, he certainly couldn’t lie anymore. That was bad enough.

Needing more time to wrap his head around it all, Jake forced a small smile, and then he bent his right leg up and straightened it back out, testing how it felt. Stiff, achy. Annoyingly very, very similar to what he remembered it feeling like that morning —the morning he’d found Rye on his beach, nearly dead.

His stomach lurched again, and little black spots clouded his vision.

“It’s bad, huh?” Rye guessed, squeezing Jake’s hand.

He shook his head. “No, uh, not really. It’s not too bad, just a little stiff.”

“Oh, good.” Rye seemed to settle back up against him, and Rye’s hand released his. Soft fingertips caressed slowly up Jake’s forearm, about halfway to his elbow and then back to his wrist.

It was exquisite and comfortably distracting again. “Mmm.”

“Hmm. You like this?”

“Definitely.”

“Good.”

Rye repeated the motion and then paused with his fingers teasing along Jake’s palm. “But, um, something’s still... bothering you.”

He nodded, but he didn’t really want to talk about it. He wanted Rye to just keep touching him, for them to just keep sitting here in this comfortable spot, with Rye blissfully unaware of the source of Jake’s fear. This, after all, felt much better than the uncertainty churning around in the pit of his stomach.

But he owed Rye honesty, if nothing else. And if he were being honest with himself, too, he wanted his beach back. He missed it. Every day, he still missed it.

“I, um, have a hard time talking about it,” Jake started, and he took a deep breath to try to get the words flowing.

Rye’s hand left his, and then Rye’s body shifted away, too, and when Jake opened his eyes, he saw Rye sitting in front of him, cross-legged, his eyes wide and bright and concerned .

Rye nodded. “You know I... I understand that.”

Jake half smiled but shook his head. “Yeah, although, mine’s for a different reason. And I don’t want to, um, upset you with what I’m going to tell you.”

Rye’s expression tightened, but then he reached out and took both of Jake’s hands in his. “It has to do with your beach... and me?”

Images that were dark and scary and filled with a wrenching fear of the worst possible outcome flickered in his vision, and Jake sucked in a sharp breath. He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I, um, I haven’t been able to go back down to the beach, even after my leg recovered. Not since that day, and um, I...”

The warmth of Rye’s hands in his provided some stability he’d never had when trying to talk about this before, and he kept going. He told Rye about that day itself, from his perspective—about the state he’d found Rye in, how he’d thought Rye was dead, how he’d found out they were stranded without help because of the rainstorm. And then he told Rye about how ever since that day, every time he’d tried to make himself go down the stairs, back down to his beach, he couldn’t do it. He even mentioned how his therapist had suggested he talk to Rye about it, how Krista had wondered if maybe Rye being with him could help him move past that first step.

And as evidence of Rye’s strength and growth, the younger man didn’t back away at any of the words Jake said. If anything, Rye scooted a little closer, held Jake’s hands a little tighter. When Jake finished speaking, Rye moved back to Jake’s side and leaned in and hugged him, his arms looping around Jake’s midsection and his head resting on Jake’s shoulder.

Jake shuddered and breathed out slowly, and he returned the embrace, holding Rye to him gently, without any pressure.

“I’m so sorry, Jake,” Rye said. “I didn’t know.”

“You’ve already helped me so much,” Jake admitted, and he let one hand rub up and down Rye’s back, the gesture soothing to him somehow. “When you suggested we take a walk at the beach in town, and then, the picnic on the beach, with the sand, I appreciated that more than you know.”

“And I want to help you with this, too.” Rye’s voice was quieter now, though no less certain. “If you think I can help, I’ll go with you. We can do it together.”

The words echoed what Rye had said last night—how they could both help each other—and it was like some huge weight had been lifted off Jake’s chest and he could breathe again.

Rye shifted in his arms and gazed up at him, his blue eyes bright and his whole expression soft. He bit his lip, which Jake found incredibly endearing, and then Rye brought his hand up and ever so softly cupped Jake’s cheek.

There was half a second where Rye almost seemed ready to pull his hand back. He blinked and stiffened a little as his hand froze there, and then he huffed a little laugh.

Jake narrowed his eyes, but he smiled at Rye’s silly, surprised expression. “What?”

“I hadn’t expected your beard to feel like... this.” There was slightly more pressure this time as Rye’s hand settled against his cheek. “It’s, um, coarse. And I probably should have known that it would be,” he added with a small shake of his head.

Jake was about to respond with something quiet and simple, but he stopped himself as Rye’s eyes began a slow, intentional path upward, carefully studying Jake’s face and then his hair. And the little twinkle in Rye’s eyes grew.

“Your hair is soft,” he explained, and he reached up and slowly ran his fingers through Jake’s hair, brushing back the few strands that had fallen over his forehead.

God.

Jake closed his eyes, and heat shot through him as Rye repeated the action.

“For some reason,” Rye continued, “I just imagined your beard would be soft, too, which doesn’t make sense, I know.”

“Uh, yeah, I . . .” God.

Rye’s fingertips grazed down along Jake’s temple and then his jaw. Then Rye’s hand left his face and settled right in the center of his chest, right over his thrumming heart, the touch just bursting with warmth and tenderness. Jake sucked in a breath and opened his eyes halfway to see Rye sitting there, staring at where his hand rested, his lips pursed together.

“Jake?”

“Hmm?”

Rye’s hand pressed into him a little more.

“I want to kiss you again. Later.” Rye lifted his eyes, as though he’d known Jake was watching him. “I’m not sure where yet. Maybe...” He trailed off, but his gaze flitted down to Jake’s lips, and his cheeks turned the most adorable shade of pink.

Jake almost groaned, but he caught himself, and instead, he slowly brought his hand around and set it atop Rye’s on his chest, caressing Rye’s smooth skin with his fingertips.

It was Rye’s turn this time—he closed his eyes and made a little sound that was somewhere between a hum and a whimper.

“I’d like that,” Jake said softly .

“I think I would too.” Rye tilted his head a tiny bit, thoughtfully almost. “But first”—he opened his eyes and looked up at Jake with such tenderness that Jake’s heart stuttered—“the beach.”

He gave a small nod. “The beach.”

Rye pushed away and stood up in a smooth, graceful motion. Then he offered Jake his hand with a light smile. “PT stuff first, actually, because you have to do that every day, right? And then breakfast... and then the beach.”

Hope fluttered in his chest as he looked up at Rye. Hope and that other emotion he’d been feeling so strongly—the one he was sure was love. He reached up and took Rye’s hand. “Yeah, okay. And, uh, thank you.”

Those words didn’t seem to be enough, but they were all he had right then. He glanced past Rye and out to the patio, to the stairs, to the foggy cliffs beyond.

Today . . . would be the day.

“Come on, slowpoke.” Rye tugged lightly on Jake’s hand. “Heel raises first, right? You do about a billion, and I try to do a set of ten or fifteen.”

Jake laughed, then grunted as he not-so-smoothly-or-gracefully pushed himself up off the ground, letting Rye’s grip steady him. “It’s not that many.”

“Maybe not quite. But almost.”

Jake shook his head with another laugh, and he looked down at his boyfriend, who squeezed his hand, sending a warm fuzziness all the way down into his toes. Could he be any more perfect?

Rye smiled softly. “Ready?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

Thick, chilly air filled his lungs as Jake stepped out onto the patio, Rye following just behind him. The morning fog still hung close to the ground, obscuring his view beyond the nearest of the dark, rocky cliffs. But up and behind him, he could feel warmth beginning to seep through the low, heavy clouds—the sunlight fighting to burn off the marine layer.

Rye’s hand slipped into his, and Jake pulled his eyes away from the veil of clouds to glance down at his boyfriend.

“Ready?” Rye asked, a soft eagerness in his eyes.

Jake couldn’t answer right away, and instead, he looked back out to the water, barely visible through the fog. He started forward toward the patio railing and was relieved when Rye followed him, their hands still joined. His steps felt slow and uneven, but not because he was still hurting or because his leg ached.

He could do this. They could do this. Right?

With a nervous breath, Jake stopped just before the railing, and he looked down. The beach— his beach—stretched out below, waves lapping gently along the shoreline. It was fifty-three stairs away. That was all. Just fifty-three stairs. Then... freedom.

He let his eyes follow the arc of shore to the south until it disappeared into the fog. Beyond stood the tall, rocky cliffs of the coastline, towering over the beach. He wanted this to work. Desperately so. He wanted to conquer those fifty-three steps and then set out to do that one-mile walk that used to be a part of his daily routine. Rain or shine, hot or cold, foggy or clear.

“Jake,” Rye whispered.

“Hmm?”

“Can I hug you?”

His heart fluttered, a warmth that had nothing to do with the growing sunlight behind them spreading into his chest. He turned to face Rye, who stepped in front of him at the same time.

“Of course,” he answered, his voice thick with emotion. And he expected Rye’s arms to slip around his waist and for Rye to settle his head on Jake’s shoulder. But instead, Rye’s hands came up to rest low on Jake’s chest, pale fingers pressing into the thick material of his dark wool sweater. And Rye looked up at him, his gaze full of affection and optimism.

His smile wasn’t huge, but it held a hope that Jake could just feel.

“You’re beautiful,” Jake murmured, and he lifted one hand and slowly, gently ran the back of his fingers along Rye’s jawline. Rye closed his eyes at the touch, sighing softly.

The sound was also beautiful.

Jake leaned forward, bending down just enough until his forehead touched Rye’s, and then he, too, closed his eyes, holding himself still as a new wave of emotion swept through him.

I love you.

It was so real. So suddenly real and there, and he wanted to say it out loud, to say the words to Rye and to hug him and kiss him and promise him... promise him safety and care and affection forever. For always.

I love you.

Rye sighed again, even softer this time, and his fingers pressed into Jake’s chest as Jake let his arms wrap around his boyfriend .

“Mmm, so...” Rye pulled back, and Jake did, too, straightening up and glancing out past Rye to the stairs.

“So, I... I’m ready,” Jake said, and for the first time in a long time, maybe he even believed it.

Rye took his hand and squeezed gently. “Do you want me to go first?”

That was a good question. One he probably should have been thinking about already and one he should probably have the answer to.

Swallowing hard, he turned to face the stairway down to the beach, and despite all his semblance of optimism, a familiar and uncomfortable swoop of his stomach had him clenching his jaw. “I, um, I’m not sure,” he admitted, his voice wavering. “Maybe?”

“Let’s try that,” Rye suggested, and he gave Jake’s hand another encouraging squeeze and started leading them over to the stairs. Rye’s thumb rubbed distractingly back and forth across Jake’s skin, and he started to talk quietly, his words floating around in the dense air surrounding them. “So next week, I’m planning to do an origami project with the book club kids. Do you remember the first little paper birds I made when we were on our way home from Reno?”

They’d reached the top step, the first one. The one Jake couldn’t ever overcome. And he let his eyes follow the steps down. They seemed to stretch out forever, endless. An endless fifty-three steps.

“The first one was really bad, but the second was better.”

“Huh? Oh, um, yeah.” Jake shook himself and pulled his eyes away from the stairs to look at Rye, trying to process Rye’s words. “Yeah, yeah, I remember. The second one was good. The kids... they’ll love that project, I think.”

Rye smiled softly up at him, and Jake held his gaze for a second. “I’ve never made it past here,” he said, shame creeping up the back of his neck.

“It’s okay. We can go slowly. I’m actually—this is a lot of steps. You used to do this every day?”

Jake nodded but didn’t say anything.

“I’m going to take the first step now. Would it help for me to keep talking? I know, um, when I’ve been... struggling... sometimes it helps when you talk, and I can distract myself by listening to your voice. I don’t know if you know you do that, or if you just do it naturally. But it’s helped me so much.”

“Y-yeah, maybe that would be good?” It should have been a statement, but Jake heard the uncertainty in his voice as though it had been a question.

“Okay,” Rye agreed.

Jake’s stomach dropped as Rye stepped forward and down—just one step, but he seemed to suddenly disappear from Jake’s view as though the fog swallowed him up. Jake’s hand tightened around Rye’s, and Rye started talking quietly .

“I’m going to bring a bunch of different colors of origami paper, I think,” he said, the illusionary fog around him thinning until Jake could see his beautiful blue eyes again. “But I’m hoping the kids use the yellow, because I’m going to tell them the story about Peanut and Butter after they tell me all about the books they read. They’re supposed to read about birds this week, and so...”

Rye kept talking calmly, and he just stood there on that first step, waiting.

It wasn’t awful. And the feeling of dread in the pit of Jake’s stomach didn’t get worse. In fact, maybe it wasn’t quite as bad as usual. Jake listened to Rye talk as he looked down at their joined hands, and when Rye squeezed his hand again and then lifted their hands slowly to his lips and pressed a soft kiss on the back of Jake’s palm, Jake let out a shuddering breath.

“I’m okay, Jake. Your turn to take a step,” Rye said, which was apparently exactly what Jake needed.

He nodded once and got his feet to move, finally shuffling forward the few inches until he was at the edge of the first step. Rye shifted down one more step to give Jake room and then tugged lightly.

“One at a time, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I actually didn’t tell you. My mom had the idea. Uncle Jon’s going to help me build a birdhouse. My mom said she used to have a bunch when I was a kid. I don’t really remember, but then she said one year, there was this big windstorm that lasted for days, and...”

Jake listened to Rye’s soft, soothing voice, and he felt Rye’s hand in his, Rye’s thumb caressing back and forth slowly. And he saw Rye there, in front of him, solid and real and safe .

And he finally, finally took a slow step down. One step. One of fifty-three.

His whole body shuddered, and he closed his eyes.

“You did it.” A hand set lightly on the middle of his chest and then slipped around his waist. “You did it, Jake.”

“God, I’m shaking, though,” Jake forced out, and he opened his eyes again to see Rye, looking even shorter than usual since he was down one step lower than Jake. The blue of Rye’s eyes was bright and clear, and Rye smiled and nodded, tightening his arm around Jake’s waist.

“You are. I can feel it. But you did it. And now, you can do one more.”

He sucked in a breath and then huffed it back out with half a laugh. “One more. And then one more. Fifty times over.”

Rye nodded. “You can do it.”

“I . . . can.”

Rye took another step down and squeezed Jake’s hand. “Come on, slowpoke.”