His leg ached as he stepped slightly wrong, bringing him back to reality. And he sighed.
“Can I share a bit with you? About the accident and... after?” he asked. Then quickly, he added, “You can say no if you want. Um, it’s not pleasant, and I wouldn’t want—”
“You can,” Rye said softly. “It’s fine. I’d like to hear about it. And... maybe talking will help you?”
Jake nodded, and they stopped as they reached their usual turnaround point. He felt that tightness in his chest, but he pushed it away, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and turned around, limping slowly back the way they’d come. Rye followed.
After another few seconds, Jake started to talk. He told Rye about the accident itself, and then he told him about the months of recovery after. When they reached the boardwalk, Rye stooped down to pick up his shoes, and as they moved to sit on the nearest bench, Jake began telling Rye more. He talked about the nightmares—bad dreams that had haunted his sleep for months after the accident, ones where he was dropped in a swirling ocean, all of his friends drowning around him with no way out. And he talked about the first—and only—time he’d tried to get back on a boat, the debilitating fear and dread stopping him before he’d barely set foot on the dock. He told Rye how he’d sometimes had to call up Steve or his old PhD advisor or any of the others who’d been on the boat with him, because he’d had this overwhelming need to know they were okay. And he told Rye about the first time he’d gone down to the beach after the accident, hoping to just go in a few feet, to feel the water on his legs. He’d slipped off his shoes and hobbled out toward the surf, with the help of his cane, and as soon as the water had touched him—
He exhaled a shuddering breath, a heavy weight pressing down uncomfortably on his chest. And Rye shifted on the bench next to him.
“Sorry if that was too much,” Jake said.
“No, it wasn’t too much.” Rye’s voice was soft and smooth, and something about it reminded Jake of the very first time he’d heard Rye speak. Every word, even now, was a gift that Rye worked hard for and fought for. God, Rye probably understood him much, much too well. As if hearing Jake’s thoughts, Rye added, “I... um, I know that... panic. It’s... horrible. I’m sorry that’s how it is for you. Thank you... for sharing that with me.”
Then Rye stood up and stepped away from the bench a foot or so, his expression filled with concern and compassion.
Quietly, he said, “Can I . . . hug you?”
Jake’s heart leapt all the way up into his throat, and he held Rye’s gaze for a few long seconds, looking for any sign of hesitation. But there was none. There was only a mix of emotions so raw and real that Jake couldn’t begin to process what it all meant. He nodded, his heart still jumping, and he pushed himself to his feet, grimacing slightly at the ache in his leg. Once he’d steadied himself, Rye gave him a small smile, stepped up to him, and wrapped his arms lightly around Jake’s waist.
“I hope you find your way back to the ocean, Jake,” Rye said, his voice slightly muffled as he pressed his cheek up against Jake’s chest.
And Jake closed his eyes and returned the embrace. It held a warmth and promise to it, just like last time. And just like last time, it felt good and right, like there might be no better place in the world.
“Thank you,” he breathed. And he swore he felt Rye smile against him.
Chapter Forty-Four
Rye
“There’senoughmustard,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.
