The chair across from Rye scraped the floor as Jake pulled it out, and Rye glanced up to see Jake grimacing as he sat.
Why are you hurting?
Rye swallowed hard and looked away, back to his plate. Small portions of white rice, chicken, and green beans were sectioned into three neat, well-separated piles on the plate. And there was a fork. A real, metal fork. Not some white plastic spoon-fork thing that almost always broke before he could take more than a bite or two.
He lifted his hand back out of his lap and reached forward to pick up the shiny silver utensil with shaking fingers. It was cold and smooth and solid.
Rye bit his lip and shifted his gaze back up to Jake. The man had settled in his chair and was no longer grimacing, although he didn’t look entirely comfortable. Rye just watched for a moment as Jake started to eat, taking a good-sized bite of his chicken before looking back up.
The moment their eyes met, a wave of unease settled low in Rye’s stomach, and he dropped his gaze back to his plate.
Rye had thrown up earlier. Vomited all over the floor in the bedroom. And rather than get angry and hurt him, Jake had reassured him it was okay, gotten down on the floor with him, talked to him gently until he stopped shaking and his stomach stopped heaving. Despite Jake’s own obvious discomfort—whatever was wrong with his leg—Jake had then supported Rye as he’d stood up, guided him down the hallway to the bathroom, and helped him wash his hands and rinse out his mouth, all the while continuing to reassure him with gentle, kind words in a soft voice.
It had felt so different, so foreign, and Rye hadn’t known how to react. So when Jake had asked if he was hungry, Rye had been honest with him and given a small, silent nod.
Now, he gripped his fork awkwardly, his fingers not closing around the thin metal of the handle quite right. It wasn’t like he hadn’t held a utensil in years; he’d usually been given something to eat with. But itfeltawkward. Then he speared a green bean and lifted the fork up to his mouth, his hand still shaking.
The flavor jumped out at him—warm and crisp and fresh and with just a hint of salt.
He closed his eyes as the fork slid out of his fingers and clinked loudly on his plate.
There was a quiet huff of a laugh from across the table. “Ah, not a fan of my cooking, huh?” Jake said, his tone sounding almost amused.
No, that’s not it. It’s amazing.
Rye didn’t answer, but he kept chewing and then swallowed as Jake continued.
“My sister isn’t either. Kris is always telling me I need cooking lessons. But I figure as long as I’m not burning the kitchen down, it’ll do for me. You just won’t get anything fancy, I’m afraid. I don’t really do fancy.”
Rye just picked the fork back up and dug into his rice.
By the time Jake had eaten all of his food some minutes later, Rye had barely finished maybe half of what was on his plate. But his stomach felt full, and when Jake asked if he was done, Rye forced a nod.
“Good, good.” Jake’s expression tightened as he pushed himself to stand. He reached across the table and picked up Rye’s plate.
Rye then watched as Jake turned toward the kitchen counter and took a couple of unsteady steps, limping heavily on his right leg.
With a sudden rush of shame, Rye looked away, back out to the windows. The sun had dipped even lower now, and Rye could almost feel its warmth coming through the glass. The light danced, shades of pink and orange reflecting in the rough water below.
It’s beautiful.
“Amazing view, eh?” Jake said, and Rye found himself nodding. “I’ve lived here for years now, and I’ll never, ever get tired of it.”
Where is here?he wanted to ask. But he kept his mouth shut.
Jake returned to the table and set a plate down in the middle of it, though Rye kept staring out the window, not really ready to look away.
“These are from my sister,” Jake explained. “I don’t bake. But she makes these huge batches of cookies about once a week and then mails some to me. I can never eat all of them. They’re chocolate chip.”
Cookies?
With a short breath, Rye pulled his eyes away from the windows and down to the plate in the center of the table. There were fourverylarge cookies.
He wasn’t sure why, but tears started rolling down his cheeks again, and he hesitated, his hands clasped awkwardly together in his lap. He could feel Jake’s eyes on him, the question he just knew Jake wanted to ask. And he wished he could answer it. He almost wanted Jake to ask it, so he could try to come up with an answer.
But he really didn’t know what the tears were for. Maybe... maybe just because he hadn’t had chocolate in solong. Not since...
His jaw clenched, and the wound on his cheek began to throb. He lifted his eyes just long enough to catch Jake’s gaze and then looked back down, and he reached up and wiped the tears from his cheeks. Again.
