It wasn’t true. Was it? No, no, he and Jake were just friends. Just... just really good friends. Although, if he were being perfectly honest with himself, his mom was right in that he really didn’t know much of anything about anything, and he didn’t have the faintest clue what it might feel like to be more than friends.
He touched his cheek, remembering how gentle and careful Jake had been, how his thumb had just barely grazed Rye’s skin, how good it had felt...
Did Jake care about Rye in that way? Like they were more than friends?
And did Rye—
He pulled his hand away from his cheek and shook his head. “No, mama,” he said. “No.” And he might have mumbled something else, too, but he was trembling now, and he didn’t feel so good.
“What’s the matter, Ryan?” his mom said softly, and she leaned in and kissed his forehead. “It’s okay to feel that way about someone. It’s okay.”
Dirty, calloused hands touching him roughly. Hurting him. A waft of cigarette smoke, and sweat dripping off the man who held him down and—
“No. No, it’s not... like that.” Rye pushed himself to his feet, pulling his hand away from his mom’s, and he shook his head again. “J-Jake i-is j-just—”
Shut the fuck up, stupid child.
“It’s okay, sweetie.”
No, no, it’s not okay.
He shook his head and stumbled backward, but the backs of his knees ran into something solid, and he stopped. Trapped. He was trapped. He wrapped his hands around his midsection, trying to protect himself from—from—from... what?
“Ryan, sweetie.” His mom’s voice was right there in front of him. “It’s okay.”
He still didn’t believe her, but when her arms slipped around his waist, he shuddered and melted into her embrace.
“Shh, shh, sweetie, I didn’t mean to upset you,” his mom said. And she stroked the top of his head and kissed his cheek. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I... wish you could talk to me, sweetie.”
Rye wished the same thing. But the only person he could really talk to was Jake. And this... he couldn’t really talk to Jake about.
“I like you—”
Rye’s insides twisted, and words started to come. Stuttering and stumbling and probably not anything even close to coherent. “Jake i-is just my friend. H-he wouldn’t... he wouldn’t want to... to hurt me.”
“Oh, god, no. No, no, no, Ryan. Whatever... whatever that awful man did to you, that wasnotanything like your relationship with Jake. Oh, no, that’s not what I meant at all, sweetie.”
His mom continued, still holding him tightly as she reassured him over and over. And he tried to listen, but everything was jumbled. She started slowly with a long explanation about what she called “platonic relationships” and friendships, and then she described the difference between that and “something more.” She talked about Jon and Tanya’s relationship, how they’d started dating in high school and had gotten married shortly after graduating. She even talked a little bit about Rye’s father—who had passed away shortly before Rye was born—and how she’d met him and fallen in love and how they’d planned to get married.
And then she paused to hug Rye tighter before she began to talk quietly about Jake.
She talked about how kind he was, how patient and sweet, how helpful. She said she’d just found so much joy in watching their friendship grow, and how she trusted him—because he’d proven over and over and over again in the last elevenmonths or so how much he cared. She admitted to almost being a little jealous at first—how Rye was able to talk to Jake more than her. But then, she just shook her head and kissed Rye’s cheek, and said how deeply, deeply thankful she was that Jake had stuck around.
“I think he cares about you, Ryan,” she said quietly. “I think he cares about you a lot. And I think... I think maybe Jon was right, and maybe you... care about him, too, even if you maybe don’t know it or understand it yet.”
His stomach was churning, his heart still racing, and as he closed his eyes and shook his head and buried his face against her shoulder, needing solace and comfort, he heard Jake’s voice again. Kind and gentle. Asking if he could wipe away Rye’s tears. And then he felt Jake’s fingers, so warm and careful, brushing along his cheek.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything changes,” his mom said, her voice almost a whisper. “Or it can, if you want it to.”
He didn’t really know exactly what she meant, still, and he wanted to ask, but when he tried, no words would come.
“Just... if you do decide to give it a chance, just take your time. Okay, sweetie?”
He reached up to touch his cheek, feeling the warmth of Jake’s touch all over again.
It felt safe.
Full of light and hope.
