Jake grinned and leaned forward a little to pull his cell phone out of his pocket. “Nah. She can never say no to me. Or to you. She likes you even more than she likes me, honestly. And IthinkPhil should be home from gym by now.” He hit a few buttons on his phone to bring up Phil’s number and then glanced at Rye, his eyebrows raised.
Rye’s smile was maybe a little subdued, but his eyes were bright. He blinked, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay, let’s do it.”
“Good.” Jake hit the call button, put the phone on speaker, and set it on the coffee table next to the plate of cookies. By the time Phil answered a couple of rings later and Jake issued him their challenge, Rye had pulled the Switch controllers out of the basket under the coffee table and gotten the TV and game console turned on.
And they spent the next hour or so getting beaten—repeatedly—by an eleven-year-old.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Rye
Ryestaredathimselfin 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’dkissedJake’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 newlook-what-you’re-doing-to-your-boyfriendshame that felt heavy and just awful.
He’d gotten into that car. He’d put himself in that position. It’d beenhisfault 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.
