More shame.
Rye shook his head. “I . . . I . . .”
Frustrated, he balled his hand into a fist and clenched his teeth. Now he couldn’t even tell Jake what was wrong because his words were stuck.
“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here,” Jake murmured, calmly and gently, and his hand settled on Rye’s upper arm, his skin warm and smooth. “Are you trying to get to the bedroom? Isit—oh...”
There was a quiet grunt as Jake shifted away, and then a click, and even through his closed eyes, Rye sensed the hallway light come on.
“I’m sorry, I forgot about the light. Was that it? Was that the problem?” Jake sounded so earnest and caring, and that, combined with the illumination, allowed Rye to breathe again.
He nodded, his hand still grasping the doorframe. “S-sorry,” he forced out, and he took a small step forward, blinking his eyes open to the now brightly lit hallway.
Jake stood in front of him, concern etched across his face. His hand was on Rye’s arm, although he stood slightly lopsided, his bad leg bent a little as though to take the weight off of it. Rye frowned and shook his head.
“Sorry. Thank you. I-I’m okay now,” he said. He wasn’t sure he believed his own words, however, and Jake maybe didn’t either. He gave Rye’s arm a light squeeze.
“Let me help you to the bedroom? Make sure everything’s okay? I’m sorry about the light,” Jake repeated, and he backed up half a step, barely putting any weight on his bad leg.
Rye lowered his eyes, noticing Jake’s bare legs for the first time. He was wearing sleep shorts rather than sweatpants, and his right thigh—
With a sharp inhale, Rye tore his eyes away to look up. Jake’s brow was furrowed, and his dark eyes still showed his concern. And his pain.
Rye’s stomach dropped. Jake had been in pain a lot of the day because of the cold and rain. He’d told Rye a long time ago that the weather sometimes made things hurt more. But he still always tried to hide it or downplay it, Rye knew, unless it was really bad. And he’d never shown Rye his scars. Not that Rye had asked or that Jake had seemed terribly self-conscious about it. Rye had only touched Jake’s bad leg that one time at the hotel in Redding. He’d felt the old injury—the indent and scar tissue from what must have been an inches-long wound right over the top of his thigh. Rye had never seen the scar before now, though.
Jake’s eyebrows were still pinched together in confusion, and he gave a light shake of his head. “What is it?” he asked softly, and he slowly let his fingers trace down Rye’s arm to his wrist. Rye still held his overnight bag, the straps gripped tightly in his hand, though he itched to intertwine his fingers with Jake’s right then.
“I . . .”
He tried. He closed his mouth and shook his head and tried. But the words wouldn’t come, hiding behind a barrier built up over years and years.
“It’s okay, don’t worry. You’re okay.” Jake shifted, still barely putting any weight on his leg, and then he offered his hand to Rye. “How about I’ll help you get settled in the extra bedroom, and we’ll just leave this hall light on. Do you think that’ll help?”
Yes. But also no. And I don’t want you walking all the way with me because you’re hurting. And I’m sorry. And—
Shame and guilt bubbled up again, but Rye managed a small nod, and he let go of the doorframe and took Jake’s hand. Warmth immediately coursed up his arm as their fingers threaded together, and he closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled slowly and deeply.
“It’s better just like that, huh?” Jake said quietly. And Rye nodded, though he couldn’t quite make himself smile. Jake squeezed his hand. “Come on.”
And they walked together, down the hallway. Each step felt a little lighter, maybe. At least Jake wasn’t limping as much as Rye had expected, given how he’d been standing. When they reached the bedroom, Rye pushed open the door, letting even more light into the hallway, and he froze again.
Memories hit him—memories of his pain, his fear, his uncertainty from that very first day. But then came more memories, and they were so much more hopeful. Happy, even. The very first kind voice he’d heard in fifteen years. The softness and warmth of the bed. A gentle touch. Words of understanding and compassion.
With a quiet sob, he leaned against Jake. He felt Jake rebalance himself a bit to take on Rye’s weight. Then Jake’s hand left his, and a strong arm slipped up and around Rye’s shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” Jake murmured, the warm words whispered into Rye’s hair. “I didn’t realize how hard this might be, to be back here. I mean, um, I know you’ve visited my house here plenty, but to be staying here in this room again. I—I should think things through better. I didn’t—”
“No,” Rye cut in, and he shook his head and turned to Jake, burying his face against Jake’s chest and wrapping his arms low around Jake’s waist. Jake smelled good. Like his shampoo and something else. Clean and fresh and... vanilla, maybe. “No, I...”
Words were still too hard, and his throat constricted when he tried to speak again, so he stopped, knowing that any effort would just hurt more.
And Jake would understand enough anyway.
He wasn’t sure, though, whether he’d be sleeping tonight.
Slowly, he pulled out of the embrace and turned back to the bedroom. It was brightly lit, and the bed was neatly made, the dark-gray comforter tucked up under a row of fluffy pillows with matching gray pillowcases. A cup of hot tea,still steaming, sat on the nightstand next to the bed, because Jake was wonderful like that and somehow always seemed to anticipate what Rye needed.
“Will this be okay?” Jake’s hand settled on Rye’s back.
