“I, um...” Jake closed his eyes and shook his head. He’d talked about this plenty with his therapist, and he’d tried approach after approach after approach in months and months of therapy sessions. He understood his trauma and how it was related to his accident and to finding Rye down there, huddled up, unconscious. But still, even with diligence and effort, the most he’d been able to do was walk up to the stairway and look down. He could talk himself through it, he couldtell a story about him doing it—walking down the stairs. But he still couldn’t evenimagineRye with him, safe and healthy, taking one step and then another and another down the stairs to reach the bottom. And he certainly couldn’t get himself to do it either.
It still made him sick to his stomach and worse... Worse things happened in his head if he tried to push himself any more than that.
Just like Krista, Jake’s therapist had recommended he consider talking to Rye about it months ago, but he’d been reluctant. He didn’t want to make Rye uncomfortable, to trigger any of Rye’s own traumas, or to make Rye feel like it was his fault or his responsibility to help Jake get better.
But maybe... maybe it was time. And in any case, he certainly couldn’t lie anymore. That was bad enough.
Needing more time to wrap his head around it all, Jake forced a small smile, and then he bent his right leg up and straightened it back out, testing how it felt. Stiff, achy. Annoyingly very, very similar to what he remembered it feeling likethat morning—the morning he’d found Rye on his beach, nearly dead.
His stomach lurched again, and little black spots clouded his vision.
“It’s bad, huh?” Rye guessed, squeezing Jake’s hand.
He shook his head. “No, uh, not really. It’s not too bad, just a little stiff.”
“Oh, good.” Rye seemed to settle back up against him, and Rye’s hand released his. Soft fingertips caressed slowly up Jake’s forearm, about halfway to his elbow and then back to his wrist.
It was exquisite and comfortably distracting again. “Mmm.”
“Hmm. You like this?”
“Definitely.”
“Good.”
Rye repeated the motion and then paused with his fingers teasing along Jake’s palm. “But, um, something’s still... bothering you.”
He nodded, but he didn’t really want to talk about it. He wanted Rye to just keep touching him, for them to just keep sitting here in this comfortable spot, with Rye blissfully unaware of the source of Jake’s fear. This, after all, felt much better than the uncertainty churning around in the pit of his stomach.
But he owed Rye honesty, if nothing else. And if he were being honest with himself, too, he wanted his beach back. He missed it. Every day, he still missed it.
“I, um, have a hard time talking about it,” Jake started, and he took a deep breath to try to get the words flowing.
Rye’s hand left his, and then Rye’s body shifted away, too, and when Jake opened his eyes, he saw Rye sitting in front of him, cross-legged, his eyes wide and bright and concerned.
Rye nodded. “You know I... I understand that.”
Jake half smiled but shook his head. “Yeah, although, mine’s for a different reason. And I don’t want to, um, upset you with what I’m going to tell you.”
Rye’s expression tightened, but then he reached out and took both of Jake’s hands in his. “It has to do with your beach... and me?”
Images that were dark and scary and filled with a wrenching fear of the worst possible outcome flickered in his vision, and Jake sucked in a sharp breath. He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I, um, I haven’t been able to go back down to the beach, even after my leg recovered. Not since that day, and um, I...”
The warmth of Rye’s hands in his provided some stability he’d never had when trying to talk about this before, and he kept going. He told Rye about that day itself, from his perspective—about the state he’d found Rye in, how he’d thought Rye was dead, how he’d found out they were stranded without help because of the rainstorm. And then he told Rye about how ever since that day, every time he’d tried to make himself go down the stairs, back down to his beach, he couldn’t do it. He even mentioned how his therapist had suggested he talk to Rye about it, how Krista had wondered if maybe Rye being with him could help him move past that first step.
And as evidence of Rye’s strength and growth, the younger man didn’t back away at any of the words Jake said. If anything, Rye scooted a little closer, held Jake’s hands a little tighter. When Jake finished speaking, Rye moved back to Jake’s side and leaned in and hugged him, his arms looping around Jake’s midsection and his head resting on Jake’s shoulder.
Jake shuddered and breathed out slowly, and he returned the embrace, holding Rye to him gently, without any pressure.
“I’m so sorry, Jake,” Rye said. “I didn’t know.”
“You’ve already helped me so much,” Jake admitted, and he let one hand rub up and down Rye’s back, the gesture soothing to him somehow. “When you suggested we take a walk at the beach in town, and then, the picnic on the beach, with the sand, I appreciated that more than you know.”
“And I want to help you with this, too.” Rye’s voice was quieter now, though no less certain. “If you think I can help, I’ll go with you. We can do it together.”
The words echoed what Rye had said last night—how they could both help each other—and it was like some huge weight had been lifted off Jake’s chest and he could breathe again.
Rye shifted in his arms and gazed up at him, his blue eyes bright and his whole expression soft. He bit his lip, which Jake found incredibly endearing, and then Rye brought his hand up and ever so softly cuppedJake’s cheek.
