“Oh, Ryan, look! Look, a gray whale! Do you see it, sweetie?”
“I see it, I see it! It’s huge, mama! Uncle Jon, Uncle Jon! A whale!”
“I see it, buddy. It’s huge, huh?”
“It’s so big! Bigger than the boat!”
“It sure is.”
A clean, crisp ocean breeze. His mom’s arm around his shoulders. His uncle’s hand ruffling his hair.
The memory faded, even as he tried to hang onto it longer, to hang ontoherlonger.
God, he missed her. She had to miss him, too. Shehad to. And his uncle, too. Uncle Jon had to miss him, too.
He sniffled and reached up to wipe a tear from his cheek. And when he glanced over toward the couch again, Jake had shifted to sit up a little more, one hand on his thigh, as he watched Rye with a sad smile.
Or what Rye thought looked a bit like a sad smile.
Rye pursed his lips and shook his head.Please don’t be sad, he wanted to say.I like to see you happy. I want to be happy too.
And he wanted to talk. To tell Jake these things. But a rotten sort of nausea hit him, intense and uncomfortable, and he scrunched his eyes shut, unable to control his reaction. His heart’s uneven, too-fast beating seemed to redouble its efforts, leaving him feeling lightheaded and weak, his chest aching.
“I’m sorry if I said something to upset you.” Jake’s voice was quiet and gentle. Inviting, really. Yet Rye couldn’t get himself to respond. “I meant what I said to my sister, though,” Jake continued softly. “I’m glad you’re here. You helped me so much just now. I—I don’t know how I would have managed without you. Thank you.”
It hurt less now, whatever it was. It felt a little less uncomfortable and icky. Rye breathed in, and when he exhaled, his breath shuddered. He brought his hand back up and rubbed his eyes. Why was he suddenly so tired?
“I wish...” Jake’s voice was even softer now, and despite all the emotions and uncertainty and worry churning inside him, Rye opened his eyes partway and lifted his gaze to see Jake. Jake’s expression was kind and warm, and iteased a tiny bit more of his discomfort. Jake gave Rye another small smile. “. . . I wish I knew your name. It feels like I’m not thanking you properly, or something. Which maybe doesn’t make any sense.”
Jake laughed lightly, but then grimaced. And Rye’s racing heart faltered.
He should tell Jake.
It would be so easy, wouldn’t it?
My name is Ryan. Ryan Henry Davis.
So easy.
He wasn’t really even sure why he was holding back. Except... except that he was terrified. For several reasons.
The man knew his name. Knew where he’d gone to school. Knew where he’d lived. On Sycamore. With his mom.
And his mom . . .
All his worries from earlier came flooding back to him, and he hugged his knees tighter to his chest as he tried to forget all the man’s horrible words. Those words that had now rooted themselves deep in his mind, convincing him his mom wouldn’t want him anymore.
But they weren’t true. They couldn’t be.
So... so he could tellthisman. He could tell Jake. He could look Jake right in the eye and say, “My name is Ryan Henry Davis, and when I was eight years old, I was—”
A rough cough rattled his chest, and then another and another, and he instinctively turned his head to cover his mouth with one elbow as a burning sensation filled his lungs and throat.
“Shoot, are you okay?”
Rye heard the worry in Jake’s voice over the sound of his own coughing, and he tried to nod in response, but it was several more long, painful seconds before the coughing fit subsided. Tears slipped out of the corners of his eyes, and his breathing was shallow and weak. And every breath burned his lungs.
He finally lowered his arm when he was sure he was done coughing, but he felt even more tired now, and even more shaken. He sniffled and swiped at his eyes, and then, without looking up at Jake, because he didn’t want to see the concern he somehow knew would be in Jake’s eyes, he lay down and curled up on his less-bruised side, resting one hand under his head like a pillow.
