It was probably a mixture of pain and exhaustion.
Rye didn’t say anything, but he glanced up at Jake, his expression a little strained, and he nodded. Then he sort of huddled into the corner more, gathered his plate closer to himself, picked up his cookie, and closed his eyes as he took a small bite.
Themorning’spartialsungave way to a darker afternoon, and as Tim had predicted on the phone earlier, it did indeed rain. Hard. Much like it had on Saturday morning.
Jake tried not to think about what that might mean.
Forcing himself to stay off his feet, which meant not moving from his spot on the couch, Jake managed to finish writing the first draft of his article and complete a heavy round of self-editing before sending the manuscript off to his editor for approval. He was happy with the article, and like his last article on microplastics, he hoped this one would also do a lot of good in raising awareness for a topic he cared greatly about—recent concerted efforts by various organizations to restore populations of white abalone along the California coast.
Rye, for the most part, stayed in his corner. Jake had tried a couple of times to coax him out, and it wasn’t until Jake had mentioned that he was free to readany of the books or magazines or anything Jake had in his bookcase that Rye had finally gotten up and moved.
He’d spent a long time standing in front of the bookcase, and Jake had tried not to pry, but he’d seen tears on Rye’s cheeks when Rye had finally chosen something to read—the most recent issue ofNational Geographic, with Jake’s article on microplastics highlighted on the cover.
He’d wanted so badly to ask why Rye was upset. It couldn’t be the topic of the article. Sure, it was sad what was happening to the oceans and marine life, but just reading the title of the article on the front of the magazine shouldn’t bring someone to tears.
It had to have been something else.
Jake closed his laptop quietly and glanced over at his houseguest. Rye sat in the corner still, his knees bent up and the magazine open, resting on his thighs. He had one hand on the page, moving slowly from left to right as though he were tracing the lines of text, and his mouth was twisted up in a bit of a frown. He paused and blinked, squinting a little, then continued on, his expression still taut.
It reminded Jake of something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Outside, a gust of wind coming in off the ocean blew huge raindrops up against the back door, and Jake had been so focused on studying Rye that he flinched, then promptly laughed at himself. There’d been a steady background noise from the rain for some time now, and the wind had been howling on occasion as well. The sudden sound shouldn’t have surprised him.
He stared off out the back door for a minute, watching as the raindrops pounded on the glass. And an intense longing hit him. He wanted to see the ocean—stormy and dark and wild, the huge waves crashing against the shore.
The pain in his leg had dulled somewhat, thanks to the hours he’d spent sitting with it elevated on the couch. And he needed to get up anyway—use the bathroom, grab something to eat. But he hesitated, remembering his tumble from that morning.
God, he wished he had his cane. Oracane.
When his stomach growled a moment later, he sighed and shifted to set his laptop on the coffee table next to his empty plate and mug. Then he carefully but clumsily lowered his bad leg to the floor, biting back a grunt as a fresh wave of pain shot up through his thigh. Rye seemed to flinch at his sudden and no doubt ungraceful movement, and Jake had to force a smile.
“I’m, uh, going to use the bathroom and probably get something to eat. I should be okay to walk, I hope.”
Rye had closed the magazine and set it next to him, and he looked ready to stand now too. But then he just nodded and hugged his knees.
Rather than getting up right away, since he needed to give himself a moment—the pain would hopefully settle?—Jake motioned toward the magazine Rye had been reading. “That’s a good issue there. Just came out last week. It took a bit of convincing to get the editor to put together an entire special edition focusing on marine pollution. Especially when there’s so much else going on in the world right now, with politics and all. But it’s such an important topic. Did you read my article on microplastics?”
Rye picked up the magazine again without responding, and his fingers traced over something on the top of the cover, the tension returning to his eyes. He looked back at Jake, biting his lower lip. Then, still holding the magazine tightly, he stood and moved across the room in Jake’s direction. He stopped a couple of feet away. Jake couldfeelthe tension now, coming off Rye in waves, and when Rye reached over to hand the magazine to Jake, Jake saw his hands were trembling.
Jake took the offered magazine but shook his head. He opened his mouth to ask why Rye had given it to him but stopped himself as Rye pointed slowly to the very top of the front cover.
Just above the wordsNational Geographicwas the issue date. November 2024.
Rye quickly pulled his hand away, but when Jake looked back up at him, he saw new tears at the corners of the man’s eyes. His stomach sank as he tried not to think of all the implications of what was clearly Rye’s question.
“That’s... yeah. It’s... November.” Jake hesitated when Rye’s eyes seemed to plead for more. “Today is Monday, November 4.”
Rye shook his head and frowned. Then he reached out again, his hand still shaking but with some greater insistence this time. He pointed at the year next to the month and actually tapped on it twice. A tear slipped down his cheek and fell, landing on the light-gray sweater he wore. And Jake’s stomach clenched again.
“Yes,” he said, though he had to almost force the word out. “It’s 2024. Monday, November 4, 2024. Is that...” He trailed off, unsure what he’d been about to ask, unsure whether he evenshouldask something more.
The immediate pain that sprung to Rye’s eyes told Jake no, and he waited quietly, watching as Rye’s hands flew to his face, his fingers swiping uncomfortably at his tears, which now fell unchecked.
Why . . . ?
Rye shook his head as though rejecting the fact that it could possibly be the year 2024, and then he turned and headed down the hallway toward the extra bedroom, walking quickly but unevenly, each of his steps looking forced and unnatural.
Jake just stared after him, still holding the magazine in his hands, and it wasn’t until Rye disappeared into the bedroom, leaving the door open this time, that he looked back down.
