But then Jake had spoken to him so kindly, called him by his name—notstupid fucking childorworthless sack of shit—and told Rye again that it was his choice. That hehad a choice.
And that had made Rye cry even more.
He hadn’t been given a choice in so, so long. In fifteen years, apparently.
Outside, the storm continued raging. Wind beat at the windows, sending raindrops pounding on the glass. The sound of the ocean was distant now, the waves only occasionally audible over the wind gusts and rain. And as Rye’s crying finally slowed and calmed, he pressed his feet into the carpet and let himself get lost in the sounds from outside.
Hours must have passed that he sat there. His stomach grumbled and ached, probably angry that he hadn’t eaten anything but a single cookie early in the day. But it was a feeling he was more than familiar with, and it was easily ignored. Much like the pain in his side and the long hours of just... sitting.
He stared out the window for a long time too, his eyes raw and swollen from crying, and he watched as darkness grew and the storm finally eased up. Only when the window was fully black with night and the sounds of rain and wind had faded to dull background noise did he shift a bit, lowering himself to the ground and curling up to sleep.
But he didn’t sleep. Instead, the shift in position brought other things into focus—things he’d been ignoring the whole afternoon. Small sounds from the living room. Talking but not... definitely not Jake’s voice. Something quiet and a bit muffled, but that sounded maybe like... a TV?
He opened his eyes and slowly pushed himself up as he strained to hear.
“...when the first US Atlantic Swordfish Fishery Management Plan was finally implemented. Yet it wasn’t until the late nineties that more comprehensive and ultimately effective management strategies were enacted. By the early 2000s, swordfish populations appeared to be benefiting from...”
Rye heard a cough and then another sound, like a mug being set down as the deep, smooth voice of the narrator continued. Itwasa TV, playing one of those informational shows, like the ones his mom used to watch... maybe. He closed his eyes and searched for a memory—one he almost justknewwas there but somehow couldn’t seem to find. Like it was just beyond his reach. He could almost see it, but it was fragmented and hazy. Broken pieces of a puzzle he couldn’t fit together.
And he wanted to remember. He wanted it so badly. He looked back up and toward the door.
The sound continued, the narrator still talking about something Rye didn’t quite understand. Something more about swordfish.
What... did a swordfish look like? Was it the fish with the really long, pointy... nose? There was surely a better word for it that he just didn’t know. But he could sort of picture it, maybe. An image popped into his head of a giant fish with a sharp sword-like nose, leaping up out of the ocean.
Was he right?
Curiosity forced him to his feet and then forward toward the open door, his heart racing. He paused at the doorway, glancing out and down the hall toward the living room. A different voice was talking now, saying something about the swordfish having a wide temperature tolerance compared with similar species, and there was splashing and sounds of the ocean—coming from the TV, not fromoutside. Pushing back the lingering unease he had about leaving the bedroom, Rye walked silently along the wall toward the living room, hugging the far side of the hallway.
When he reached the end of the hall, he stopped again, his eyes wide as they were drawn to the huge TV hanging on the wall. He’d seen it before, but it hadn’t been powered on then, and he hadn’t really realized just how big it was.
And the picture on the screen... Hewasright! The swordfish from his memory was right there on the TV, leaping up out of the water, twisting in the air, its skin glistening as it caught the sunlight. Then it splashed back down on its side.
He gasped as he just stared, unable to pull his eyes away. The camera shifted to an underwater view, following along next to another swordfish, and the narrator began talking again.
“The swordfish is a midwater fish, generally found at depths of two hundred to six hundred meters...”
Rye took one step and then another, and soon, his hands reached out to grasp the back of the couch, his attention still drawn to the TV. The fish glided through the water smoothly, just below the surface, moving closer to the camera for a second before twisting and swimming away again.
“They’re pretty magnificent, aren’t they?” said a gentle voice just to Rye’s right.
Rye somehow stopped himself from flinching away, though his heart jumped up into his throat and he sucked in a short breath. With a nod, he forced himself to stay looking ahead, at the TV. The view had changed again to what seemed like an interview or something. Several people were crowded on the deck of a small boat, the deep-blue ocean stretching out behind them. One of them motioned toward the water and started talking about how they study swordfish or something.
And it was still distracting—the TV, the crisp image on the screen, the camera view panning out to catch a flock of some sort of seabirds settling on the water, the people talking. Rye bit his lip and kept watching, his hands still gripping the back of the couch.
“You can sit here if you want. There’s plenty of room.”
Jake’s voice was soft and kind, and again, Rye managed not to flinch. Finally pulling his eyes away from the TV, Rye glanced down at Jake, who sat in the same spot on the couch as Rye had helped him to that morning. His back was flush against the cushions, and his bad leg was on the ground rather than elevated.
“The documentary just started a little while ago,” Jake explained. “It’s supposed to be pretty good. My friend Steve is in one of the later bits. He studies swordfish populations off the coast down near Half Moon Bay.”
Jake gave Rye a smile and then motioned toward a bowl on the coffee table. “There’s popcorn too. It’s just the microwaveable stuff—but itisthe good movie theater butter flavor. Help yourself.” Jake huffed a little laugh. “Just don’t tell my sister. She might disown me for not making ‘the real stuff.’”
Rye had been so distracted by the TV that he somehow hadn’t smelled the popcorn, but now that Jake mentioned it, his senses were flooded by the rich, buttery smell, which was all at once so, so familiar. He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes, and his stomach growled again. Only this time, unlike earlier, the ache seemed to bother him, and he didn’twantto ignore it.
Carefully, he looked back at Jake, who was still watching him with that same soft expression. Jake nodded lightly and smiled one more time before shifting his attention back to the TV. And Rye bit his lip. Heshouldsit. He should sit and eat popcorn and watch the—what had Jake called it? a documentary?—with Jake because it was a normal thing to do, right? A normal thing that... that a twenty-three-year-old man would do. And he wanted to. He really did. Yet his body still took a little convincing before he could move, and it was also immensely difficult to get himself to sit on the couch rather than head toward the corner he’d spent much of the day in.
By the time he finally sat, smushing himself up against the armrest on the side opposite Jake, trying to make himself as small as possible, the TV was showing some graphic representation of the area along the California coast where swordfish were often found. The narrator called it the California Current Large Marine Ecosystem.
