Did that make any sense? Jake wasn’t sure.
“I have to head into town as soon as the road is ready. I need medicine and groceries and—yeah. So, um...” Rye’s eyes had closed again, and Jake realized he should just stop talking before he said something stupid, but a few more words came out anyway. “So, um, if you want, I’ll take you wherever you need to go. The medical clinic or the, uh... police station, or, you know, whatever you need. I’m sure we can find you help. Okay?”
There was a short silence that stretched into a longer silence, and Jake’s stomach twisted into a tight, uncomfortable knot.
Lunkhead.No, not lunkhead.Idiot.
Not that he knew how he could possibly have done or said anything differently.
Jake opened his mouth to apologize again, or at least to try to say something that maybe didn’t sound so stupid, but before he could, Rye fidgeted in his seat and then lifted up a hand to trace his fingers along the patterns in the wood at the edge of the table again, as he’d done earlier.
“Thank you,” Rye whispered, his voice still with that same softness to it, that same something that was so unique and so warm and almost melodious.
And Rye’s hand on the table sort of balled up into a fist then. Not a tight, angry fist, but something nervous, anxious, agitated. He looked up at Jake, and their eyes met only for the briefest of seconds before Rye tore his gaze away again.
Jake’s heart just . . . ached.
“Of course. You’re welcome,” he said gently.
Then, without another word, Jake began to gather up his dishes. Only this time, as he stood and started toward the kitchen to clean up, he found himselfalmostappreciating the pain in his leg. It provided an excellent distraction for whatever the hell was going on with his heart.
Chapter Eighteen
Rye
Rye’sstomachhurt.Andnot in any way he was used to.
He was used to an emptiness—an aching emptiness that felt hollow and left him weak. But this had started as a churning, sort of, just after he’d finished eating breakfast. The churning had grown into sharp cramps and pains as the day had gone by.
He’d spent most of the day sitting in the corner of the living room, clutching his stomach while watching Jake work or staring out the large glass door to the patio.
The sun was shining today. Bright, with no clouds in the sky. Jake had remarked several times how he wished he could go for a walk on the beach. And at one point, Jake had even gone to sit outside for a while, taking his computer and phone with him.
Rye hadn’t followed. He hadn’t felt good enough. Even now, as the sun started to drop down toward the horizon outside, he didn’t feel good.
Jake had just started dinner. Some casserole, he’d said. Something he’d taken out of the freezer and stuck straight into the oven. And he was making them tea. Ginger. Rye didn’t know what that was. He wasn’t sure he wanted any anyway.
“So, I think the casserole should be done in about forty-five minutes,” Jake said. He was limping slowly around the kitchen table, carrying two mugs. Steam rose up from each of them, and Rye could smell the tea now. It had almost a sweetness to it. Maybe that was the ginger.
Jake stopped by the couch, and Rye clutched at his stomach tighter as he felt Jake’s gaze linger on him. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the urge to retreat somehow. Or something. He honestly wasn’t quite sure what this unease was.
“I don’t wantto, um . . .”
Rye swallowed and forced himself to look up at Jake. And Jake’s expression softened with a kindness Rye had come to recognize.
“I’ll just set your tea here, on the coffee table? That way, I don’t, um...”
Scare the hell out of me.
Another pain stabbed through his stomach. That was the reason, right? Jake had figured out how terrified Rye got?
He nodded slowly, and then, because he just needed to, he closed his eyes and said a quiet “Thank you.”
Using his voice felt so foreign still. And wrong. And he had to fight for every word. He still heard a voice, gruff and rotten, yelling at him to keep his mouth shut, to stayfuckingquiet, or else... It made his stomach pulse with another of those sharp pains, and he clutched his side harder as a small whimper escaped him.
“Of course. You’re welcome.” The sound of a mug setting gently on the coffee table was followed by a quiet grunt as the couch creaked.
Rye flinched, though he wasn’t even entirely sure why.
