“I made lunch. We’re a little low on bread, so I made us each half a sandwich. But I’ve got some potato chips, and then I made some strawberry smoothies too. I had this frozen strawberry and banana mix, and... yeah. Um, can I bring it over for you?”
Rye closed his eyes and nodded.
“Yes?”
He nodded again.
“Good, great, um, yeah. Here you go.”
Turning his head just a little, Rye saw Jake step around the far side of the sofa and then set a white plate and small glass on the low table just in front of him.
Jake straightened up and then backed away. “Would you be okay with me eating out here too?”
A weak churning in his stomach made him hesitate, but then he managed to nod.
“Alright, good,” Jake said, and he disappeared back inside for a minute before returning with his own lunch and settling on the far side of the couch.
They ate, mostly in silence. Every once in a while, though, Jake commented on something. The birds or the warmth or the... smoothness of his smoothie.
Rye had never had a smoothie before. Or at least, not that he could remember. But after his first sip, he figured it might be his favorite drink. Probably ever.
When he was finished, he set his plate back on the table next to his glass and then brought his feet back up onto the sofa and hugged his knees into his chest. Jake had finished a while ago, and he seemed to be lost in thought. Or something. Just staring out toward the water, much like Rye had been doing earlier.
If he asked Jake to leave, would he? The thought popped into his head as he looked at Jake, sitting there not more than a few feet away, one hand on his bad leg, rubbing it lightly.
I want to be alone again.That was all Rye would have to say. And somehow, he knew the answer. Somehow, he knew if he told Jake he wanted to be alone, Jake would do as he asked. He’d leave and go back inside.
But was that what Rye wanted right now? To be alone again?
What he wanted hadn’t mattered in so long. Not until... the last few days. Not until Jake had made a point of asking.
I want to go home. I want to see my mom. I want...
Rye closed his eyes. Jake had said earlier that the road would be fixed in two days. Or maybe three days. Then what? Then, could he ask Jake to take him home?
A sharp pain sliced through his stomach, and he fought it. He fought against the horror that suddenly flashed through his mind. Jake telling him he would take him home. Then Jake driving right past Sycamore Avenue. Then Jake laughing at him, cursing at him, hitting him, taking him back to the man’s house and tossing him down into the basement.
He fought against it with everything he had, pushing those images out of his mind and replacing them with other things. Jake speaking so kindly to him. Jake smiling gently. Jake oh-so carefully treating the wound on his cheek. Jake cooking for him, making him tea. Jake... asking permission to touch him, and respectingwhen his answer was no. Jake laughing, but in some happy, joyful way, and Jake somehow getting Rye to laugh too. Laugh and smile, like he hadn’t been able to in fifteen years.
And by the time he opened his eyes again, a warmth had replaced the forever chill that had been stuck in his chest for too long. Jake was watching him now, kindness and concern in his eyes. Rye tried for a smile, but it was too hard, and instead, he ended up blinking back tears. He looked away.
Thank you.
He’d said the words before, but right now, his voice wouldn’t work, and he didn’t even want to try. But he desperately hoped Jake knew, somehow.
And even more, he hoped that all of this was real.
He heard Jake clear his throat quietly, and then his soft, warm voice broke the remaining silence. “Can we try again? To talk? I kinda messed everything up earlier, and I don’t want to do that again.”
Guilt swept through Rye, making his stomach feel... strange.
You didn’t mess up. I’m messed up. I’m broken. You’re... so nice to me.
He said nothing, but he nodded. The sofa shifted, and Rye expected Jake to start talking again, but he didn’t say anything right away. It was probably a few minutes later when Jake finally began.
“I don’t know your story, and I’m not entitled to it.”
Entitled. God, he didn’t even know what that meant.Stupid, fucking—
