Rye nodded again and followed Jake, and together, they got started on breakfast.
Just like the other day when Jake had told Rye how to make the tea, Rye was quick to follow directions, although the part where he had to crack the eggs into a bowl got a bit messy. And the loud whirring of the mixer as it pureed the frozen strawberries and bananas for their smoothies seemed to frighten Rye, at least when it first switched on. But they managed, and when it was done and everything was on the table, ready to eat, Jake felt a tug of pride.
He glanced up at his companion as they both took their seats, and his chest tightened. Rye was picking up his fork to start in on his eggs, and that little hint of reservation that had always seemed to accompany him—that little tremble in his hand whenever he’d lifted his fork—wasn’t there. Or if it was, Jake couldn’t see it. Rye did the same thing he’d always done since that first morning they’d eatentogether—he carefully piled some of the scrambled eggs onto one of his slices of toast, then set his fork back down and picked up the toast to eat it.
It was such a good thing to see, that newfound steadiness in Rye’s hands.
Jake blinked and then picked up a slice of his own toast. He paused before taking a bite. “Thank you for the help,” he said softly. “I really appreciate it.”
Rye looked up at Jake from across the table, and that ache, that tug at his heart happened again. Rye’s eyes—his deep blue eyes that seemed to hold so much pain so much of the time—they sparkled with something different. Something like happiness. Or hope.
God, yeah, that was it, Jake realized. There was hope there, maybe for the first time.
And then Rye smiled, a little bigger than before, and it was warm and bright, just like Jake had always known it would be. It only lasted a second. But it was beautiful, even in its transience.
Rye nodded once before lowering his eyes back to his plate, and they both finished the rest of their breakfast in a comfortable silence.
Astheafternoonapproached,Jake could feel Rye’s tension growing.
After breakfast, Rye had spent a little bit of time sitting on the couch, reading one of Jake’s magazines, but he’d seemed to get more and more agitated with each page he flipped, and he’d eventually moved back to the corner. Jake’s attempts to coax him out and back to the couch had failed. What had Jake more worried, though, was that Rye hadn’t really been able to eat lunch. Jake had heated up some leftover casserole—the last of the bit he’d cooked the other day—and although Rye had joined Jake at the table, every time he’d gone to pick up his fork, his hand had been shaking. Again. And maybe worse this time. He hadn’t managed more than a bite or two at most before he’d given up and gone back to sitting in his corner, staring at the floor.
After lunch, Jake had cleaned up the kitchen and then tried to talk to Rye a bit, to help distract him from whatever was bothering him. But he’d been unsuccessful, and all of his attempts had just seemed to make Rye more agitated.
So instead, even though he’d hated leaving Rye alone when he was so upset, Jake had gone out to sit on the patio with his laptop and phone to work while he waited for Tim’s call.
It came just after four. And it was short and to the point, as Tim usually was. The road was passable. Jake and Rye could go into town. Finally.
As he hung up the phone, Jake heard a quiet noise behind him, and he turned to see Rye standing in the doorway, one hand up holding his opposite arm just above the elbow. His brows furrowed together in question, and Jake nodded, a small smile inching onto his lips. “That was Tim. We can go now.”
The change in Rye was immediate and obvious. His eyes flashed with relief first, but then fear—something intense, even as brief as it was—and Jake swallowed thickly as he watched Rye seem to battle with himself, gripping harder onto his arm.
“It’ll be okay,” Jake said softly, and Rye actually looked back up at him for a moment, holding his gaze. His eyes were filled with emotion—scared and yet hopeful—and it sent a ripple of warmth and a wave of fierce protectiveness through Jake. He nodded again. “I’ll be there with you, and we’ll talk with the police, and we’ll figure it all out, okay?”
Rye dropped his chin but responded with a small nod.
“Alright,” Jake said, and he turned and closed his laptop, which was sitting on the patio table in front of him. “So, let me just put my stuff away, and then if you’re ready, we can go, yeah?”
He wasn’t expecting an answer, so he wasn’t surprised when he looked back at Rye over his shoulder to see the man just standing there, still holding onto his arm, his jaw tight.
Very, very briefly, Jake wondered what he might do if Rye still wouldn’t talk when they got to the police station, but when he saw a single tear slip down Rye’s cheek, that thought quickly left him.
“You, uh, you know what?” Rye blinked and looked back up at him. “We should... find you some shoes to wear. Yeah, yeah, shoes. Um, mine will probably be too big, I think. What size do you wear? Kris left a pair of something here a while ago. Some fuzzy slippers. Not ideal, I guess, but better than nothing. And probably better than trying to tromp around in mine. I think they’re in the closet in the extra bedroom. Maybe those will work?”
Rye sniffled and let go of his arm long enough to reach up and brush the tear off his cheek, then he looked down at his feet, flexing his toes in the plain white socks he was wearing. When he looked back up at Jake, he’d pursed his lips as if to say he didn’t know.
“Here, let me just...” Jake scooted closer to the armrest on the couch so he could use it to help him stand, then he picked up his laptop and phone, tucked the phone into his pocket and the laptop under one arm, and pushed himself to his feet.
Fuck, it hurt. The pain in his thigh and hip burst back to life, and he pressed his hand down into the top of the armrest to hold himself upright as he allowed his leg to adjust to standing up again.
He’d been sitting in one place too long. He should have known better.
The pain faded to a not-so-dull ache after a few seconds, thankfully, and Jake straightened up with a grunt as he turned toward the house.
A few minutes later, they’d found Krista’s old slippers, which were pink and light blue and quite fuzzy. They looked a bit silly, especially when combined with the oversized dark-gray pants and blue long-sleeved shirt Rye was wearing today, but they seemed to fit his feet well, and that was more important than anything else. Jake also let Rye borrow a spare coat, since it was getting chilly. Then he grabbed his wallet from his nightstand and dug his keys out of the drawer near the front door, and they were ready to go.
Sort of.
Rye hesitated in the doorway, his eyes locked on Jake’s small silver sedan parked in the driveway. Only after Jake laughed and reassured him that he knew how to drive did Rye finally seem to force himself to move, his steps stiff and measured and his arms wrapped tightly around his midsection.
