“Yes! Amber’s coming and bringing her new boyfriend! She just texted me this morning. It’s going to be a full house. Everyone’s so excited. I’m glad I managed to snag two turkeys before we sold out at the store. Tanya, are you still bringing the sweet potato casserole?”
“Mm-hmm, yep! And Jon’s baking an apple pie.”
“Appleandpumpkin,” Jon corrected.
“Ooh, pumpkin used to be Rye’s favorite. Isn’t that right, hun?”
Rye’s fork scraped loudly to a stop on his plate as he felt everyone’s eyes on him. Did they really... expect him to remember? He closed his eyes tightly and let his chin drop down to his chest, forcing himself to take a breath. Slowly in and out. Cold and dark came with it. Cold and dark and heavy.
“Hedidlike it. Hopefully he still will. Right, sweetie?” His mom saved him somehow, and he managed a small nod. The dark heaviness had settled square in the middle of his chest now, and it was starting to get painful. “So, Tanya, tell me about this new mixer you got. Your KitchenAid finally stopped working, huh?”
“Finally! After, oh my, it’s gotta be almost forty years old now. I just adored that mixer. But Jenna—Renee’s friend from Eureka, you remember her?—she told me all about this new brand...”
Again, more conversation swirled around him, and he let himself sort of drift away from it as he stared at the few peas remaining on his plate. He should eat them.
His stomach twisted and churned.
He’d eaten a lot already and was full. But his mom had glanced at him and his plate with a nervous expression minutes ago, and he didn’t want to upset her.
He stabbed a single pea with one of the tines on his fork, and then lifted it to his mouth. One pea. Then a second and then a third. A memory tugged at his mind, wanting him to know, but when he reached for it, it vanished. Only another horribly empty feeling remained.
Some random, odd memory about peas probably wasn’t terribly important anyway. Yet Rye missed it. Something told him it was a good memory. Maybe it was about chicken potpie even. Not that it mattered, because he hadn’t been able to grasp it, and now it was gone. Gone into that dark void that was so cold and scary and—
“Ryan, sweetie?”
His hands froze, and he only realized just then that he’d dropped his fork on his plate and was pressing his palms against his eyes. And crying. He was crying.
“Ryan, are you okay?” His mom’s voice was full of concern, and he didn’t blame her.
He carefully wiped the tears from his cheeks and then nodded. He wanted to say he was sorry, too, because he hated that he’d upset her. But just like most of the afternoon, no words would come.
He’d caused way too many scenes lately, moments just like this one where he’d get pulled away from the present and not even realize it. Or moments where he’dpanic and suddenly find himself sitting in a corner somewhere, his knees pulled up to his chest. Or moments where his muscles seized up and he couldn’t breathe. He hated it, and he knew it upset everyone too.
“Maybe we should get going, Shirley.” Uncle Jon’s voice was too loud now, and Rye had to work to hold himself still.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“You’re working tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but only from one to five.”
“Should we come over again while you’re gone?”
A hesitation, and then his mom sniffled quietly.
“Shirl . . .”
“Not now, Jon. I’ll call you later to talk, okay?”
Rye’s shoulders tightened, and he closed his eyes. How was it that he was somehow still causing his mom so much pain? How was it that they weren’t all just absurdly happy all the time? He was home, after all.
Home and . . . very much not okay.
“S-sorry,” he mumbled, pressing his hands into his thighs. The conversation around him stopped, and his mom almost immediately jumped in to reassure him.
“No, no, sweetie. It’s not your fault. I’m just...”
Sad because of me. Worried to go to work because of me.
