“Recycled plastic removed from the ocean, yeah,” Jake finished for him. “I’ve heard of this company. They do great work, and I think...” Jake looked back down at the box and turned it over again, his eyes scanning the words.
Rye reached over and pointed at a line written on the bottom of the box. “This?”
And Jake nodded and grinned. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Half the cost of the bracelet goes to fund the removal of five pounds of plastic from the ocean. Wow. Rye, I...”
The smile on Rye’s face grew even more. “I... madeyouspeechless this time,” Rye said, and he huffed a small laugh.
“You did. You did. I just . . . Wow.”
Jake blinked, his eyes glistening, and Rye watched, that same feeling blooming in his chest, as Jake slid the bracelet on his left wrist and tightened it a little. It seemed to fit perfectly. Jake twisted it around a few times as though admiring it. Then he shook his head and looked back up at Rye.
“I just love it. Thank you so much. Um, here. Open yours.”
Rye nodded and picked up the gift Jake pushed over toward him. It was heavy and rectangular and about the size and thickness of his mom’s laptop computer. He glanced up at Jake briefly before copying Jake’s actions early, carefully unwrapping the gift while trying to keep the paper from ripping.
And when it was fully unwrapped, all he could do was stare in wonder, his chest tight with some other new emotion.
“It’s . . . it’s just . . . beautiful.”
It was a framed photograph—a close-up of a small, bright-yellow bird, its wings spread as it soared through the air against a backdrop of green trees with soft white flowers.
“I have a friend—a colleague who works as a wildlife photographer forNational Geographic,” Jake explained quietly. “He took this photo as part of a series last winter when he was down in Mexico.”
“That’s where... they migrate to,” Rye said, and when he looked up, Jake was nodding.
“Yeah. I, uh, thought you might like it.”
Rye bit his lip and nodded once and then again and again. “I do. I do. I...”
I love it. It’s beautiful, and I think I have the perfect spot on my wall in my room to hang it. And I wish I knew how to thank you for this and for everything.
“I... love it. I... can hang it in my room. It’s... perfect. Thank you. This is my favorite gift. Thank you.” It wasn’t everything he wanted to say, but it was okay for now.
And Jake seemed to understand him, as he always did. He nodded and said something, a quiet “you’re welcome,” and he looked about as happy as Rye felt, his smile lighting up his eyes.
It was wonderful. Just perfect and wonderful, and Rye grinned back.
Then he dropped his gaze to the photograph again and reached up to touch the glass, his finger tracing along the bird’s outline.
He did. He loved it, absolutelylovedit. And he thought maybe this was his favorite day ever. His favorite Christmas ever.
“Can you... help me put it up?” he asked, and Jake nodded.
“Of course, yeah.”
And with another smile, Rye stood up and cradled the photo carefully against his chest as he led the way to the garage so they could find a hammer and nails.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jake
Fridaymorningwasovercastand quiet, the heavy clouds layered over the ocean bringing another late-December chill that had Jake bundled up, his heavy coat over a thick sweater. He stood at the railing overlooking the water, his mug of hot tea steaming in the cold air.
His leg ached, but it was that dull, deep throb that often came with the cold weather, not the sharp acute pain of the muscle strain from two months ago, and for that, he was thankful. But it reminded him of that day, which in turn made him think about Rye. And that made his heart race, in both a good way and a not-so-good way.
He’d try today, he’d decided. He’d try to take the stairs down to the beach. He had the phone number his sister had given him for her therapist, but maybe if he forced himself to go just once, maybe if he forced himself to work past that fear and panic, then he’d be okay. Hell, maybe if he even forced himself to just take the first step down, then whatever part of his brain it was controlling that reaction would realize it was being dumb.
But even as he promised himself to do it, he felt the twisting in his gut and the churning in his stomach. He tightened his hands on his mug, turned around, and walked slowly back to the patio sofa, trying not to limp. His cane sat up against the armrest, and he picked it up as he took the last sip of his tea. Then he set his mug down on the table in front of the sofa.
