The call ended, and Jake stuck his phone back in his pocket, then shouldered the backpack and headed out of the room. At the end of the hallway, he paused, his eyes lingering on the back door. It had just started raining outside, light raindrops blurring the view.
He felt his heart tugging him back in that direction, toward the stairs, toward the beach.Hisbeach. But then his stomach did something uncomfortable, reminding him of the panic he’d been right on the verge of when his sister had called, and he took an involuntary step backward.
Not today. Not today when he needed to work and then head into town to meet with Rye for lunch and then run to the post office for his sister. No, he’d try again another day. Tomorrow, maybe.
Or maybe . . .
With a grimace, his hand went back into his pocket and grasped his phone. He limped over to the table, set the backpack down, and then pulled out his phoneand scrolled through his text messages with Krista until he found the message she’d sent him on Christmas morning—the message with her therapist’s phone number. He stared at it for a few seconds, and then, with a sigh, he clicked on the number and lifted the phone to his ear.
Maybe it was time to get some help.
“I...like the rain.”
“Yeah?”
Jake glanced sideways at his friend as the two walked along the boardwalk back toward town. Their stroll down the beach after lunch had been cut short just a few minutes ago when the rain had picked up from a light sprinkle to something more substantial. They’d decided to turn back, but Rye definitely hadn’t been in a hurry. In fact, as the rain had started coming down harder, he’d smiled and laughed and pushed his hood back, like he’d been enjoying every minute.
And even now, Rye smiled and nodded and then tilted his head back and let the rain hit his face. His blond hair was soaking wet, the few strands that had escaped his low bun coming together to form messy curls. He blinked and then laughed a little as he reached up to wipe the raindrops from his face. “Yeah. I like it.” He paused and looked over at Jake, his eyes bright. “It... feels good. It’s cold. But...”
Jake laughed and tugged the hood of his coat down over his forehead a little lower. “Itispretty chilly. And I do wish I’d brought an umbrella,” he said. “But I like the rain too.”
He saw Rye’s smile tighten a little, and then Rye looked back down at the ground in front of them and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I... spent a long time... without it.”
The clear, awful implication of the words hit Jake square in the chest, and he couldn’t help it as his already uneven step faltered. He stopped walking, and Rye stopped a couple of steps later, his head hanging low.
“S-sorry.” Rye’s voice was quiet, wavering, and Jake immediately shook his head.
“No, no, it’s okay. Um, it’s just... that’s the first time you’ve mentioned anything about, uh, before.”
Rye turned back around and faced Jake, all the light now gone from his eyes. He blinked and dropped his chin down again. “It... was really horrible. I... don’t like to think about it.”
“I can’t even imagine,” Jake said softly. He took a small step toward Rye, letting out a slow breath as he fought every urge to reach out and rest his hand on Rye’s arm or to brush his fingers reassuringly along Rye’s cheek.
Rye shook his head. “I wouldn’t want you to try,” he said, his voice still low and now filled with what Jake could only hear as pain. He kept his chin down but glanced back up at Jake and seemed to try to force a smile. That only made Jake’s heart ache more.
He still knew next to nothing about the time Rye had been away, although from what he understood, no one but Rye really knew anything. Rye hadn’t been able to talk to anyone about it, not even his mom, and not for lack of trying by everyone involved. He remembered how Roscoe from the FBI and Pamela and Craig from the county sheriff’s department had stayed in town for a couple of weeks after Rye had shown up. Shirley had mentioned they’d stop by nearly every day and try to talk to Rye, but any attempts at questioning him again had only caused Rye more pain and fear and made his difficulties with speaking even worse.
That had stopped weeks ago now—about the same time the constant police presence in the town and surrounding Rye had stopped. Jake no longer needed to let Rachel or Wayne know any time he went anywhere with Rye, and there was no longer a state trooper’s vehicle parked outside Rye’s home twenty-four seven.
Jake hadn’t ever asked anything of Rye, not after that one day at the police station. He figured if Rye was ever ready to talk or ever wanted to talk, he would. Though, Jake supposed maybe he should be sure Rye knew he was able and willing to listen.
“Rye,” he said quietly, and when Rye lifted his eyes again, Jake’s heart stumbled for another beat. He swallowed thickly and then gave Rye the softest smile he could. “I’ve never said anything, because I don’t want you to feel any pressure at all, but, you know, if you ever need to talk, if you ever need someone to listen, if you need to share anything about... about what happened or, you know, anything at all...” Rye had lowered his eyes back to the ground, and rain continued to fall, dripping off his hair and sliding down his cheeks. “If you ever need any of that, I’m here. I’ll never push you, ever. But if you want to talk...”
Rye sniffled and then reached up and brushed his wet hair back off his face with a short nod. “M-my mom a-and... a-and...” He hesitated and shook his head, then glanced over his shoulder toward where Jake’s car was parked along the curb next to the café. When he turned back to Jake, his eyes were downcast, and that same urge Jake had had earlier—the urge to move closer, tooffer Rye some sort of comfort—that urge came again, this time accompanied by a wave of fierce protectiveness.
“We should get out of the rain?” Jake suggested gently, and Rye nodded. Together, they started walking, their pace still slow, which Jake was thankful for since the ache in his leg had grown to a dull throb in the last few minutes. Neither of them spoke the rest of the way, and after they both climbed into the car, Jake started it up and cranked the heater on. Then he sat and waited, unsure whether he should speak up first or just let Rye take the lead, as he’d always done.
Rye sat in the passenger’s seat, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his chin dropped, and his eyes closed. He seemed... lost. Lost and scared, and Jake desperately wished he had the right words and knew exactly what to say to help.
Finally, Rye blinked his eyes open, though he didn’t look up. “I can’t... I can’t talk to anyone like I can talk to you. Even... my mom. And if I try, it... hurts.”
“It hurts?” Jake asked quietly. “Physically hurts, or... ?”
Rye nodded. “I can’t breathe, and my chest . . . hurts. And—and s-sometimes I feel . . . more pain, like the same pain from when . . . he’d . . . hurt me.”
God.
Jake closed his eyes against the uncomfortable swoop of his stomach, and he swallowed hard and forced himself to breathe normally, even as anger boiled in his chest.
