Jack was there when Rye arrived. He was clearly a Matheson—a smaller, younger, slightly more refined-looking version of Charlie.
Jack raised a hand in a half wave, half salute.
Rye wished he could have brought Marmot.
“I’m Jack. I live right there.” He pointed to the roof just visible over the rise.
“Hey. Rye.”
“Simon will be by later to help,” Jack said. “He had to do a work thing.”
“Who’s Simon?”
Jack smiled a smile of pure sweetness.
“My boyfriend.”
Something unclenched in Rye’s stomach that he hadn’t known was tensed. He wasn’t the only queer person in Garnet Run, thank fuck! And if Jack and his boyfriend were happy here, then maybe he could be too. Maybe.
Jack winked.
“Let’s make a pile to the side of the house so when they drop off the dumpster everything will be in one place and out of our way,” he suggested.
Rye wanted to argue out of habit, because it was his house and he didn’t need a bunch of Charlies and Jacks coming in here and telling him what to do. But it wasn’t like he had any idea what he was doing.
“You used a sledge before?” Jack asked.
Rye shook his head.
“Don’t drop it.”
Yeah, thanks, he was pretty sure he could’ve figured that much out. Then again, he had stomped a hole in his own floor.
Jack showed him where to hit, handed him a mask, and then left him blessedly alone. Unlike his brother, who seemed to watch Rye’s every move. Was Charlie just waiting for Rye to mess something up in his house? Steal something?
They worked in companionable silence—well, companionable din—for a while, and Rye could acknowledge that doing this with someone who knew what they were doing—and with a sledgehammer—was preferable to doing it without.
When Jack’s phone chimed, he stepped out for a minute. There was a furrow between his brows when he returned.
“Simon will be here in a few to help us,” he said.
Rye nodded, but Jack didn’t pull his mask back up. He took two steps closer to Rye, expression forbidding.
“Listen. Simon has bad social anxiety and right now he’ll just want to hit shit with a hammer and not talk to anyone. So don’t give him any shit.”
This last was clearly a warning that if Rye did give him any shit he’d have to expect some in return from Jack. It was an unnecessary threat—Rye only ever gave people shit if they gave it to him first—but Jack’s protectiveness of his boyfriend sent a frisson of heat up Rye’s spine.
“Got it.”
“I’m serious. Don’t tease him and don’t look at him funny, no matter what.”
“Of course not,” Rye said, raising his palms in peace.
Jack’s eyes narrowed but he just nodded.
At the sound of tires coming up the drive, Jack put down his hammer and went outside. Through the dirty window, Rye could just make out a tall, thin man with wavy dark hair who must be Simon. Jack opened his arms and the man pressed tight inside them. Even though they were almost the same height, Simon made himself small enough to be folded up in Jack’s arms.
They clung to each other for minutes. Rye smashed the wall with the hammer, but his gaze was drawn to the window again.
Jack rocked them slowly, running a hand through Simon’s hair and Simon buried his face in Jack’s neck.
Rye smashed the wall again. He looked out the window again and this time Jack was cupping Simon’s face in his hands and Simon was saying something with his eyes closed.
Rye wanted to smash everything. He wanted to bust it all wide open. He wanted to hit someone. He wanted to tear the world apart.
He wanted someone to hold him as tight and as unendingly as Jack Matheson was holding his boyfriend.
Fuck.
Rye dropped the sledgehammer. It, predictably, busted a floorboard.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He tried to pull the board back flat. Naturally, at just that moment, Jack walked through the door. But though he opened his mouth, he shut it again in favor of ushering Simon in.
Rye told Simon, “Thanks for helping out,” without looking at him.
Simon made an inarticulate sound of assent. He grabbed the sledgehammer Jack had been using. Then, silently, single-mindedly, he beat holy hell out of the kitchen wall. When it lay in rubble at his feet he glanced up at Jack, and gave a single nod.
Rye could feel blisters coming out on his palms from swinging the sledgehammer and his back was complaining, but goddamn it felt good to hit something. To see the concrete proof of his actions. He let those newly earned pains swell until they eclipsed the pain in his shin, the pain of leaving Seattle, the pain of starting over, and the pain of yet again needing help.
By the time Charlie showed up midafternoon with two more helpers named Rachel and Vanessa, they’d reduced most of the interior walls to wreckage, and Rye’s entire body ached. He felt wrung out and light as air, cares smashed out of him.