This Close to Okay(76)

He was sent to a maximum-security prison a hundred miles away.

*



There he wrote letters to his parents, and they visited him. So did Hunter and Savannah before they moved to Montana. After that, he and Hunter wrote each other letters, too. Rye read the art history books in the prison library obsessively, disappearing into them, memorizing everything, a deep love ripening. He went to some of the smaller therapy groups and the church meetings and formed a close relationship with one of the preachers, talked to him about Jesus.

His life had turned into some sort of nightmared misunderstanding. Daring to hope was the only thing that’d kept him alive in there. He tried to stay out of trouble when he was locked up. Kept to himself the best he could, was friendly with the guys he could be friendly with. Was nasty to the ones he knew wouldn’t respect him otherwise.

*



(The prison guard is wearing different shoes today. No longer scuffed. He said fucking piece of shit today instead of piece of shit. Modified it. Cell mate is sick. Stomach flu. Today he told me he believed me, that I didn’t do this. He told me he was guilty; he killed a man. The sun was out, the air was cold. One hour went quickly. A fight in the cafeteria. Again. The alarm. Again. Meat loaf, potatoes, rolls. Made the potatoes. Good potatoes.)

Rye’s obsessive mental cataloging helped him organize a world that no longer made sense. He talked to himself about what he saw and heard and smelled and thought, as if he were a playwright like Christine, forever setting the scene. It was how he kept himself from going mad.

(Never getting out. Making a life here. The walls are pale green. The toilet is stainless steel like a fork. Like a spoon. Like a knife. The clear water in it is low. People shit in front of other people here. Making a life here. There is too much life here. Trapped. There is no life here. The sunlight makes it onto the cold floor in the big room. Slit-up light. I am recording these observations to keep from going insane. I am recording these observations to protect my mental health. I am noticing everything I can to busy my mind, to help myself cope. I am recording these observations to keep from going insane. I am recording these observations to protect my mental health. I am noticing everything I can to busy my mind, to help myself cope. I am recording these observations to keep from going insane. I am recording these observations to protect my mental health. I am noticing everything I can to busy my mind, to help myself cope.)

*



His attorney had mentioned appealing immediately after his trial, but that was what attorneys always said. Rye’s parents were righteously heartbroken and infuriated, claiming not only that his counsel had blown the case but that the police had botched it, too. He should’ve never been arrested on so little evidence. His parents sold the restaurant to cover Rye’s sky-high legal fees and spoke with the media often. They worked tirelessly with the Release program. Never gave up.

*



Yolanda Monroe, along with Rye’s additional new attorney, argued that his trial was unfair since the jury was biased in Bloom because of the pull and power of the Bloom family. There was no hard evidence Rye had done it, and there had been recently discovered video evidence that supported his alibi—grainy footage from two different security cameras of him walking and wearing what he’d said he’d been wearing. It was proof he’d been out walking for at least two hours before Christine and Brenna died and that he was still walking during their estimated times of death, miles and miles away from their home. Prior to his trial, Rye had begged his old attorney to hunt down video, but he’d been told they didn’t need it.

With the help of Release, he was exonerated after it was found that no crime had been committed. Six hundred and ninety-four days after being incarcerated, he was freed.

*



Rye had returned to his hometown, where his wife and daughter were buried next to each other, where the lake restaurant was owned by a new family, where half the people suspected him of murder. He’d let his parents sell the Honeybee House when he was in prison, moved in with them when he got out. He endured the hateful looks and hollers from the people who’d—no matter the evidence—never believe he was innocent. He tried to live there, got a job doing heavy construction working with Hunter’s brother. Demolition. Worked extra shifts to keep himself sore and exhausted, because if he was sore and exhausted, life would feel like punishment, and he deserved to be punished forever for walking away from Christine and Brenna.

*



Once he made the decision to end his life, the obsessive observing was like burning everything in a glass jar before he said goodbye. And although suicide had crossed his mind a lot in prison, it wasn’t until he got out that he’d realized his freedom hadn’t been the answer. He still didn’t know what the answer was. Hell, he didn’t even know what the question was anymore.

A day before he met Tallie on the bridge, he’d called Hunter, who was executive chef at a ranch restaurant in Big Sky now. He and Savannah had recently had a baby girl, and Hunter had told Rye he wanted to keep a respectful distance because he knew how devastating it would be for Rye to see Hunter and Savannah and their baby girl when Rye no longer had his wife and baby girl there with him. Rye told him he wanted to hear about their daughter and meant it when he said he was happy for them, that they’d be amazing parents.

When he talked to Hunter, he thought it’d be the last time. Tried his best to keep his voice even when he told Hunter to tell Savannah hi and he hoped to see them soon, the next time they left Montana for Kentucky—Christmastime. Instead, Rye pictured them flying in with their baby for his funeral once his body was found, if it was found. And he hated himself for having to do that to them—kill himself and bring more darkness into their lives when they’d recently been warmed by so much light.