Unexpected
Part One
Summer Roberts is pissed.
Not pissed like when you're twelve, and bitchy, and everything and everyone gets on your nerves, and you're convinced the world hates you and God has your name with an asterisk next to it on his shit list. Not even post-break-up pissed, or pissed because you're stressed, or pissed because your boyfriend is acting like a dick.
Summer's pissed because she's sixteen, and she's wearing an unbelievably short skirt, and she got her legs waxed so they're all smooth and shiny, and she has the best Manolos on ever, with spike heels and sexy straps and everything. Summer is pissed because she looks like ten million bucks, and it's a Saturday night in the middle of July and she's alone.
Un-fucking-believable.
She doesn't even know how she got into this situation. Two months ago she had a boyfriend, and okay, maybe he wasn't so much hot as he was funny and dorky, but he was here, at least. And he worshipped her. She had a best friend, too, who was drunk more often than not, but even in the worst of times Marissa was a good shopping partner; you can never underestimate the virtues of having a good shopping partner. Marissa's gone AWOL lately, though, probably steeping herself in intense self-pity or screwing around to get Chino out of her head for a little while. Even stupid Chino is gone to…Chino, of course. Summer giggles a little at that thought, though it's not really that funny. Chino is in Chino because of his sort-of-girlfriend who is very much pregnant, and that's kind of sad. Summer doesn't really like Chino that much – and it doesn't help that her shithead of a boyfriend took off in his dumb boat immediately after Chino left town on his current white knight quest – but she does feel kind of bad for him and Theresa. Though she'd never tell him that, of course.
Summer thinks she's an independent woman with her shit together, but truthfully, she knows she isn't dealing well with any of this at all. In certain moments of lonely insanity, she even misses seeing her stepmonster passed out on the couch (she's at some glorified detox center in Malibu for a month). And that's just beyond pathetic.
So Summer climbs into her car and slips off her heels and drives barefoot to the beach. She parks the car and walks and walks and walks until there are no drunken college kids anywhere nearby and it's quiet and there's just the sound of the waves splashing against the shore to keep her company. She collapses onto a patch of sand and pulls her knees into her chest and before she knows what's happening she starts to cry.
At first she's not sure why she's crying, but as the tears slide down her cheeks and drip onto her tank top, she realizes it's because she wants something, anything, in her life right now to make sense, to be how it's supposed to be. Nothing's right, and it's like some vast conspiracy to leave her feeling scared and misunderstood. Summer's not really an angsty kind of gal; she's always been more of a pragmatist, and she knows what she wants and how to get it. Or at least she used to.
"Summer?"
She freaks a little then, hearing that voice come out of the darkness, and then she turns to see Ryan standing there wearing jeans and his standard wifebeater and looking puzzled and tired. "What are you doing here?" she says rudely.
"I just…I kind of missed…" Ryan stops, pushing his hands awkwardly into his pockets.
Ryan's not so good with words; this Summer knows. She used to think it was annoying, since she herself is kind of a talker, but then she spent a lot of time around Cohen and came to appreciate the value of silence.
The thing about Ryan that Summer has come to realize from her limited experience with him is this: he only talks when he has something to say.
She has an appreciation for that total lack of pretension, of filler.
"So are you back in Newport for good?" she asks, and realizes she kind of cares, which is surprising and not surprising at the same time. Another one of the many things in her life right now that don't make a lick of sense.
"I don't know…I got in my car tonight and started driving and ended up here, so…" Ryan moves a little closer and sits down next to her in the sand. "This is where I am."
"Funny," Summer says, "that's what happened to me too."
Their eyes meet for a second and Summer realizes she's hardly ever been this close to Ryan – there's always been Cohen or Marissa in between. She never realized his eyes are the blue of summer sky with little flecks of green. She's always known Ryan was
hot – ever since she saw him through a semi-drunken haze at that party when he first arrived in Newport – but she's never seen him as beautiful, too.
She shakes her head, rapidly, as if to rid herself of these weird thoughts. She's just lonely. It's just the extended periods of solitude talking.
"You want to get something to eat or something?" Ryan asks.
Summer realizes she is kind of hungry. She's been so caught up in her emotional cocktail of self-pity and anxiety that she's been ignoring all her physical needs.
"Sure," she says.
Ryan stands and offers her his hand – such a gentleman, how could she forget that about him? And he smiles at her and says, "I like your shoes."
For some reason this makes her feel warm all over, and happy, too. "Thanks," she says, and she can't believe it but Chino's making her blush.
It's not perfect or even ideal, but at least now she's dressed up and she's got a place to go.
The air in the restaurant is cool, almost chilly, and when they sit down at a table Summer feels her skin prickling as her body adjusts to the rapid temperature change. She knows her hair is curling at the ends, too, on account of the humidity, and this wouldn't bother her so much if she hadn't expended so much time and product in getting her waves to smooth down exactly the way she wanted them. The way she figures it, if life is going to suck, at the very least she should have good hair.
Ryan is watching her carefully in that freaky Chino way of his, and she feels suddenly self-conscious, as if her skirt is torn in a place it shouldn't be or her make-up is streaked and running.
"How do you walk in shoes like that?" he asks, and Summer laughs, partly because of the question and partly because of his delivery. He sounds like he actually cares, like he's curious and that her answer will solve some great mystery he's been pondering for years.
"Lots of practice," she replies easily, propping one leg up next to him and admiring the sleek curve of her heels. "Why, Chino? You thinking of purchasing some of these? Need some lessons on how to do the catwalk?"
Ryan smirks at her.
"I have to warn you," she continues, "that Manolos are kind of on the pricey side. The Cohens may think it's a little excessive. Plus I'm not sure they make these in your size."
Ryan considers this, and some emotion flickers across his face too fast for Summer to interpret it. It's almost as if he's deciding how to take that comment, whether he should be angry because Summer might be taking a dig at the way he relies on the Cohens' charity. But then he laughs a little, saying, "You're probably right. They're not really my style."
They lapse into silence then, and it's weird but it doesn't feel awkward. Summer thinks it feels so much better to sit there in silence with Ryan than it does to lounge on her couch in her living room, the buzz from the television her only company. Even if he's not saying anything, not even attempting to entertain her, she's glad he's there. His presence alone is oddly comforting.
"So how is…everything?" she asks finally. Ryan looks up from the menu, and Summer realizes this is a more difficult question than she initially thought. Because implied in that question is ten thousand others, like how is Theresa and the baby that might or might not be yours and what do you do down in Chino and what will you do for money and what are your plans and why are you here, anyway? But Summer doesn't know how to ask those questions, not yet. She has no idea where his boundaries are or what idle comment might cause him to snap closed like the buckle on a smooth leather briefcase.
"'S'alright," he mutters, but Summer sees the flash of pain in his eyes before he glances back down at the menu and she knows he's lying, and not very well. For someone who is as cool and composed as Ryan usually is, he's pretty horrible at deception. Even Seth, with his thousands of nervous tics and his predisposition to nonsensical babble, can put up a better façade, can make you think he means what he doesn't.
"You sure?" Summer asks gently, and without thinking she slides her hand across the table and clasps his arm. He looks down and then back up at her, his eyes widening imperceptibly.
"What about you?" he throws back, fixing her with a stare she knows he wants to be intimidating. "You didn't seem so happy out there on the beach. I could have sworn you were – "
" – Crying?" Summer snaps. "Yeah, I was, Chino. Because my life, unlike yours, apparently, isn't all wine and roses at the moment."
Ryan is silent, his lips curving downward into a frown, and Summer feels strangely vindicated, like it's some victory to get him to express something, anything at all, other than stoic indifference.
She could lie to herself and say she's just now beginning to be fascinated with Ryan, now that he's shown up here and won't tell her what he's coming from and where he's going to. But the truth is she's always been fascinated by him; he's such a mystery, so clouded in ambiguity and quiet nonchalance. He's so unlike Seth, who she's always been able to read like an open book.
Seth could never hide his feelings for her – she knew he was hot for her the second he approached her at that party. He reminded her of an over-eager puppy dog, dying for attention and affection. It might have been endearing if he hadn't been so desperate. At the time Summer had wanted someone who had it together, who looked good and who everyone liked and who would make her feel like the queen she most certainly is. Now she feels ashamed when she thinks about it. Seth deserved better than that.
Summer supposes that's why she's found herself here. Alone.
When she first saw Ryan at that party, he was instantly magnetic with his bedroom eyes and uncertain past and complete disregard for Newport social conventions. Ryan's mystery was the most enticing thing about him – more even than his obviously toned body and deep blue eyes. Of course Summer is all about the pretty, but she's smart enough to appreciate when someone goes deeper than that. She knows what it's like to be perceived as just a pretty face, and she's tired of people assuming she's only interested in the latest colors of nail polish and doing the sex quizzes in Cosmo.
Not that she isn't interested in these things, but. Well. There's more there, is all she's saying.
It's been almost a year since that party, and she can't help but feel like she isn't any closer to penetrating Ryan's sturdy emotional walls, to knowing what makes him tick. She thinks that though Marissa would never admit it, she doesn't know that much about him either; even after dating him for months and using him to help her maneuver around countless emotional potholes, she's still just as clueless, just as much in the dark.
"I'm sorry," Ryan says softly, and Summer becomes conscious that she still has her hand on his arm, her fingernails pressing into his skin. She pulls her hand away, putting it in her lap. "I'm sorry you're unhappy and I'm sorry if I seemed like I was making fun of you for it."
Summer nods, not knowing what to say. What do you say when someone apologizes? Thank you? Why isn't there a socially accepted response for that?
The waitress comes then to take their order, temporarily saving her from having to respond. When she leaves, Ryan says, "You want to talk about it?"
Summer thinks about the bizarreness of this situation, about her sitting here in a freezing cold restaurant in a mini-skirt and heels with Ryan Atwood, with Chino, of all people. She's here with Ryan and Seth's on a boat somewhere being a little bitch and yes, goddammit, she does want to talk about it.
"It's partly Cohen," she says. "But it's more than that."
Ryan nods.
"Like I don't understand why this summer has to suck so much," she says. "Last year was so insane and I finally felt like we were all becoming friends and things were kinda good, and then all of a sudden everyone's gone, and I've got nothing to do, and I'm just sitting around the house thinking about everything and…" Summer pauses to catch her breath, knowing she's babbling, but Ryan is just sitting there, looking at her calmly, no judgment. She understands why Seth and Ryan are such good friends – only Chino could put up with Cohen's terminal diarrhea-of-the-mouth.
"I don't know," she says softly. "It's all fucked up, is what it is."
A corner of Ryan's mouth turns up in a half-smile, and he says, "You know something, Summer? I think you just might be right." He pauses, sipping at his soda, and then delivers a perfectly timed, "But there is a first time for everything, right?"
Summer gives a squeak of offended surprise, and smacks him on the arm, hard. He feigns hurt, and she rolls her eyes.
"Chino," she tells him, "just remember that you've seen the length of both my heels and my nails."
He puts up his hands in mock surrender, and he's still grinning, but dammit, it's kind of cute. The bastard.
Their food comes and they eat mostly in silence, interrupted by occasional small talk and Ryan teasing her repeatedly for the dainty way she eats her burger, wiping her mouth and hands every few seconds with a napkin to keep from getting all sticky. The check comes and Summer takes out her wallet to pay with her credit card, but Ryan snatches it away, saying, "I got it." She almost objects but then she can see this means something to him, that it's something he needs to do, so she doesn't push it.
He walks her out to her car and they stand there for a few seconds, unsure of what to say. "Thank you for dinner," she says. "This was nice."
"Yeah," he says, and his eyes look almost black in the low light. "Maybe we can…do this again sometime?"
"Sure," she says, and she feels confused, because she has no idea what this is or where it's headed but she knows she wants it.
He hands her a slip of paper he tore off the check. "Here's my cell number. You can call me. I'm working construction during the day but…"
"Right," Summer says, and when she takes the paper from him his fingers brush hers and she feels like she's been static shocked. She wants to blame it on the lack of physical contact she's had lately, but. Well.
She knows it's something more.
She's in her car cruising down the highway before she realized that he didn't – not once – answer a single one of her questions.
Summer's closet is mocking her.
She's convinced of this. It's just sitting there, doors gaping wide like a giant laughing mouth. It's smirking. It's sneering. It's freaking her out.
How is it possible that she has a thousand outfits and nothing to wear?
This is all fucking Chino's fault. If he hadn't called her up this afternoon, all casual-like, and suggested they get together and hang, she wouldn't have to be devoting this kind of time to wardrobe choices. She could just stay in the ratty cut-offs and ugly t-shirt she'd been lounging in all day, since she had nothing to do and no one to see.
But now Chino's coming over, and ever since he complimented her on her trendy sandals, she's tempted to wear the most glamorous, sensual ensemble she owns
in hopes that he might like it, might toss an approving remark her way. She knows this is insane – what does she care what he thinks? – but she feels it nonetheless, and nothing she's tried on fits the bill.
She can't wear strappy sandals and a shimmery top that makes her boobs look big – they're watching TV and eating popcorn, not going clubbing in L.A. But she doesn't want to look like a total slob, either, like she rolled out of bed to see him. He's driven
all the way up from Chino even though he knows it's a Thursday and she told him they've got to watch The Valley – that's crazy devotion right there.
It's been three weeks since he found her crying on the beach, and they've gotten together five times – twice she even stopped by during his lunch break and brought him take-out. They talk on the phone almost every night and even though they just talk about boring, everyday friend-y kind of things, she finds herself looking forward to it. It's always the best part of her day.
She has no idea what is going on, and Ryan never tells her anything, never offers any excuses or explanations as to why he's so eager to spend time with her. Or maybe "eager" isn't the right word. Ryan doesn't really do eager. He's the master of "aloof." When she chatters on about how she hopes it's okay to do this and she doesn't want to take him away from more important things, he just waits patiently for her to finish and then says, "It's okay."
Summer always felt like Cohen was the king of TMI, but Ryan is even more ridiculous. He's like one big complicated secret wrapped up in a shell of ambiguity and covered in a shellac of mystery just for good measure. She hates it. She hates him! But she
thinks about him all the time anyway, like he's some suspense novel she just can't stop reading.
And there's her closet. Still mocking.
She yanks out a red stretchy top that she knows compliments her skin tone and some black pants that do her ass a few favors. This seems kind of okay – a little on the dressy side, but hopefully he'll be too busy admiring the complete package to question it.
She puts on some silver hoop earrings and a touch of make-up. She's just finishing her lipstick when there's a knock on the door.
"For the last time, I don't have your Valium!" she shouts. The stepmonster has been particularly persistent today, probably because whatever combination of tranquilizers she's on is giving her memory issues.
The door cracks open a little, and Summer is about to shout something very rude when she sees that it's Chino. "Don't need any, I don't think," he says. "Not yet, anyway. We haven't started watching The Valley."
Summer purses her lips and rolls her eyes at him, feigning offense. Then she takes a second to covertly check him out – best friend of her ex or not, Ryan is worth a lingering look or two. All the construction work he's been doing has made his biceps even tighter,
and he's kind of tan from spending so much time outside, bringing out the bright blue of his eyes. Today he's sporting a little stubble, a collared blue shirt over a wifebeater, open a few buttons, and jeans that fit…well. Summer has a thing about boys who wear pants that fit. They make her happy. Especially when they have an ass like Ryan's.
"I pass inspection?" Ryan asks, amused, and Summer blushes, realizing she's been caught staring.
"Barely," she throws back, and he chuckles.
"Good to know," he says. "You look very nice."
Hmm. Very nice. Well, it's something.
It occurs to Summer how weird it is that she's become so obsessed with what Ryan thinks of her looks. Is she on the market for a boyfriend already? And if so, wouldn't Chino be pretty much the worst possible candidate ever, being as he's so intimately connected with the guy she's still not sure she's over?
Summer pushes these thoughts aside, deciding that she's entitled to appreciate the aesthetically pleasing, no strings attached. Especially after all the shit she's been through lately.
"So…" he says a little awkwardly, and Summer thinks she better snap out of it, because she's being the worst hostess ever.
"C'mon. Sit down," she says, gesturing towards the bed. Yeah, she'd planned for them to hang out in the living room – a little more neutral territory – but hey, plans change. Especially since the stepmonster has been kind of aggressive today. If she saw Ryan
she might pounce.
"How's work?" she asks. She always feels weird asking him about work, since she obviously doesn't have to, and it's almost like she's shining a magnifying glass on their differences, making them impossible to ignore.
He shrugs. "It's alright. Good money. Theresa really appreciates it. She's working at a bakery but she can't make much money at that…she wanted to wait tables but it's really hard on her back…" He trails off. Summer feels a tinge of fear, wondering if Ryan will wise up to how superficial and silly she is compared to he and Theresa – they have real problems, adult problems, worries much more important than what to wear or watch on TV.
"Are you and Theresa…going to get married?" Summer asks suddenly. She knows it's a strange question to ask, but she's so curious, and she's already figured out that the only way to get Ryan to give up information is to put him on the spot. If he even does then.
Ryan traces a pattern on the bedspread, saying softly, "Probably not. We're not really…marriage material. I mean, we're not in love. Right now it actually feels
more platonic than it ever has before…weird, huh?" He laughs a bit, looking up at her sadly. His laughter sounds hollow. Summer feels sad, and she wants to hug him but doesn't know how he'd react, if he'll just curl into himself and they'll be right back where they started.
"I can kind of understand," Summer says. "You guys are really good friends and you love each other but you obviously didn't plan this, so…it must be stressful."
Ryan nods, saying nothing.
"Does Theresa mind you coming here?" Summer asks. It's a question she's been gearing herself up to ask ever since they had dinner that night he found her on the beach, but somehow she could never find the words.
"No," Ryan says. His eyes are a dark, thoughtful cerulean. "Or if she does, she doesn't tell me."
"I just don't want to get…in between anything…" Summer stutters, and thinks how it's ironic that Chino, a man of such few words, can make her lose her power of speech. It's contagious, she guesses.
"You're not," he says firmly.
There's a pause while Summer considers her next move, and then Ryan surprises her by saying, "Do you think about Seth much?"
This catches Summer off guard, and she feels exposed, knowing her hurt is written all over her face. Cohen may be a cowardly little bitch for taking off the way he did, but she still has those momentary flashes of affection when she thinks about his neurotic chatter, the way he stumbles over his words because he's got so much to say, the tremble he gets in his voice when he's talking about serious stuff, about loving her.
It's always been you.
Yeah, she thinks about him. Not that he deserves it.
"Sometimes," she says softly.
"For the record, I have no idea why he left," Ryan says. "I think he was crazy to leave you here, alone."
Summer catches his eye, wondering if Ryan realizes how intimate that sounds, how…protective. He shifts his gaze from hers to the material of a pillow nearby and she can see him drawing inward – he's hit that point of overexposure, the point when he backpedals to preserve his façade. "Wake up, Chino," she says harshly. "He left because you did."
Ryan's eyes widen slightly, and he raises an eyebrow in disbelief. Summer is afraid he's going to deny it, tell her she's being ridiculous, that Seth would never do such a rash, impetuous thing because of him. But instead he deadpans, "What a dumbass."
Summer laughs. Ryan isn't exactly a comical guy, but when he's funny he's damn funny.
The tension broken, Summer flicks on the TV and invites him to lie back on her fluffy pink pillows. The picturesque ocean views of The Valley fill the screen, and she quickly becomes absorbed in the intense personal struggles of the overwrought, over-privileged teenagers she adores so much. The show is in re-runs now, but she doesn't mind watching them again; it's kind of reassuring knowing how everything works out.
Especially since her own life provides no such safety net.
When the show is over Ryan makes a move as if to leave, but Summer's not having it – he can't drive all the way over here just to stay for one lousy hour of entertainment. She pops in a DVD of The Italian Job, figuring it's a good compromise – she likes Marky Mark, and it has lots of cars driving very fast, so she figures Ryan must like it too. Then she goes downstairs to pop some popcorn since they're both badly in need of a snack.
She comes back upstairs with a bowl of popcorn to find Ryan sitting on her bed looking very comfy, his brow creased in concentration as he flips channels. She is momentarily distracted by the thought that it really is a shame that she has a guy like Ryan in her bed and she isn't doing…other things with him.
Then Ryan sees her standing in the doorway and tosses her this easy half-smile that makes her heart palpitate and quips, "What, you're a vampire now? You want me to invite you in?"
She tosses a few pieces of popcorn at him in response, which he picks off the bed and eats, watching her carefully, laughter dancing in his eyes. She tries not to concentrate on his lips, but it's very, very hard.
Oh my god, she thinks. I'm totally crushing on Chino.
She doesn't want to be crushing on Chino, because it makes everything so fucking complicated, and it's not like she needs any more of that in her life at the moment.
Maybe it's just physical – he's damn fine and he's here, in her room, and this makes her think naughty thoughts. Or maybe she's just bored, and lonely, and she's tired of being the girl who got left behind.
He's still smiling at her, a little, and Summer thinks maybe that's all that matters. Maybe she just wants someone to need her. And right now Chino needs something to smile about.
She settles onto the bed and flicks on the DVD and they both become mesmerized by the flickering light of the TV. Summer doesn't even realize she's fallen asleep until she slips back into consciousness, dimly aware of a buzzing sound near her ear. She opens her eyes and realizes it's her cell phone, which she left on vibrate.
And then she realizes where she's fallen asleep.
Wow. Chino makes a pretty comfy pillow, if a little on the firm side.
His chest is rising and falling with his steady breathing, his long eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. He looks exhausted and comfortable and completely gorgeous.
She leans over to pick up her phone, worried that it might wake him up, and flips it open to see who has decided to interrupt her beauty sleep.
It's Coop, of course. Who else would it be? And what fabulous timing she has, as usual.
Summer stares at the phone for a second, her thoughts reeling a mile a minute. Then she makes a very important and very quick decision.
She presses a button and turns off the phone, then dumps it into a drawer in her nightstand, silencing the annoying dull whirring sound.
She half-remembers Ryan saying something about how he has to get up super-early tomorrow to go to work. Her alarm clock reads 12:52 am. If she wakes him up now he'll have to drive back to Chino and it'll take awhile and he'll lose more sleep. That would be stupid, she tells herself.
Plus he looks so perfect lying there, like he's supposed to be there, like it's where he belongs. And he's warm and solid and pretty much the best teddy bear ever.
She curls her body into his, pillowing her head on his shoulder and wrapping her arm around his waist.
And she doesn't wake him up.
