A/N - This is a five part fic that I will be filtering in one part at a time. It will incorporate all the perspectives of the Cohen+1 family. The first part is entirely from Ryan's point of view.

Special thanks go out to Walter, whose thoughtful comments and insightful criticism helped to make this story what it is.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

One Step Forward

Ryan

- The Black Hole of Obscurity -

"I'm serious, Ryan; sometimes I swear that I need a translator to obtain even the slightest grasp on what the hell she's talking about. She has this whole 'shopping' language that transforms designer names into adjectives and my mind into mush…."

I slowly lean my head against the cool window, allowing it to bob up and down in unison with the Range Rover - a motion that, I assume, Seth conceives as me agreeing with his trivial relationship problems, because he passionately continues on his inane rant.

Sandy and Kirsten are talking sternly about something in the front. Their voices slowly increase and drown out Seth's incessant rambling. My head pounds with every exception one takes to the other's comments, and I close my eyes against the building sharpness in their tone. The whole weekend had been one argument after another; each one seeming more petty and pointless - used more as a vehicle to vent their frustrations toward each other than for the actual subject matter.

Seth proceeds to direct his comments on Summer's shopping habits my way - raising his voice to compete with the increased volume up front. I catch a glimpse of a sign as we speed by - seemingly faster than we were going before the conversation turned malicious, I sigh when it shows we are still quite a ways out of Newport.

"No, Sandy, I am not asking you to do this! Don't make it sound like the only reason you're doing this is for me. I'm not falling for that guilt trip!"

I cringe at the battle of words. Each sentence launches more of an assault than the last and I try to swallow the nervousness that their verbal attacks instigate in my throat.

I turn toward Seth, who is still animatedly telling his tale of shopping horror, and I can't help but mentally laugh at his complete ignorance to his parents' argument. That same ignorance is strangely comforting. I mean, why should I worry if their own son is completely at ease? In fact, Seth seems to be eating up the opportunity to raise his voice, giving his argument more body.

I swear that this whole "weekend of charity" has been reminiscent of a torturous nightmare. I spent the entire weekend trying desperately to avoid Marissa like the plague; which, in turn, left me stuck with Sandy and Kirsten for the majority of the time - who seemed to be going for some sort of world record on how many paltry arguments they could pack into a 48-hour span.

Seth was no help. When we weren't event-hopping, he was eagerly following Summer around like a stray puppy. He has spent the last hour denying that his participation in such events was voluntary - crying foul and playing the victim while ranting on about Summer's ability to manipulate him any way she sees fit. He must think I was born yesterday because it's so obvious he loves every second of it.

The supposedly relaxing weekend has left me exhausted, and I find myself struggling to keep my heavy eyelids from sliding shut.

My stomach twists as we come to an abrupt stop in traffic; my head sharply connecting with the window that had been its support. I am pushed back into the leather seat with force as Sandy accelerates quickly, only to have to slam on the brakes once again - his driving apparently suffering from the argument that is occupying the majority of his attention to detail. The rough, stop-and-go proceedings, combined with the heated argument and the blistering heat of the sun that's pouring through my side of the car, make me feel uneasily motion-sick. I swallow dryly in an attempt to suppress the building nausea.

All three voices simultaneously stop, it would appear that everyone is fresh out of words. Miraculously, even Seth is silent for the time being. Sandy spots an opening and veers his way between cars until we are, again, driving uninhibited by the choking traffic.

Seth breaks the silence shortly after. "I don't think that she has the right to assume that she can make me carry her bags. It's like she's dating me out of convenience. Did Marissa ever make you her own personal bag boy?"

I swallow again. There are many reasons why I shall choose to avoid that question. For starters, it's ridiculous. Second of all, I don't want to even vaguely think about Marissa. And finally, with the large, churning pit in my stomach, I am afraid of what could potentially happen if I was to open my mouth right now.

Sandy and Kirsten seem to have re-energized during their brief break in action, and have started a new argument on the merits of Sandy's driving.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Seth glaring at me questioningly, waiting - not so patiently - for an answer to his question.

I run my hand over my face and through my hair. I need to get out.

"Is there any way we can make a pit stop?"

My question interrupts the "no, drive this way" fight.

"Um, yeah, I guess so. There's a gas station about a mile up," Sandy answers, and I can't help but think that he sounds slightly annoyed. I suddenly regret asking, but I don't think that I'm going to make it home consequence-free otherwise.

I sigh in relief, half because I need to get out of the car and half because no one mentioned that we were going to be home in less than twenty minutes.

Covering my eyes with my right hand, I block out the blinding sun and hope to ease some of the dizziness.

"Ryan, you going?"

I hadn't even noticed that we'd stopped, and I begin to fumble with my seatbelt while nodding.

I don't know how long we've been stationary, but it must have been a significant amount of time because both Sandy and Kirsten have turned around and are watching me curiously. Oh God, how at this moment, more than anything else in the world, I wish I was invisible. Their eyes are burning holes into me and I simply wish I didn't exist; I wish I could just slip into the black hole of obscurity.

Stumbling out of the car, I try to ignore the threatening rumble in my stomach as I make my way toward the single-person bathroom at the side of the building. Relieved that it's unoccupied, I lock myself in and try to take a deep, albeit shuddering breath.

Immediately, my stomach protests and I barely have time to bolt to the toilet before I spill my guts. My eyes water as the heaves wrack through my body, leaving me more exhausted than I could have ever imagined. I slump to the dirty restroom floor, resting my head on my forearms which are draped over my knees, trying to regulate my erratic breathing.

I feel like such a child. I mean, who, other than children under ten, suffers from motion sickness?

I wipe the sweat off my brow with my sleeve and lean my head backward against the cool, cement wall. I know that I should go back out there. I know they're waiting for me. I know that soon they'll send out a search party; but just the thought of getting back into that moving vehicle - with the scorching sun beating down on me and the screaming passengers - sends my stomach into another round of convulsions. However, the longer I stay out here, the more worried they are going to get, and from the sounds of things, they have enough to worry about at the moment.

I literally drag my ass off the floor - simultaneously flushing the evidence away. I can't even be bothered to wash my face. At this moment in time, falling into a black hole would be my destination of choice.

Just twenty minutes. I might make it.

I shuffle my way to the Range Rover, keeping my eyes fixed on the ground; partially to avoid the glaring sun, but mostly to avoid the glaring Cohens.

I cautiously settle back into my seat and occupy my shaky hands with the task of attaching my seatbelt.

"You all right?" Seth's voice interrupts my task.

"Yeah," I whisper, "fine."

I can't help but notice that Seth has a half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew in his hands. How long was I in there? Obviously long enough for him to purchase and half-finish a his drink, and more noticeably, long enough to spark curiosity in Sandy and Kirsten - who are both eyeing me suspiciously.

Oh God, where's that black hole when you really need it?

I fight the urge to bolt and try my hardest to appear oblivious to their attention - avoiding their glares by occupying my eyes with the back of the seat in front of me. They're probably wondering what the hell's so wrong with this kid that they've taken in, that he can't wait twenty minutes to go to the bathroom.

"Ryan, are you sure you're okay? You look a little…."

I quickly interrupt Kirsten's sincerely concerned comments, trying desperately to sound as convincing as possible. "Really, guys, I'm fine. Just tired."

An audible sigh fills the air as the Range Rover starts to inch forward. Incredibly relieved, I allow my head to resume its position against the window and stare aimlessly at the passing scenery.

I spend the short, twenty minute drive trying desperately to avoid being consumed by my exhaustion. Seth starts to babble again, but eventually ceases when he realizes that I'm no longer even pretending to listen.

Sandy and Kirsten are suspiciously quiet, and I fear that that's somehow my fault. I don't know why I think that them not fighting is a bad thing, but I hate to be responsible for their awkwardness. I feel that familiar, guilty grip latch onto my stomach, and pray that I can make it home without any further incident.

Seth literally jumps out of the car when Sandy shifts into park in the driveway. Oddly, I'm jealous of his energy and find myself yearning for just a little bit of that enthusiasm to help overcome my exhaustion.

I wait patiently for my bag to be unloaded and then unceremoniously sling it over my shoulder. No one's spoken and it only fuels the uneasiness that's tearing at my insides.

I watch Seth bound up the stairs three at a time - the caffeine and sugar apparently working wonders.

"Ryan."

The sound of my name startles me and for some reason, I'm not quite sure how to respond.

Kirsten doesn't bother waiting for me to acknowledge that that, indeed, is my name, but jumps right into her spiel. "Why don't you put your stuff away and come back over here. Sandy and I were talking and we'd like to remodel the pool house," she pauses, clenching her hands nervously. "You know, make it more your own instead of a guest house? Anyway, we picked up some paint samples and furniture catalogues and I was hoping to go over them with you this weekend." She finishes in a hurry, like a sixth grade speech that's been rehearsed to death.

The whole idea of "making it more my own" only adds to the guilt. For some reason, I wish she had never brought it up. I just don't feel comfortable having them spending that kind of money on me.

Her face is filled with anticipation, waiting for my response.

I half-smile to ease her awkwardness, but my true feelings couldn't be further from the manufactured happiness.

Without another word, I make my way to the pool house and dump my bag on a chair beside the door. The bed is calling me, but I know that I have to do this for Kirsten. I don't want to reject her by falling asleep when she was so obviously nervous about approaching me on the subject. My stomach flips again, the residual effects of losing my lunch are still making their presence known.

I grab a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge and take a few swigs before heading back into the tension-riddled environment that I couldn't want to be less a part of at this moment.

The kitchen is quiet, and I glance around only to realize that I have beaten the crowd. I walk over to the couch and fall into the soft, welcoming cushions. Leaning my head back and closing my eyes, I wait. Wait to be bombarded by countless options of desks and dressers, paint chips and bookshelves that are no doubt, priced astronomically. My stomach does another somersault at the mere thought of the price tag associated with this renovation.

I sigh again and try to clear my mind - preparing for the feigned enthusiasm that will have to get me through this adventure. Yep, right about now I could really use that black hole of obscurity.