So...here I go. I have a bunch of random bits that I'm kind of trying to twine together. So forgive me if this is a bit choppy. I'm just having a little fun, I suppose. This is inspired by my impatience regarding the new season. Please review! Even if you're going to tell me that I suck. Except please don't, unless you really feel you must because of some life-threatening disease. I know this has nothing on a bunch of other stories that I've been reading...but it's just me having some fun. So...enjoy! Or don't! Totally your call. ;) This is set in the present, meaning...the almost-fall after Seth left. So the majority of the first chapter is a flashback. Just in case I didn't make that clear, because it's late-ish and I can't really tell. So...thanks for reading, if you do, in fact, choose to continue reading after I spent thirty-seven years talking about myself.

xoxo

Chapter 1: In the Backyard

They had nothing to talk about but their failure as parents or the possible death of their son, so they didn't talk at all. It was easier that way; moving stealthily around each other as months passed. Everything seemed less real because they didn't sit down to dinner talking about it or stay up until four discussing possible outcomes. They both worked and developed unhealthy dependencies—Sandy's to sleeping pills and Kirsten's to coffee and under-ere concealer. They turned on their pleasant voices when Ryan called, made themselves sound like the desirable power-couple parents that he wanted them to be. Their link was missing, though, their real child, and after two weeks passed it became too hard to pretend that he was just on a little vacation. After three months it was virtually impossible, and both of them took to the discomfort of sleeping on their respective paper-littered desk.

Kirsten was the one to discover him missing. Sandy usually fielded the more emotional aspects of parenting—the pep talks, the lectures, the heartfelt conversations. She decided that it was her turn, though. As much as she liked to tell herself that she thought Seth needed her, she really went because she needed him. Her remaining son. She knocked on his door and waited. Nothing. She called out his name, knocked a few more times. Then she went in. His room was conspicuously empty. She ran a hand along the wall nearest his door, smoothed down a piece of tape on the corner of one of his posters. The neck of his guitar was dusty. When he was thirteen he learned how to play "Smells Like Teen Spirit" to a T—every note was perfect. His guitar had sat dormant ever since. His bed was made and she fingered the edge of his comforter. Then she saw the notes and her heart stopped beating, just for a second. "Mom and Dad". His handwriting looked so serious, so formal. This was not the same handwriting that was scrawled across Post-Its that he stuck to the kitchen counter; "New Legion today! Going down to the pier, save me some breakfast! Love, Seth". She sank down into his desk chair and tore off the back of the envelope. Fuck letter openers; her son was leaving her notes written with serious handwriting.

Mom and Dad,

I don't really know what to say except that I'm sorry. I have to get away from this place for awhile because I know if I stay I'll just be miserable. I don't know where I'm going or what I'm going to do, but I'll figure it out. Don't worry about me. Dad's always talking about the world outside of Newport—I guess I have to go see what that's like. Please give the other letter to Summer and maybe try to put in a good word for me and convince her not to hate me. If Ryan calls, tell him I say hey and sorry for being suck a jackass. This has nothing to do with you guys and I want you to know that. I just need some time; that's really the only way I can think to explain it.

I hope you won't hate me for doing this.

Love,

Seth

She got scared after reading the first line; the cold, shuddery scared that made her hands shake holding the paper. By the end she was a mess, on the verge of vomiting, and she jumped up and shook out her hands and bit her lip and tried to regulate her breathing. Her first instinct, she was sorry to admit, was to hate Seth with such intensity that she went blind. This lasted exactly three seconds and was replaced with overwhelming sadness.

"Sandy," she called out, but her voice was so hoarse that he didn't hear her. She bounced on her heels a few times, hating feeling so useless. "Sandy!" The second time he heard her from downstairs in the kitchen.

"Yeah, hon?" He was sitting there, reading the newspaper and trying to put his current situation into perspective. There were many worse things going on in the world, he tried to tell himself. Ryan would get through this, and so would the rest of them. "Sweetie, I'm in the kitchen!" he called up, in case she was looking.

"Sandy!" The third call was more of distressed yelp and he stood up, concerned. They met halfway on the stairs and her trembling hands offered him the note. She gripped the banister as he read and when he finished, he sank down onto the step he was standing on.

"Fuck."

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His wife was a fucking zombie. He watched her drift through her life like a ghost, cry sometimes when she thought he was asleep, throw back a shot of vodka every once in awhile. He came home to find her awake one night, a rare occurrence in the past few months.

"Hey," he said quietly as he undressed.

"Hi," she replied, trying to smile. Married seventeen years and the awkwardness between them closely resembled that of a blind date. He crawled in next to her and put his arms around her, kissing her neck. He hadn't been there in forever. He loved how she smelled and how her hair felt against his face. She pulled away. "Sandy."

"Why not?" he asked, sounding four and not giving a damn.

"I can't," she said. "I just want to go to sleep."

"Kirsten, you haven't let me touch you in three months."

"I can't," she mumbled again.

"Yes, you can! You're there for work and you're there for Ryan and...Seth, and, God, honey, Seth's not even here. And I'm here and I need you to be here for me."

"I can't feel," she whispered, feeling ridiculous and melodramatic. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore."

"Then let me be here for you," he said quietly. "We can't keep living like this."

"Can we talk about this later?" she asked wearily. He sighed, moved away.

"Yeah."

In the backyard
In the garden
You were always there
Digging down where roots would burrow underneath
Now the grass is always overgrown
And the weeds are choking out the sun
Pretty soon they'll come under the door
And you don't care

In the backyard
In the garden
Almost nothing left
Just some pieces of the roots that once dug in
And the grass is always overgrown
And the weeds are choking out the sun
Why do you still come home anymore when you don't care?

--Guster, "Backyard"