Title: The Hart Break
Chapter:
Three Author:
Story Rating: PG-13(?) (minor language)
Disclaimer: The OC Universe, with all its assorted characters, belongs to Josh Schwartz, et. al. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, nor is any money being made.
A/N: Many thanks to Beachtree for reviewing this chapter!
Summary: AU Sequel to "Seventeen". Ryan's past meets his present, with potentially far-reaching consequences.
This story follows just after the epilogue for Seventeen, and involves the Harts, who were introduced in that story. Chapter Two is set sometime just after "The Sleeping Beauty", and contains spoilers through that episode. Later parts will contain further spoilers.
The Hart Break – Chapter Three
The Pacific Coast Highway takes my breath away as it skirts the California shoreline. The sun is already dipping toward the sea as we drive toward Newport, the shortened daylight hours the only hint that it's nearly winter in this gold-washed land. I lean against the passenger window, feeling the kiss of sunrays against my face.
The highway makes a slight jag, and suddenly the Pacific is almost touchable, stretching like pulsing liquid sapphire beside us. I think of Ryan, wondering if he passed this way when he first came to Newport. Did he notice the sun glinting on the water? Did he pay attention to the dappled shadows spilling across the windshield as towering palms splinter light into a thousand fragmented patterns?
What would he have been thinking as he sat in the passenger seat, watching a stranger driving? Going to a home he'd never seen? Meeting a family he hadn't known?
And suddenly all I can think of it how much I wish that we could change time. That we'd been here when he needed us. That he'd never gone to Newport, but had come home with Sam and me. It's an old, tattered, worn-out wish, but I can't help myself. I just keep on wishing.
I look across at Sam, who is softly singing along to "Faithfully" by Journey as he drives, and I smile. His musical tastes stalled out in the 80's, I think, but that's okay. His vintage music suits us.
He notices me watching him, and his eyes sparkle. He stops singing, and smiles, "This is it, babe." He points to a road sign as he says, "Newport Beach."
I can feel my heart creeping up into my throat, and I swallow to keep it in place.
Sam glances at me as he turns inland, following Sandy's directions. He checks one last time with me, "Do we need anything? Do we have everything?"
For the third time today I survey the backseat, checking to see that we've brought the things I wanted to bring. We have some of our pictures from Guyana, Naomi's present for Ryan, our gift for the Cohens, and my now enormous box. We've also got our suitcases stored in the trunk, and reservations at a local motel.
I turn back to Sam, "Nothing got away since last time I checked."
Sam chuckles, "Good to hear there aren't any leaks in the time/space continuuim."
Too bad, I think, as my weathered wish shows another fray.
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I whistle softly as Sam and I pull past the guard gate leading into the Cohens' community.
"We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto."
Grinning, Sam nods, "You got that straight, Dorothy! I'm guessing the yellow bricks in this Oz would be 24 carat."
"And the ruby slippers would be Jimmy Choos!" I laugh, grateful that Sam's extending the metaphor. Anything to keep my nerves in check. Sam's hand covers mine and he throws an appraising glance in my direction. His expression tells me I'm not hiding my anxiety as well as I'd hoped.
"If you say so," he replies, before turning his head toward me and smiling reassuringly.
"Remember, Meg – there's no place like home."
I smile back at him, thinking of some of the places we've called home over the years. Our tiny bungalow in Guyana, Our lovingly restored foursquare in Chino, our tiny Victorian cottage in Chicago, our hand-crafted log cabin in Teays Valley, West Virginia…
Our next home won't be big, or showy, or expensive, either. Our needs are simple. It must be warm and welcoming, filled with books and friends' voices and Sam's projects. It must be located where Sam and I can make a difference. And it must have room for Ryan.
I look out the window at the neighborhood we're passing through, and think that the hybrid we're driving seems as out of place as we do. The whole way up the hill to the Cohen home, all I see are high powered sports cars, luxury sedans and SUVs.
Sam checks the address one last time before steering up a final incline.
"Ready, babe?" he asks as he puts the vehicle in park and sets the emergency brake.
Ready? How can I answer that question? I've been ready for the last three and a half years. But now that I'm here? I feel so shaky I'm not even sure I can stand up.
It still seems like I'm dreaming.
Ryan and I only managed to speak in fits and starts this morning, either falling over each other's words or scrambling to fill the pregnant pauses.
I knew within the first minute that the telephone wasn't nearly immediate enough – in truth, I'd known it wouldn't be before we'd said a single word. I need to see Ryan in person – talking to him without seeing him means missing entirely too much of what he says – both content and texture.
His face – his eyes – they've always been my windows to what he's really thinking. What he's feeling. What he won't… or can't … say.
In the end, we only talked long enough to say awkward but heartfelt 'hellos' and then make arrangements to meet for dinner at the Cohens' home.
Ryan's home, I remind myself.
This is really Ryan's home. It's almost too much for me to take in.
I stare wide-eyed at the sprawling stucco structure, standing proudly at the summit of this community filled with mini-mansions. Our years in Chino seem a world away, far too ordinary to compete with this extravagance of wealth and privilege.
I flip down my visor, assessing the status of my make-up. My sigh is heavy as I turn to Sam.
"Meg – you look gorgeous." His smile is sincere, but what does he know?
He can't begin to understand what it means that my black silk slacks and my light blue sweater set are off the rack and bear no designer labels, or that my shoes are soft, sensible, inexpensive flats, and not some Manolo Blahnik heels.
Dammit!
Why am I letting this community – these people – get to me before I've even met them? I've never worried about things like wardrobe or make-up before – it's not who I am or what I'm about.
Normally, I'm pretty secure about my appearance – yeah, maybe I've always been a lot more girl-next-door and a lot less fashion-model chic, but the casual, healthy look I'm comfortable with has always worked for me.
So why isn't it working now?
Because I'm completely out of my element? Uneasy in a world I've read about but never experienced?
And if I feel so uneasy, how must Ryan have felt, who would have arrived in the midst of all this wealth with almost nothing? How had it played on his inherent insecurities? How had he managed to adapt? How much might he have changed?
Will I stand out as a misfit in his new environment? Will I embarrass him?
Dammit, dammit, dammit! Get hold of yourself, Megan!
I try to pull myself together, and focus on the Cohens, but that only breeds new insecurities. I imagine that Kirsten Cohen is tall, thin, blonde, and gorgeous. The Newport vision of the perfect mother.
In contrast, the voice inside my head niggles that Ryan will take one look at me and realize I'm just a frumpy librarian. Well, maybe not exactly frumpy, but certainly ordinary, compared to the plastic-perfection he must be used to now. And there it is – I'm being catty about women I don't even know. That's just wrong on a multitude of levels!
I feel Sam's hand touch my face, his thumb guiding my chin toward him. "He's not going to pay any attention to what we're wearing, Megan."
He's right. I know he's right, but I'm still uneasy. I roll my eyes like a stubborn child, "I bet Kirsten will."
"Could be worse."
Drawing my head back, I blink. "How so?"
"You could be one of these fashionistas wearing four inch heels. Looks like they'd hurt your feet." Sam arches an eyebrow.
"Yeah, but being this rich might make up for it…" My inner child is still firmly in charge of my responses.
Sam chuckles as he opens the door and swings his legs outside the car, "Maybe you should ask Kirsten Cohen about that."
"You think I won't?" I challenge, as my old-school husband circles around our Prius, opening my door.
Sam holds out a hand to me. "Are you kidding? I'm counting on it."
With his assistance, I manage to stand up, a little relieved when my legs actually seem willing to support my weight. Sam digs into the back seat, retrieving the hand-crafted scrapbook we've carried from Guyana, filled with copies of photographs, newspaper clippings, report cards, drawings, playbills, and several cheeky notes from Ryan, together with our own notations, favorite Ryan stories, and some much-loved random reminisces.
We've brought another scrapbook to give Ryan that's more complete – that's rounded out with personal moments and memories that he'll understand without explanation. He can share any or all of it with the Cohens if he wishes, but these moments belong to him and to us, and he gets to make the call.
Sam reads my thoughts, "First things first, Megan." He shifts his hold on our gift for the Cohens so that its weight rests in one arm, its hand-dyed cloth ribbon ruffling a little in the breeze.
I nod, "Guess my box would be a little overkill right now, huh?"
"Probably ought to get past introductions before we cart a moving box into their house."
I laugh nervously, wondering if we should have brought wine or chocolate or candles or anything not homemade.
I try hiding my childish apprehension by bumping playfully into Sam as we walk together toward the door, "So where did you learn the term 'fashionista', anyway?"
He chuckles, "I watch 'Ugly Betty'."
"For the models, right?" I tease, looping my arm through his and smiling when he grins across at me disarmingly.
"I'm taking the fifth."
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Kirsten isn't quite what I expected. That is, she is gorgeous, tall, thin, and obviously rich. But she is also gracious, and kind, and reserved. Her clothes are expensive but understated, and she wears little kitten heels that look both comfortable and elegant.
Her hair is long and layered beautifully, with blonde on blonde highlights and deep champagne lowlights. She has soft blue eyes, and a lovely smile that appears often as she greets us and makes us feel welcome in her home.
Sandy's appearance is even further removed from how I had pictured him. His golf-shirt and khaki slacks are very much like Sam's – the classic 'guy uniform'. Sam even owns a royal blue shirt almost identical to the one Sandy has on tonight – although Sam's came as a souvenir from a charity tournament hosted by the prestigious Newport Golf Club a few years ago, while I assume Sandy is a member.
No, it isn't the man's clothes that are so at odds with how I've pictured Sandy Cohen. It has more to do with his overall appearance.
He has a mane of thick black hair that spills into his eyes, making him seem more than a little disheveled, which runs counter to my impression of the man over the phone. Then, he'd sounded like a 'suit', albeit one from New York rather than the west coast. Importantly, a 'suit' who obviously cared about Ryan.
In person, he seems anything but formal. His smile is quick, and the dimples that mark his face are charming. He is nothing if not talkative – as verbal as his wife is reserved. I find myself wondering how Ryan handles Sandy's multitude of words – guessing that he probably likes that this man is so verbose – so he won't have to be.
But it's Sandy's eyebrows that nearly undo me – they are so prominent I have to continually coach myself to disregard them. Honestly, the thick black brows are more than merely distracting – they're mesmerizing.
I constantly find myself watching them raise, lower, arch, waggle, furrow, knit, and settle back into place as the man speaks.
I'm glad that Sam doesn't seem to suffer from the same hypnotic fascination that I do, because there are times when the man actually stops talking, and I'm pretty sure one of us ought to be able to respond to whatever it is he's said on those occasions.
"I know what you mean," Sam is saying, as Sandy sets the scrapbook aside with care.
I shake my head, tearing my eyes away from Sandy's face, hoping against hope he thinks I've been raptly attentive instead of simply rude. I have only the vaguest notion of what the guy has been talking about, but I'm pretty sure I can recall the eyebrow choreography without a hitch.
Kirsten brings fresh ice tea out onto the patio where the rest of us are still seated despite the growing darkness, and Sam rises from his chair, Sandy following suit just a beat behind him. In the soft glow of the Cohens' outdoor lighting, I can see Kirsten's eyes brighten just a little – she must like old-fashioned manners, too.
"Please, be seated – there's no need for formality among us, okay?"
Sandy nods as he sits down, "You're the boss, sweetheart." He looks across at Sam.
"Casual's good," Sam agrees affably, settling into his chair. He catches my eye and winks, letting me know he's feeling comfortable with these people.
Kirsten speaks again, "I just got another call from Ryan. He said he should be home in about an hour. He asked me to apologize again that he wasn't here when you arrived."
I take the glass she hands me, smiling as I answer, "Believe me, Kirsten, Ryan responding to the restaurant's plea for him to come in? Sounds like how he'd help me out when we were in a crunch at the library – even if it was the last thing he probably really wanted to do. He told me early on that he was a 'good helper', and he wasn't just saying that. That restaurant? They're lucky to have him there."
Our hostess smiles back as she takes her seat, "They really are. Still, I know he'd rather be here – I'm sure that he'll be home as soon as he possibly can."
I lean forward, fingering the cool, condensation-laden side of my glass, "Actually, as much as I want to see Ryan, I'm kind of glad we have a chance to talk. Just the four of us."
To my surprise, Kirsten sighs audibly, nodding, "Oh, me, too. I thought about suggesting it – that we get together first – but then I thought it might seem… like I was putting obstacles in your way, if that makes sense."
Sandy rests an arm across the back of his wife's chair, "We realize we're already asking a lot – that we be here with Ryan when you see him. It's just, he's been through so much recently, and we worry about him."
"Again, Sandy, we understand," Sam replies, his hand covering my free one. "We don't want to do anything that upsets Ryan – that's in any way detrimental to his welfare. He's simply too important to us." Sam looks around the table, pausing for a second before adding "To all of us."
Squeezing a lemon wedge into my glass, I gather my thoughts and turn to Kirsten. "I appreciate everything you've both explained about the accident, and its aftermath. That Ryan would feel responsible for what happened? It doesn't surprise me – when we lived in Chino, you can't imagine how often I watched him accept responsibility for things that weren't his fault."
Kirsten's eyes drop, as she seems to struggle a little with a response.
Sandy offers softly, "I think maybe we could."
I scan his face, recognizing the significance of his words. I know how hard it is to get past Ryan's self-doubt, "It hurts to think of him out there by himself for so long, thinking he was trouble. That the people who love him would be better off if he were gone."
Kirsten looks up, "He couldn't be more wrong."
My heart goes out to her – this woman who has taken on the role I'd give anything to play.
"I think of you visiting him in that place – it must have been dreadful to see him living in the hole you've described." I look supportively at Kirsten, trying to imagine the horror the woman must have felt.
Kirsten hesitates, glancing at her husband.
The man frowns as though remembering, "Ryan wasn't exactly ready for a lot visitors. He didn't want Kirsten anywhere near the bar. If you saw it – the place he was living – you'd understand why he wanted her to steer clear – it was awfully rough."
My eyes fly to Kirsten's face as I try to process what Sandy just said. She didn't go see him? Not even once? According to the Cohens, Ryan lived in that wretched place from August through most of November. Four months. I just can't wrap my head around all that time passing, knowing where he was, and not going to see him.
I must be missing something, I think desperately, when I realize I'm being an idiot.
"So you'd see him at a restaurant, or maybe a library? Somewhere he'd agree to meet?" I just need to know she didn't leave him out there, lost and all alone.
Kirsten blinks, shaking her head. "I wanted to," she says softly, "…but he wasn't ready – so I sent care packages and notes, and spoke to him on the telephone when he'd let me through."
I feel Sam's arm circle my waste, insistent. I can almost hear his thoughts.
Don't mess this up… don't get us thrown out of the Cohen home before Ryan even gets here.
"I see," I finally say, although I truly don't. I can't imagine the hell-hole I wouldn't go to if it meant seeing Ryan.
Neither Cohen says a word as a tautness spreads across the table, blanketing us all in uneasy silence.
Sam risks speaking, his confession cutting through the tension, "We've been worried that Ryan thinks we don't want him in our lives anymore. That the reason he never tried to contact us is because he screwed up and then assumed he wasn't worthy…"
Sandy's lips scrunch up at the corners as he shakes his head, "Sounds like Ryan, I'm afraid. He's far harder on himself than he should be… I've watched him beat himself up over things that we try to tell him aren't his fault. But you know him – he's got this internal moral compass that he follows, and while he's more than willing to forgive others when they make mistakes, he has a devil of a time forgiving himself."
Sam grimaces, "Leopard. Spots. I guess. We'd always hoped that if he were ever out of Dawn's clutches – somewhere where he felt safe – he'd learn to go easier on himself. That maybe he could just be a kid."
"We hoped so, too," Sandy acknowledges, pausing for a second before continuing. "And really, sometimes he has acted like a normal teenager – dating, taking part in school and social functions, hanging out with his friends… there've been good times. It's just that he's had so many challenges over the last three years, every time things seemed really settled, something would come along to rip up the landscape and suddenly we'd all be scrambling again."
I nod reflectively – I'd seen the same cycles for years. I'm glad that the Cohens don't seem daunted – that Sandy seems at peace with sometimes having to scramble. I get the feeling that this man knows that Ryan's worth the effort.
They've been here all the years when we were gone – that counts huge in my book. My gratitude outweighs my doubt, and I speak, "I guess you know all about the environment he grew up in. He always astounded me with his resilience, despite everything Dawn put him through. But this latest tragedy? Having someone he cared for die in his arms? I'm just thankful he's in one piece, and that this… 'Volchok'… is locked away in prison. I'm so glad Ryan had you for support."
Kirsten shoots a pointed look at her husband, who glances across at the scrapbook before he replies, "To be honest, we don't know as much about Ryan's past as we'd like to. He's always been reluctant to open up about what his life was like before he came to live with us, and we've never really pressed him. We always hoped he'd come to us when he was ready to talk."
I frown before catching myself. I know how reticent Ryan can be – how much he keeps hidden. Still – the Cohens have had him with them for more than three years. I can't help but wonder why they haven't pressed for information in all this time? Because they're afraid of pushing him away, or because they didn't want to hear his answers? Would his past be too ugly to parade inside these privileged walls?
My thoughts are interrupted by a blur of movement and the sound of the kitchen door opening.
My heartbeat races, only slowing when I realize the boy coming through the kitchen door isn't who I'm here to see.
"Hey! What's going on?" a lanky youth with curly brown hair asks, stopping short when he notices strangers on his patio.
"This must be Seth?" I venture, remembering the name from this morning's brief conversation. He is the son who isn't supposed to be at home today.
Sandy looks up, obviously perplexed, "It is. Seth, I'd like you to meet two of Ryan's friends from Chino, Megan and Sam Hart."
The youth's eyes widen, "From Chino? So, like, you knew Kid Chino before he reformed?"
Sandy intercedes, cutting off the boy's words, "Son? I thought you were in Rhode Island until tomorrow?"
The boy shrugs, "Yeah, but Summer was kinda' busy with saving the environment, and I couldn't face another day of sleeping on benches and eating unidentifiable dorm food."
His face wrinkles as he rambles on, "And, since we're on the subject of dorm food? Considering we've got company, let me just put it this way -- let's not buy that food card when I go to RISD, okay?"
"I'll take it under advisement," Sandy smiles affectionately at the boy, while Kirsten motions for him to sit down with us.
"Excuse me?" Sam pipes up, squeezing my hand. "Can we go back to what you were saying about 'Kid Chino'? I take it you mean Ryan?"
Seth grins, obviously delighted to elaborate, "Yeah, Kid Chino. With his Fists of Fury. He's kind of a legend around Newport."
"Seth!" Kirsten says under her breath, before turning to me. Her voice sounds a little strained as she hastens to explain, "Kid Chino is a comic book character Seth invented. That's all."
"That's graphic novel, and well, I wouldn't say 'that's all' – not really," the boy quickly objects. "You gotta' admit, Mom, Ryan pretty much is the character. That is, he can be."
I notice Sandy's stern glare directed toward his son, complete with dipped eyebrows, but the boy either doesn't notice, or doesn't pay attention to his father.
If anything, Seth becomes more animated, waving his arms around as he speaks, "I mean, when he arrived here he was nothing like any of the stupid pod people that live in Newport."
He leans across the table toward Sam and me, dropping his voice as he confides, "His second night with us? He basically took on the water polo team!"
"Seth!" Kirsten tries again, in vain.
"Seriously," the boy barely pauses, looking to his father for confirmation, "That's why Mom threw him out, right?"
"Seth!" both Cohens admonish, obviously trying to silence their son before he says even more.
But the boy rolls on, his excitement unabated, "It was so cool! Not so much the throwing out part, exactly, but the punching part was awesome!"
"Seth, I need to speak with you inside," Sandy urges, his strident tone finally quieting the wordy teen.
"Yeah. Okay." Seth rises, following his father toward the kitchen. "Nice to meet you," he calls back, waving cheerfully. He's clueless as to the impact his words have had.
I realize I haven't been breathing – not since the 'Mom threw him out' line.
Kirsten swallows, her voice tentative when she speaks again, "I apologize for Seth. He's a bit… dramatic, sometimes."
Yeah, that's clear, but Seth's dramatics aren't what has my heart beating hard. Memories of Ryan showing up at my door, with no place else to turn – that's what causes my pulse to race.
I try to keep my voice steady, but I don't think I quite succeed, "What he said? About Ryan? You threw him out?"
Kirsten looks down at the table, tracing one graceful finger along the side of her iced tea glass. When she looks up, her eyes are veiled, "It wasn't like you must be thinking. Not like Dawn."
"I hope not." The words are out before I can stop them. Maybe I don't want to stop them. I'm not sure
"Megan," Sam cautions, reminding me where we are, and why.
"I'm sorry," I apologize, trying hard to mean it.
Kirsten nods, "You're being protective of someone you care about. I understand that, Megan. Believe me."
"I'm sure you do – you're a mother."
"Who was afraid for her child. It scared me at first, bringing one of Sandy's clients into our home like that. I… I made some mistakes."
I need to think, so I look away, noticing Sandy and Seth still talking inside the kitchen. Seth is pointing toward the patio, and then waving his arms about wildly before Sandy says something to him, and the boy's hands fall slack at his sides.
Sam pulls my attention back to our table when he answers Kirsten softly, "We all make mistakes sometimes."
I hear the words he doesn't say… the regrets we whisper late at night when darkness unleashes our sorrow.
Sam's empathy seems to sooth our hostess. Kirsten smiles unevenly, "I've… I've learned how special Ryan is … what a treasure he is."
I feel Sam's hand squeezing mine gently, and I squeeze back.
"Do you love him?" I ask, Sam's grip tightening with my question.
"How could I not?" our hostess answers smoothly, a sweet smile forming on her face that reaches into her eyes.
I weigh her answer, struck by how much Kirsten Cohen's eyes reveal, but how much more they keep hidden. I am reminded of Ryan, wondering if Kirsten's far more impenetrable defenses might be a preview of Ryan's as he grows older.
"And he knows that?" I pry, ignoring Sam's heightened pressure on my hand.
Kirsten stares at me for a long moment before she tilts her head and draws her eyebrows together. She seems to choose her words carefully, "He knows he's part of this family."
I feel my eyes sting, as something inside me breaks a little. I pinch my lips together, sucking them between my teeth to keep some semblance of poise.
Kirsten's eyes widen, and she leans toward me, her voice soothing, "Are you okay? Megan?"
I feel Sam's arm wind around my shoulders, and meet his worried glance. Swiping my eyes with one hand, I take an unsteady breath.
"It's okay, Sam – I'm fine," I whisper before turning back to Kirsten.
"I… I just need to know he's loved," I manage to explain.
Kirsten nods sympathetically, "He is. Very much."
Sam hugs me gently, speaking when I can't, "Before we moved, we wanted Ryan to live with us, but Dawn wouldn't hear of it."
"Is that right?" Kirsten's voice wavers ever so slightly.
I study our hostess, my impressions of her mixed and far from clear. Thankfully, my power of speech seems to have returned.
"You don't know how badly I wanted – we wanted – to get him away from Dawn. It broke my heart, watching the way she treated her boys. Routinely drunk or high while her sons went hungry and barely had clothes to wear. Her string of live-ins… the abuse Ryan suffered at their hands broke my heart."
I see the look of horror that crosses Kirsten's face, and make myself stop venting. "I'm sorry – it's just..." I pause, starting over, "It was so frustrating… Dawn wouldn't mother him herself, but she still had fits whenever we took him in or cared for him. I always thought she clung to Ryan in order to convince herself she hadn't failed."
Kirsten twists her rings, blinking before responding, "When she left him with us, she told me she wanted to do something good for him – explaining that she wasn't cut out to be a mother."
"I'd say she got something right. And if I had my way, she'd never get the chance to hurt him again."
"People change," Kirsten says softly.
Once more I look away, noticing Sandy and Seth standing near the kitchen counter, Sandy's hands on his son's shoulders, their heads close together.
I turn back to Kirsten, "I'd like to believe that – and I know some people really do. But Dawn changing? That I just can't believe. I mean, look at her record. For a few weeks or months, sure, she'd be clean, but it never lasted. She'd always backslide and there'd be another loser live-in and suddenly Ryan would sport more bruises. I finally stopped feeling sorry for her, and just wanted her out of his life for good."
Kirsten nods, "I…I appreciate what you're saying. But still, she's his mother, and he loves her. I used to think he'd be happier if they were reconciled – she was here at his graduation, and things went really well between them, but I think now we just got lucky."
She pauses, tapping one finger against her glass. Her voice sounds thicker when she starts speaking once more, "Since the accident she's disappeared again, terrified that the Coopers would try to name her in a lawsuit since she and her boyfriend had restored the car Ryan was driving. The last time she called here, just after Ryan got home from the hospital, she'd been drinking… quite heavily, I think. She said 'goodbye' to him, quit her job, and took off without leaving any contact information. She hasn't called since."
She hesitates once more before adding softly, "I won't push him to reach out again, even if she eventually resurfaces. But I'll support him if he decides he wants to reconnect – I can't refuse – not if he decides that he wants her in his life again."
Maybe I'm not forgiving enough, I think, not sure that I'd be so generous with respect to Dawn. I'd be much more inclined to protect Ryan from her hurtful clutches rather than to encourage their relationship. That may make me a bad person, but unless the day comes when I'm certain that Dawn has changed from the self-destructive, neglectful, self-centered wreck I knew, I can't stand the thought of her coming anywhere near Ryan.
Sam shakes his head, "Sometimes it seems like there are no good answers – particularly when it comes to Dawn Atwood. But please, Kirsten, don't feel like you and Sandy are on your own with Ryan anymore. We're here for him, too. Whenever he needs us."
Kirsten stares at him a second before pulling her face into a wary smile, "Thank you, Sam. That's… good to know."
Turning to Kirsten I find myself wondering about her. She's all smiles, and kindness, and polite conversation, but my sense is that she's always holding back. Maintaining distance.
I wonder if Dawn sensed that, too. If Kirsten's cool exterior made her less threatening, somehow. Less of a competitor for Ryan's affection than say… me? If Kirsten's initial uneasiness with Ryan made her palatable to Dawn, in a way that Sam and I had never been? Wouldn't that be ironic? If Kirsten got what I'd dreamed of because she hadn't really wanted it?
I try to temper my envy with gratitude, "I'm thankful your family was here for Ryan when Dawn left – that he wasn't forced into some group home – or worse, out into the streets. His happiness is what matters to me – I want Ryan to live his dreams, whatever they may be."
"Mrs. H? Mr. H?"
The voice is like a velvet-soft whisper, but I'm sure I would have heard it in the midst of a maelstrom. I've been listening for that voice since the night I left Chino.
"Ryan!" I hear my own strangled cry with some surprise, as instinct overpowers conscious thought and I'm moving.
My chair scrapes noisily against the patio slate as I rocket out of my seat and race to where Ryan stands by the kitchen door. He's immobile, Sandy's hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
He ducks his head, and then looks back up as he smiles hesitantly – the beautiful, shy smile that I love.
I feel my lips tremor as my own smile deepens, while warm tears zag and zig their way down my face.
I search his face, finding the windows that I've been seeking. His deep blue eyes brim with questions as he stands just eighteen inches out of reach.
I realize in that instant that eighteen inches is a world too far away. I think Sandy must recognize it, too, as he lowers his hand and steps back.
My arms open wide as I close the distance that still looms too far between us, pulling Ryan wholly inside my embrace. I feel his heart beating, and hear him breathe, and I whisper, "I've missed you so much."
His arms circle my body, tightening when I speak, and he whispers back, "Me, too."
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tbc
A/N: Thanks to those of you who have taken the time to review, or simply let me know you're reading. I appreciate hearing from my readers…