Title: The Hart Break
Author: ChaseII
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: Unbeta'd -- all mistakes are mine, mine, mine... And once again, it may be a while before the next installment... (Not sure at this point how many chapters there will be in all.)
AU. This story follows just after the epilogue for Seventeen, and involves the Harts, who were introduced in that story. Chapter 4 is set sometime just after "The Sleeping Beauty", and contains spoilers through that episode. Later parts will contain further spoilers.
Chapter 4
From my seat at the table, I can see my wife embracing Ryan, his face visible over her shoulder, both figures bathed in warm amber illumination. Megan whispers something to him and his arms tighten around her. I'm pretty sure she's considering never letting go.
Although there is nothing I want right now more than to join them, I stay rooted to my chair. I have my reasons, the first of which is Kirsten Cohen's troubled face. Her blue eyes are downcast, her focus shifting between the huddled pair below us and her iced tea goblet. Her fingers are wrapped around the glass so tightly I worry that it might shatter.
I simply don't feel that I can leave her sitting here alone, while her husband lingers in the shadows near my wife and Ryan. I know Sandy's watching out for Ryan, making sure contact with Meg doesn't hurt him. Ironically, I think it's really Kirsten who needs his protection – she's the one who seems to be suffering at the moment.
I'm guessing Megan – awash in her euphoria – doesn't even notice I'm not there. I'm sure she doesn't need me beside her as much as Kirsten seems to. Our hostess seems conflicted, as though some part of the tableau below us makes her happy, while something else about it stings.
I'm reminded a little of Dawn's year with Rick, when it took a while for me to make peace with Ryan's open adoration of the Texan. I had to learn it was possible to share a child I loved with someone else.
Kirsten swallows, her voice barely a whisper, "They're… they seem to fit together."
She turns to me, her eyes seeking something I can't quite define.
"He completes a part of her," I muse softly, knowing he completes a part of me, too.
Kirsten sets her glass down, running a finger around its rim, "I think I know what you mean," she says. "With us, it's like he fills a hole I never knew we – I – had until he came."
She turns back to stare at my wife and Ryan, and I study her as she studies them.
As an architect formerly positioned in this part of California, it's natural that I know something about Newport Group – a lot of my colleagues competed with them, and we all studied their projects.
Caleb Nichol was a legend in his day – hot-headed, blindly ambitious, and dangerous to tangle with; while his daughter was widely reputed to be his opposite –icy-smooth… ethical … professional.
In person, Kirsten isn't the supremely self-confident woman her reputation always made her out to be. She's hesitant… somehow unexpectedly vulnerable. I wonder whether she's changed over these last few years, and if so, how and why?
"So, you've known Ryan since he was seven?" she says to me, rousing me out of my reflection.
"He was more like nine," I answer.
She wrinkles her eyebrows, "But Ryan told us he met Megan when he was seven."
And that quickly I'm caught.
I shrug guiltily as I confess, "They'd been friends for nearly two years before Meg finally convinced me I should meet him."
Her eyes narrow, "Two years? Why so long?"
I give her a rueful smile, thinking how often I've asked myself the same question.
"Megan's great with kids, but I'd never spent much time around them. I was an only child who grew up surrounded by adults. Frankly, the thought of spending time around kids was daunting. What would I say to them? What would we have to talk about? Meg used to laugh and say I was over-thinking, and I guess I sort of was."
Kirsten's head tilts to the side as her expression softens, "You two never wanted your own children?"
I look away, not sure how to answer. This is Megan's realm – I'm normally the nodder, agreeing with whatever she chooses to say when this question comes up.
My silence is not lost on our hostess.
"Sam? I'm sorry if … if I pried. It's none of my business," Kirsten says quietly, her fingertips brushing mine.
I turn back to see the apology echoed in her eyes. I force myself to answer – to offer a shadow of our truth.
"It's okay, Kirsten. It's just… we can't have children," I say, and leave it at that.
I don't mention the unthinkable against-all-odds uterine rupture, the catastrophic loss of blood, the perfectly forming but too-premature daughter, or the emergency hysterectomy that saved Megan's life. After nearly twelve years, I can't talk about that night with anyone but Megan. She's stronger than I am when it comes to answering those questions.
I glance toward Megan and Ryan, who have finally separated.
"I never thought we'd have a child, until he came along," I say.
This time she's the one who looks away.
Sandy finally makes his way back to the table, and I promptly rise to my feet, "If you'll excuse me, there's a young man over there I'm really anxious to see."
Kirsten surprises me, reaching out to touch my arm as I'm turning away, her fingers cool as they graze against my skin.
"Thanks, Sam," she whispers.
"Anytime," I answer, privately wondering if my presence actually comforted or caused more pain.
However, those musings occupy only a tiny compartment inside my head.
I'm mostly consumed with longing, fueled by three years of separation from a kid I love – that separation now reduced to something measurable – a space of less than fifteen feet.
Ryan sees me coming, his welcoming smile every bit as bashful as I remember. He's thin, and he looks tired, but he's alive and in one piece and almost within my reach.
"Ace," I smile back, the edges of my happiness expanding, spilling into the space around me.
"Hey," he says, as Megan shifts to his side, clearing the path between Ryan and me.
"You know you're still number one on my VIP list?" I ask as I narrow the gap that still divides us.
He ducks his head, but I can hear him snort. I step close, carefully laying one hand on his shoulder. He looks up, his eyes a liquid blue.
"Come here," I mouth, grateful when he lets me gather him inside my arms. More grateful when I feel him hugging back.
It occurs to me he smells a little like quesadillas and picante sauce, and I think the spicy combination just became a favorite scent. I'm guessing Megan feels the same.
I speak softly by his ear, "I missed you, Ryan. I never want to lose you like that again. You hear me? Never, Ace."
He straightens and eases two small steps backward, his eyes finding mine. I hold still as he plumbs their depths, hoping he reads my feelings as well as he once did.
His focus wavers, dropping to a space somewhere near my feet. It rests there for several seconds before he looks up again, tilting his head to the side. His smile makes a welcome reappearance – this time as a grateful half-smile.
"I hear," he offers, the paucity of words so 'Ryan'.
I search his face, because I know this child, and am rewarded for my efforts.
His eyes are flecked with wonder, and say far more than his words.
---------------
Ryan breaks eye contact, overwhelmed by emotions he's not sure he can handle. He needs to regroup, refocus, think.
"Gotta' get a shower," he says awkwardly, thinking even though it's a lame escape it's at least the truth.
"Sure," Ms. H answers, stepping out of his way.
Except that she's expecting he'll go into the Cohen's home. She's just blocked his route to the pool house.
"Uh, I live over there," he nods toward the glass-cased structure.
He sees the startled glance the Harts exchange, and watches Mr. H's eyes skitter over the pool house as though he's inspecting it structurally. Mrs.H simply blinks.
"Outside? You live outside, in the pool house?" she repeats, as though she must have heard wrong.
"It's cool," he says quickly. When it's obvious they're still troubled he adds, "Seth keeps trying to get me to switch rooms, but I keep saying 'no'."
He's not sure when the Cohens joined them, but he realizes they're there when Kirsten speaks. "It's where my sister lived when she stayed with us a few years ago – it's fully equipped, with its own bath and kitchenette."
Kirsten finds his eyes as she explains further, "We thought Ryan would like some privacy – obviously, though, it's his room, so we've made it his space – personalized it, filled it with his things."
Ryan turns to Mrs. H, who nods, "I see."
But it's clear from her knit brows that she really doesn't. Or that she sees too much.
"Guys," he pleads, looking from Mrs. H to Kirsten.
Mrs. H's face relaxes into a rueful smile as her eyes travel from Kirsten and back to Ryan.
"Sorry, Ryan. I'm sure having a pool house to yourself is a teenage guy's dream, right?"
"Pretty much," he admits, stealing a furtive glance at the Cohens. He's never told them how he feels about living out here – in all these years, they've never really asked.
"Get cleaned up, kid. We'll see you in the kitchen in a few minutes." Sandy shoots him a reassuring smile.
The Harts give him smiles, too – like they're cool with his living arrangement, even if he's guessing that they're not. He hopes they come around for real, but on some deeper level it's kind of nice to think that someone cares.
"Back in fifteen," he promises, heading up the steps to his sanctuary. He slides inside and shuts the door.
-------------
Kirsten sits back in her chair, listening as Ryan laughs at some story Sam's telling about baseball, too many hotdogs, and an eventful ride home from a county little league tournament. This has been a night of stories, and filtered, careful conversation.
She smiles at her second son, "You were really MVP?"
Ryan starts to answer, but Seth interrupts before he can, "Like you even know what that means, Mom."
The conversation whirls away, but not before Ryan's eyes find Kirsten's, lingering there for a long second before they move on. She feels a rush of warmth and reassurance. He's not forgotten her in the midst of this reunion.
Dessert is over before the Harts bring their gifts in from the car.
Sandy has her unwrap the gift they've brought, and she sits stunned by what she's holding. It's an oil painting, vibrant colors on a twenty inch square canvas, in reds and teals and swaths of gold, with images that evoke feelings of hope and possibility. It speaks to her on a multitude of levels.
She looks across at Megan and Sam, "This is amazing. I don't know what to say…"
Megan smiles, "We hope you like it – it's an original by one of our best friends."
"It reminds me of something I saw last week in an art review – an artist that's making quite a stir in New York. Naomi somebody, I think."
"Naomi Reynolds?"
Kirsten's eyes widen, "Don't tell me she's your friend?"
Megan nods, "She's fabulous. You'll see – she can't wait to meet Ryan. She'll want to meet you, too."
There's another painting for Ryan, this one in more subtle tones with almost hidden images of a man, a woman, and a child. A family, connected with color and with care.
Kirsten watches as Ryan touches the canvas, awed by what he sees. His eyes hide nothing as he looks up at the Harts. Kirsten knows his mumbled "Thanks" is unnecessary – Megan and Sam seem at ease with the unspoken.
---------------
"What's this?" Ryan asks, staring at the large box the Harts have set down in front of him. They're sandwiched on the den couch with him in the middle, and the box rests on the sofa table. The Cohens are back in the kitchen, clearing away dishes and giving them a modicum of privacy.
"Memories," Mrs. Hart answers. "And conversations we never got to have."
He bites his lip, opening the box. It's filled with letters – it looks like hundreds of them, with his name on each envelope. He looks up, unprepared for anything like this.
"Mrs. H," he says, looking to her for help.
"You know, maybe you should call us Megan and Sam, now," she says, sucking in her lips as she waits for his reply.
He glances over to Mr. H, half expecting him to object. Mr. H, more than anyone, taught Ryan the worth of manners – the value of respect. Not like his father who demanded obedience and respect while showing none for others, his lessons delivered in rants and blows.
Mr. H taught by example, living his standards. Standards Ryan admired, and tried in own way to follow.
Mr. H catches his glance, and grins, "You're eighteen – an adult, Ace. I think you're old enough to drop the 'Mr.' and 'Mrs.' now."
He pulls his lips between his teeth, and dips his head quickly to the side. "You're sure?"
Mrs. Hart nods quickly, "Very."
He hitches his shoulders, "It'll take some getting used to, but I think I'd like that."
Sam snorts, "It'll take some getting used to for all of us, Ace, but we'll get through the transitions, I promise."
"Yeah, I know," he answers, his attention drawn once more to the cardboard container in front of him.
Megan looks toward the box, "Is it all too much, too soon?"
Ryan refocuses on the stacks of letters, noticing for the first time that they're divided into groupings and tied with colored strings and ribbons.
"It's a lot," he says. He leans closer to the box, picking up one bundle of the letters. "I can't believe you wrote all these."
"We wrote every day, at first. Then once or twice a week, but we never stopped, Ryan. It was our way of talking with you, even when we couldn't actually talk with you like we wanted to."
He drops his head, thinking how he's locked his own memories away. How he's assumed they couldn't possibly still care.
He's awed, and humbled, and more than a little gilt-ridden. All the while he's been ignoring their existence, they've been thinking of his.
Looking up at… Megan and Sam… he shakes his head, "But you had to know. I let you guys down – when I went with Trey that night. I've got a record – at least I did until it was expunged. How could you still…" he sweeps one hand across the top of the box, "… still do this?"
Sam frowns, "You made a mistake, Ace. Everyone makes mistakes, Ryan. Everyone. That doesn't change how we feel about you."
Ryan's throat feels like it has a cork swollen inside, and he can't speak.
Sam leans toward him, "What about us? We made a huge mistake – leaving like we did."
"No," he says, startled so that the word slides out automatically.
"Can you forgive us? Forgive our leaving?" Megan asks, her eyes seeking his.
He stares at her a moment, not believing she's even said that. He can't imagine a world where they wouldn't have gone. Where they shouldn't have gone.
He shakes his head, "But, guys? There's nothing to forgive."
Megan sighs, "I knew that's what you'd say."
Ryan bites his lip, and looks back at the box. "I never wrote to you," he says softly.
Megan smiles, "It's okay. We have time now to catch up. We want to know what's happened in your life. Don't think we don't, just because we haven't pressed for a lot of details today. It'll come. You know me – I'll ask you for answers."
He grimaces, "I sorta' thought you would."
"Count on it," says Sam, and Megan's nodding her agreement.
It's a little daunting, and yet comforting to know that some things haven't changed. He reaches toward the box, still more than a little awestruck, picking up another stack of letters and then one more, noticing Megan's neat handwriting juxtaposed against Sam's scrawl.
"Ace?"
He looks up at Sam. They want to know if he's freaked out, and the truth is he kinda' is.
"I'm sorry. I just… I've never gotten many letters – and most of the ones I've gotten were 'goodbyes'."
Megan bumps him with her shoulder and maintains the contact, her head tilted toward his. "Not a goodbye in the bunch," she says. "And there never will be."
He tilts toward her as well, so that they're nearly touching heads as well as shoulders, and old feelings of comfort surface. This time he doesn't even realize he's smiling.
"You've kinda' convinced me," he says.
"Is that okay?" she asks.
The question surprises him a little, and he pauses before he answers. When the silence lengthens, Megan touches his hand lightly.
She repeats, "Is it?"
He nods, "Maybe more than just okay."
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tbc
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