Just know that I finished writing this chapter at 2:27 in the morning while watching a muted South Park episode and listening to Bell Biv DeVoe. I'm telling you this because I'm strung out on sugar and running on very little sleep. It actually has nothing to do with the chapter.

But enjoy.

Also, this is vaguely for aqiran, who reminded me that I haven't paid attention to Vegas in a while...

Music: that girl is poison…


I don't want to answer the door. It's early in the morning – too early in the morning for visitors – and I'm just wondering who it can be this time.

I mean, really. There's way too many people coming to this wedding, who I never thought would actually be there – Trey, my dad, my mom, my new adoptive son, Jess Sathers. It's just… I can't help but expect the worst as I reach for the door handle, hesitating for a second to pull it open.

To be honest, I wouldn't be the least surprised if it were… I don't know, Luke Ward or fuck, even Oliver standing there.

But it's not. It's just Taylor's mom, so – wait. What the fuck is Taylor's mom doing here?

"It's about time," she sniffs, moving past me into the apartment, barely even looking at me. I stand in stunned silence for a second before closing the door and walking back to the kitchen to reclaim my cup of coffee. She pauses in the living area, sweeping her gaze over the apartment with one eyebrow quirked, like she does every time she visits.

"Taylor's not here." Well, that's just about the rudest greeting ever. But I hate having to be polite to the woman. I've known Taylor for – what, seven years now? – and she's said about three things to me in that entire time. Not that I mind or anything…

"I'm not here for Taylor," she says, finally looking at me. "I'm here to stop… this," she waves her hands vaguely around her. "I mean, I'm surprised she's taking the joke this far," she continues, like she's talking about the weather, swiping a finger across the table next to the couch and looking at it, crinkling her nose, like it's dirty or something. Which it's totally not, because Taylor compulsively cleans this apartment every three days like clockwork.

And now I know why.

Wait.

"What joke?" I grit out, leaning forward on the bar diving the kitchen and living areas.

"This whole 'wedding' thing," she makes air quotes, like it's nothing, still looking around the apartment and not at me. "She's taken it too far, so I came to ask you to tell her to drop the act before she embarrasses herself too much."

"You think this is a joke?" I deadpan at her. I'm not actually that surprised.

She turns to me, looks me over, then raises one eyebrow and smiles condescendingly. "Oh God," she laughs lightly, "she actually has you fooled." Um… what? "You actually think she loves you?" Apparently this is hilarious, because she starts to laugh, almost silently, holding her stomach. She's playing it up – I get that – but it still doesn't make this any less annoying. I don't defend myself, though. I don't need to defend myself, and I'm not giving the woman the satisfaction of having me fight back. She'd just throw it in my face. "She's just using you," Veronica calms down, shaking her head at me like she's sorry for me.

"Uh huh." I'm not sure whether that was supposed to be an agreement or a question, but it's the most non-committal noise I can make. She smiles again.

"I'm sure you're… nice company, Mr. Atwood," she gives me this look, like I'm supposed to know what the hell nice company means. And when did she start calling me 'Mr. Atwood' and not 'Hey, Delinquent'? "A nice way to pass the time," she clarifies, eyes looking… down, and ew. Wait, that's actually insulting… "I'm sure you're a nice way to pass the time," she repeats, stepping towards me and patting me on the shoulder comfortingly, "but you're not husband material. Taylor knows that."

"So she made up a marriage story to… what? Piss you off?"

Why the hell am I engaging this woman in conversation? I should just… I don't know, hit her over the head with the lamp and dump her body out back? Taylor may not appreciate that too much.

She hates when I spill things on the carpet and blood is damn hard to get out.

"Ryan, I- hey…" Cody comes out into the kitchen, running his hand through his hair. Sometimes I think he's like Kirsten – like he has radar that tells him to show up at the worst possible time.

"You have a kid?" Veronica's eyes go wide, like she's just stumbled upon buried treasure. But seriously, what is it with people assuming Cody is my son? Do I look that old? Or maybe people just can't do math.

It wouldn't surprise me if Veronica couldn't do math.

"Cody," I infuse my voice with warning, hoping he'll get it and go back in his room, "this is Veronica Townsend. She's Taylor's mom."

"Oh." Thank God, I think when Cody stiffens, noticing my tone. "It's nice to meet you. I'm just gonna go play some soccer… outside…" he makes for the door, but Veronica stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Hold on a second… Cody, is it?" He nods, warily, not meeting her eyes. "How is it that you know Ryan? If you're not his son, of course. Another long-lost relative?" Her eyes flick up to me triumphantly, "a cousin he took pity on because your parents are in jail? I mean, it seems like all the Atwoods have been to jail at some point."

Cody looks startled, eyes flicking to me, and crap, I hadn't told him that yet. I'd told him that my dad had been to prison for theft, but I left out the violence, the domestic abuse. I left out the fact that mom had been in jail a few times for public drunkenness. I'd mentioned Trey stealing a car and getting sent to prison for a few years. I left out the fact he tried to rape a girl and was subsequently shot by her.

And I definitely left out my little stints in Juvie – and Seth and my mistake last year.

I was gonna break that to him slowly, because the last thing he needs is to think I'm just some asshole who's gonna let him down.

All three of us turn when the front door opens and Taylor walks in, looking hassled. "Mother." It's not a greeting or a question – just a stunned observation.

"Taylor," her voice goes cold.

"What are you doing here?" Cody and I watch her come in, setting her purse down warily and moving toward the kitchen and me. But she stops when she sees Veronica's hand on Cody's shoulder and instead, moves toward him.

"I just came by to talk to your fiancée," the word drips coldly from her and Taylor tenses up. "And much to my surprise, I see he's taken in some sort of delinquent." She nods toward Cody, who ducks his head and I feel the anger rise in me.

"Get out."

Cody looks up and he stares at Taylor in surprise – which is pretty much what I'm doing. I've never heard her voice so… angry? No, she's been angry at me before – good God, has she been angry at me before. I've heard her rant, I've heard her angry, but I've never heard her with this much hate in her.

Apparently neither has Veronica, because the woman retracts her hand from Cody and glares at her daughter. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Taylor's voice is a low whisper, but it sounds loud in the silence of the apartment. "I don't know what you're doing here – I don't care. This is my home. So get the hell out."

"Maybe you should become a lawyer," Veronica spits back, grabbing her purse off the side table, "since you're so concerned with defending felons."

There's a small gasp from Cody as Taylor's hand makes contact with her mom's face, and something in my head whispers oh shit.

"Don't you dare talk about my fiancée like that," Taylor hisses, eyes narrowing and finger pointing at the other woman. "Or my son. Get out and take your venom with you, you bitch."


I'm shaking badly in the dead silence, staring at the space my mother had vacated, not even flinching when the door slams shut. Out of the corner of my eye I see Cody staring at me with wide eyes, and across the apartment, I can sense Ryan watching me. He's waiting, trying to decide whether I need him, or space.

"Cody," he keeps his voice low and the boy looks away from me. "Why don't you go outside and play some soccer? Just make sure she's gone before you go." Cody nods once, ducking his head and walking past me.

I don't miss his whispered 'thanks' as he goes.

He peeks out the door and we all hear the car start up. The door shuts behind him with an ominous click, leaving Ryan and me alone.

"You ok?"

I don't answer him immediately, instead thinking the question through. I'm physically all right – except for the stinging in my hand and the uncontrollable shaking. I just don't get how a mother could be so hateful. And I'm not exactly sure why I called Cody my son – for the second time. Right in front of him. It's weird. He still doesn't feel like my son. If anything he feels more like a legal obligation but… with my mother being the bitch that she is and calling him a felon, there was just this… rush of affection for the boy.

"Yeah," I answer finally – sounding the word out slowly, like I'm saying it for the first time. When I finally look over at him, it's like some of the fog that's been over my head lately has lifted. "I have something I have to do." I tell him, grabbing my purse and completely forgetting the reason I came over here in the first place.

Cody watches me silently as I rush down the stairs and get into my car. I give him a smile and a wave as I pass and he seems confused that I'm not angry at him.

I'm not.

I'm ok.


"That was scary."

"I've never seen her like that."

We both sit there and don't say anything else. We don't drink our coffee, we don't eat our cereal.

He's only thirteen – he shouldn't be drinking coffee, but it always settles my nerves and I think the situation calls for it.

Plus, it's better than the pack of cigarettes I'd found him busting out when I went outside to check on him. I gave him a lecture about how bad smoking is for your lungs – how it makes you smell and how girls don't like boys who smell. I took the cigarettes away from them with a stern look and sent him inside for breakfast.

And then I went into the alley by the dumpster and smoked them.

Three of them.

I'm gonna be a horrible father.

Fuck – she'd called him her son.

I mean, I know we're gonna adopt him and all, but he still feels like more of a little brother type deal than my son.

But he doesn't need an older brother. He needs a father. And a mother. He needs parents that'll love him and discipline him and support him.

At least we know he has a mother that'll defend him


Newport hasn't changed much and it reminds me just how much I don't miss it.

But the salt in the air brings me back eight years ago to the day I started living. And no, I'm not talking about the first day I met Ryan, or the first time I kissed him.

In fact, the day I started living has very little to do with him.

It was the day I first stood up to my mother – the day I went into the Harbor 'court room' with the petition full of signatures and sat down between Seth and Summer in my free Marissa t-shirt.

The petition wasn't about Marissa. The t-shirt wasn't about Marissa. It was about Seth and Summer and the way I finally felt like a human being.

Which brings me back to why I'm here.

To deal with her.


"Atwood."

I squint in the sunlight and try to hide the cigarette behind my back, but it doesn't quite work out, what with the smoke curling up and giving me away. "Hey Chris."

"I wanna thank you again for helping out with those contracts the other day. You saved my ass." He runs his hands over his face with a sigh and pulls out his own pack of cigarettes and lights one up. "Have you always smoked?"

"Used to when I was a kid," I tell him, putting the thing back to my lips and taking a drag. "Then a bit in college. And… currently, as of this morning."

"Wedding jitters?" he grins, flicking the ash to the concrete below us. Traffic whizzes by and I kind of hope the Cohens aren't out in the city today, cause they try to stop by my work and visit me when they are. The last thing I need is them seeing me smoking again. They hadn't found out about the college thing, and I'd like to keep it that way.

Taylor's been lording that over my head for three years. Uses it to get her way when she's losing a fight.

I like it better when she uses sex to get her way.

"Had a run-in with Taylor's mom," I confess.

"Ooh, mother-in-law," he pretend shivers, which gets a smile out of me. Sometimes it's nice to talk to someone outside the Atwood-Cohen-Roberts-Townsend-Cooper-Bullit clan. Jesus, that's a lot of last names. I remember when it had just been the Atwood clan. Maybe it's a sign of how well my life is going – the amount of names I have tacked on. "Let me guess," he continues, "she's real protective and doesn't think you're good enough for her daughter?"

And that gets a laugh. "She hates Taylor. But she hates me more, and she just loves rubbing my past in my face."

"When I married Ashley, her dad came in and punched me for 'deflowering' his daughter before the wedding."

"Ouch."

"I didn't tell him I hadn't deflowered shit. She was no virgin when she met me."

"I think some people just need someone to blame," I shrug, and he nods. But the statement doesn't seem to have the same resonance that it does with me, and it makes me smile because he obviously didn't have the childhood I did.

It's always nice when I find someone untouched by tragedy.


"Who did you say you are?" the woman frowns at me from behind the counter.

"I'm her daughter," I repeat, resisting the urge to tap my foot. That, or slip into Newport mode and bitch her out. I feel the dragging urge to be a horrible human being. Now I remember why I'm glad I left this place.

"Alright," the attendant says warily, stepping out from behind the counter. "She's in the mud room, I'll go ask if she'd like to see you."

Crap.

Crappity crap, crap, crap.

The woman disappears for a really long time and I almost run out. She'll never let me in now, no matter what story I feed her. Finally she comes out and smiles at me. "Your mom says she'll see you now."

Seriously?

That's unexpected.


"So no Ms. Casetti today?" Branson – much to my surprise – has joined us outside with his own cigarette. I knew he smoked, but I just assumed he wouldn't do it out on a public street.

"Nah, she 'gave me the day off'." That earns a laugh from Branson and Chris – Chris a little nervously now that one of the senior partners is out here with us. "I think she's just procrastinating to see if she can actually make me cry."

"You cry?" Chris shoots at me and Branson barks out a laugh. I glare at the two, trying to convey that it was just an expression.

"She hasn't signed off?" Branson gets serious and I sigh.

"No. But she can't come up with anything else to add or any other arguments to make, so now she's just avoiding me. Sometimes I wonder if she knows about my wedding or something, cause I don't get why she's dragging this out."

"Cause she's a bitch?" Chris offers.

"Because she's from Newport," I correct him grimly, looking out across the street at the Starbucks. "People in Newport'll do anything to prove they have control over you."

"Sounds like a joyful place."


The attendant gestures toward the woman caked in mud before leaving the private room. I wait nervously by the door as it clicks shut behind her and then there's silence.

Finally a sigh and the figure on the lounge lifts her hands to peel the bag off her eyes to look at me.

"So who the hell are you?"

"I'm sorry," I start, "I know you were expecting your daughter-"

"I don't have a daughter," she cuts in, snapping her fingers. "So just tell me who you are and why you're insisting on interrupting my spa day."

"I'm Taylor Townsend," I introduce myself, not moving from my spot by the door. She lifts an eyebrow.

"Veronica's daughter? Did she send you here? What imaginary slight have I committed against her this time?" She sighs again, leaning back and closing her eyes.

"I'm not here for my mother. I'm here for my fiancée."

"Are you the one marrying Chip Saunders?" her brow furrows, but she doesn't sit up or open her eyes. "Look, just tell him I'm sorry for backing into his car. I already said I'd pay for the damages."

"I'm not marrying Chip- wait, you backed into his car? The Mustang?" He'd had that car in high school – fawned over the stupid thing like it was a human being. He paid more attention to the car than he did whatever current girlfriend.

"Yes, the Mustang. So if you're not here for him, which bobblehead is it?" That makes me giggle, so I move in further, sitting on the chair next to the lounge.

"He's not a bobblehead," I smile. "His name's Ryan Atwood."

She pauses, then sits up and opens her eyes. "He's getting married? Shame." She sighs, turning an appraising eye on me. "Let me guess, he's told you all about me, and you've come to tell me to stop picking on him?" She flashes a smile that tells me she's doing no such thing.

"No, Ms. Casetti," I put on my own Newport smile. "I had to hear about him being overworked from his boss, and I came here to tell you that you'd better sign the release forms within the next two days."

"Oh?" she asks, like she's not insanely interested in why.

"He probably hasn't told you – if you hadn't noticed, he's not much of a talker – but we're getting married on Saturday. And then Sunday we leave for our honeymoon, and, well, it's really not a honeymoon if the groom isn't there because he's stuck working for a woman that has too much time on her hands."

"I'm sorry, are you threatening me?" she laughs, pressing a hand to her chest, eyes glinting with amusement. I smile back, feeling high school me take over.

"Look, I may not live in Newport anymore, but I'm quite sure I could make your life miserable. Even if you take out the part where I'm insane and I've been put on numerous terrorist alert lists, you still have the fact that my soon-to-be in-laws are Sandy and Kirsten Cohen. My best friend is Summer Roberts, daughter of Neil Roberts. My very good friend is Julie Cooper-Nichol, and there's a man named Gordon Bullit – maybe you've heard of him? owns Texas? – who's quite fond of me. Also add in the fact that your previously stated boring life depends heavily on the social scene here in Newport, and I think you'd better just do what I ask."

"And what is that?" she asks stiffly.

"Stop being such a giant bitch and give Ryan a break. He's trying to help you, and you're just making it harder for him for your own sick amusement." I stand up and head for the door, pausing just before I open it. "Remember: if Ryan isn't on the plane Sunday morning, know that I will spend the two weeks I'm supposed to be on my honeymoon stalking you around Newport and defaming you to everyone I meet." Then I turn and flash her one more smile. "Have a great day, Ms. Casetti."


I keep the windows open the entire drive home, hoping the rush of air will take away the smell of cigarettes as I pop another mint into my mouth.

Shit.

I shouldn't smoke. I mean, not only do I have to worry about Taylor and the Cohens bitching me out about it, but now I have to worry about being a good role model.

For our son, my head whispers snarkily.

This must be why pregnancy lasts nine months – so males can adjust to the idea of being a father. Maybe that's why adoption takes so long to go through. I don't think I'd be this terrified if Taylor were pregnant, or if we were going through the system in a regular adoption. Cody's won't take long, what with Sandy Cohen being on the case and the mother ready and very willing to sign the papers.

It's too fast. For me, probably for Taylor, definitely for Cody.

When the Cohens took me in, it didn't even register that I had a new family until about three weeks in. But Cody… he doesn't have all the shit that went on like I did. He didn't get arrested, burn down a house, have to deal with the confusing girl next door. I just took him home one day and kept him.

As horrible as it sounds, I wish he had more drama to distract him. Because all he has to think about now is that his mom doesn't want him. He has to think about how he has to start a new life, in a new school, with a new family.

When I get home I rush past Cody – sitting on the couch playing video games – so I can go change before he can smell the stale smoke on me. I even stop by the bathroom and take a quick shower, just in case, brushing my teeth when I get out.

It's only then that I venture into the living room.

I sit on the couch with him and we play GTA for a while in silence. I'm not sure how to bring this up.

"Do you have any friends in the city?" I start, a little warily. San Francisco's only a half hour away across the Bay, but for a thirteen-year-old, it's a long way on a bike.

"Some," he shrugs, and I feel my heart sink when he doesn't sound depressed that he hasn't seen them for a while.

"Any good ones?" I want him to know I'll do anything in my power to keep him in touch with them – if he wants me to, and if they're good kids. He shrugs again, the action so lukewarm that I know he doesn't have any good friends. Probably just kids he hung out with to get away from his mom. "Maybe you could do something this summer," I suggest casually. I don't wanna freak him out. "Like a camp or something."

"Camp." It's a statement, monotone, but I detect some sadness in there. He thinks I'm trying to get rid of him already.

"Like a day camp," I continue, "so you don't have to stay here alone while I'm at work and Taylor's… not living here. You could meet kids your own age and make some friends before school starts up." The mention of school jolts him a little – like it's just hitting him that I mean this to be long-term. "How about soccer camp?" I suggest. I know there's one nearby – Taylor had suggested I coach, but work didn't allow the schedule. Which was a shame because the job paid well and I never get to play anymore.

And sending him there will be expensive.

But suddenly I want him to go there – to meet kids that are normal, suburban kids. I'm thinking of sending him to a private school in the fall – Sandy said he'd help out with tuition if Taylor and I couldn't handle it.

"School," he repeats, fumbling a bit in the game.

"Yeah. And I think you should make some friends with the kids around here if you'll be going to their school in a couple months."

"Oh."

I sigh and pause the game, which confuses him. We put the controllers on the table and I turn to face him, which – through common courtesy – makes him turn to me as well.

"Alright," I start, feeling the familiar tension fill me. "I think I should start telling you… well, everything."

"Ok…" he trails off, obviously not sure where this is going. To be honest, I'm not really sure where this is going, but maybe if he hears my story, it'll help him realize that he has potential. That he has a future.

"When I was fifteen," I start out, the muscles in my shoulders tightening, "my brother and I got bored. He thought it'd be fun if we stole a car…"


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