"Out of Season"
Part Seven
By Sister Rose
Disclaimer: The characters of "The O.C." are owned by Fox, and no infringement is intended in this work of fiction.
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A bright red scarf pulled Summer's hair back. It matched the bright red top she had on, over the red-and-white polka-dotted mini skirt. Her tanned shoulders were showing and her tanned legs were crossed. If she uncrossed them carelessly, every trucker with a window seat was going to get an unforgettable view.
"It took you long enough, Atwood," she said.
Ryan Atwood's mouth was dry. He moved his tongue and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
"Hey," he finally blurted.
She didn't seem to notice his lack of glibness. Clever speech had never been one of his hallmarks anyway.
"Come on, let's go," Summer said.
"Where?" he said.
Fired failure or not, he would still go anywhere she said anytime she said and do anything she said while he was there. He tried to convince himself that he would do it because he wanted to keep his job, not because he was a pathetic, whipped loser.
He thought about it for an instant more and decided he didn't care. He was on the Summer train for as long as she wanted him to ride.
"Your place," she said.
He reached up, placed his hands under her arms and gently lifted her to the ground, steadying her until he was sure she could actually walk in those impossible platform shoes.
He watched her climb into her red convertible and waited until she had it started and and was gunning out of the parking lot before he got into his pickup.
With that small head start -- and a heavy foot on the accelerator -- Summer unlocked the door and was inside Ryan's room before he had his pickup parked.
"Have you been cleaning?" she turned to demand as he walked in the door. She had been looking at the windows, which were, in fact, spotless inside and out. A man had to do something when he couldn't sleep. There was no more grime in the corners of the bathroom, either, and it smelled like Lysol, though he didn't think she'd looked that far.
Ryan shrugged.
"And what's this?" she said, kicking one platformed foot toward the peaches box.
"Your things," he said.
"My things?" she said. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously and knelt to paw through the box, flipping into disarray his careful arrangement of her possessions.
"While I was cleaning," he said lamely. He hadn't expected to need to explain.
"There's nothing in the fridge," she said. "My things are in a box and ..... your towels are, too." She had discovered the neatly folded piles of pink.
"Your towels," he said quietly.
She stood and turned to face him, hands on her hips. He closed the door behind them for the illusion of privacy.
"You thought I wasn't coming back," she stated flatly. "Even though I'm here every Thursday. Because I didn't come Friday night after my car broke down when I said I would."
Ryan said nothing, but his jaw tightened and he crossed his arms.
"Ryan," she said. The unfamiliar sound of her voice saying his first name pulled his eyes.
"I just put your things in a box," Ryan said. "That's all."
"No, Ryan," Summer said. "That won't cut it."
His heart fell and he turned away slightly.
"This time you have to accept my apology."
Ryan looked at her, unable to really understand what she was saying. Her apology? She was the boss. It was his place to apologize.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I was rude and hateful and then after you kissed me when I had been such a bitch, I was embarrassed. That's why I didn't come see you. You've been thinking all week that we were through and I'm so, so sorry. I should have guessed that's what you were thinking."
Tears started leaking from the edges of Ryan's eyes, and he shook his head, trying to make them stop. He bit his lip. Ryan hadn't cried in years and he wasn't about to start up again now.
Outside of Thursdays, his time with Summer had always been irregular. He should have known something had come up that kept her. He shouldn't have jumped to a conclusion.
"It's not your fault, Summer," he said huskily. "I'm too stupid to figure things out."
"You're not stupid," she shrieked. "I'm a bitch, OK? I'm sorry, sorry, sorry. Please forgive me and stop talking like it's your fault. It makes me so mad when you do that. Not everything in the world is your fault. Sometimes it's mine."
She stamped a foot, almost kicking off a platform shoe. Tears were leaking down her face, too. Ryan reached out a hand to wipe away her tears, then noticed the cement dust covering his arms, underneath the fine blond hair. He couldn't touch her when he was that dirty. Then he saw the cement dust stains on her blouse where he had picked her up in the parking lot. That delicate blouse probably cost two days' pay, and he had ruined it in one thoughtless act. He crossed his arms again and put his hands in his armpits.
"Summer," he said softly. "Please stop crying."
"I know you'll forgive me no matter what stupid thing I do, and I don't deserve it, but I want you to forgive me anyway," she said, tears still dripping down her face.
He tried to make sense of that statement, but his head was too fuzzy. Lack of sleep during the past week was catching up with him.
"I need a shower so I don't get this dust anywhere else," he said, trying not to look at the places where he had stained her top. "And I need to clear my head. But I don't want to leave you crying."
"I'll stop," she promised blearily. "As soon as you say you forgive me."
"Forget about it, Summer."
"Say it!"
He looked at her. He had never said those words before and they tasted funny coming out of his mouth.
"I forgive you."
"Thank you," she said. "Now give me your pants."
"Please, Summer, I really need to shower first."
"No, not that," she said. "I'll wash them while you're in the shower."
That threat sobered him quickly.
"No, you don't have to do that," he said, a little too fast. "You shouldn't be washing my clothes. It will only be a minute and I'll be out of the shower."
"Take them off, Atwood," she said. "I know you hate concrete dust in your clothes. I want to wash them for you."
He could see she meant it and her feelings would be hurt if he didn't give them up. Well, surely his next paycheck could stretch to include a pair of secondhand work pants. He walked to the drawer where he kept his garbage bags and pulled one out. He pulled out his wallet and a wrinkled napkin and put them on his dresser. He shucked his pants and stuffed them in the bag, following them with the dusty shirt, undershirt and socks.
The instant he took his clothes off, he could feel the grit all over his skin, which prickled in the cold of his room.
He handed Summer the bag with trepidation.
"The rest of the laundry, too, Atwood," Summer said. "And your shorts. And give up the soap. Cold water, right? I can do this. It won't be like last time."
"Once through cold water without soap to get rid of the dust, then once through warm water with soap to get them clean. I don't want the rest of my things to get concrete dust on them," Ryan said. At her accusing glare, he added, "Really, I'll do them later."
The plastic garbage bag in his closet was almost full. He could afford to let her ruin one set of clothes, but not everything.
He didn't think his laundry instructions would be remembered as long as it would take Summer to walk to the one washer in the complex.
But there was a decent chance the machine would be full. It usually was this time of day. If she had to wait and he took a really fast shower, he could be with her at the washer in time to keep her from shrinking his clothes.
Ryan scooped up a cup of blue-grained powdered soap from the box in his closet and passed it to Summer. He kept a coffee can for change under his bed. He dug in it for a handful of quarters and passed those over, too, before shedding his shorts.
"You have to use your pink towels," Summer said, leaving with the black plastic bag over her shoulder.
Ryan smiled as he padded naked toward the cardboard peaches box and found the pink towels. He needed to hurry.