Six Days After Christmas
Part 3
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On the third day after Christmas, Ryan ate a late breakfast.
He woke up so hungry that he resorted to a Tupperware container in order to hold an obscenely large portion of Cap'N Crunch.
Can't have any milk spilling.
He didn't bother putting any additional clothes on.
He was a man of leisure, sitting in the kitchen, wearing only boxers and bare feet, slurping and chewing a gluttonous amount of processed cereal.
Life was damn good.
Seth called at noon, demanding attention.
Ryan put him on speakerphone.
"The dog has gained weight. I'm no Vet, but I'd say it has definitely developed a serious case of gingivitis to go along with its' farting issues. I'm in hell Ryan. Oh, and Thing One deleted everything on my iPod and I'm pretty sure Thing Two is plotting my death. I just know, 'cause of the way it looks at me. What are you doing? Did Summer call? Did Alex call? Did anyone call? You miss me, right? If I end up dying here, you'll organize a grand jury inquest on my behalf, won't you? Are you there? Are you listening to a word I'm saying Ryan?"
"Uh-huh." It wasn't a complete lie. "Dog stinks, kids are scary, and vacation is crappy. Anything else?"
"No, thanks, really Ryan, your sympathy for my plight is positively overwhelming. I'll let you get back to whatever it is you're not but should be doing, like having a hellacious party with strippers named Bambi and Boobs."
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Kirsten called at two.
He wondered if she had a checklist.
Eating…yes.
Sleeping…yes.
Too much studying…no.
"Make sure you have some fun, ok Ryan?"
He assured her he would.
"But not too much fun and absolutely no illegal fun."
Of course not he scoffed.
Thank you for caring about me.
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He fell back asleep sometime between three and four in the afternoon.
Woke up at six on the couch, confused, when the doorbell invaded his dreams.
Earlier he had managed to put on sweats and a t-shirt but he was pretty sure he looked like a robber or a homeless person.
Maybe a robber shaking down a homeless person.
He debated whether or not to even answer it.
But the ring was followed by a knock and then another ring.
He squinted and spied through the peephole.
Lindsay.
Another knock, "I know you're in there Atwood. I already tried the pool house."
He sighed and let her in.
"You look like shit."
He thanked her for her concern.
She handed him a neatly folded pack of bills. "Sorry, it's just fifty-seven bucks. I really appreciate what you did Ryan. I don't think I know anyone who would have just handed over money like that."
I do, thought Ryan. I learned from the best.
He hated praise.
He was allergic to it, like Seth was to manual labor.
It made him uncomfortable, unsure of how to respond.
She took his silence as a sign to go.
"Ok, well, I'll see you."
"Uh…movie?" he proposed clumsily. "If you're not doing anything. 'Cause I'm not, and you're already out here and," he waved the bills in his hand, "I've got exactly fifty-seven dollars."
She shrugged indifference but she'd never survive in Vegas or Reno. He could see a smile forming at the corners of her lips.
"Sure, why not? But you are going to take a shower, right?"
Absolutely, why don't you join me?
"Yeah," he shook his head. "Come on in. Are your hungry? Do you want anything to drink?"
God what had happened to him? He had a hot girl and a house to himself and suddenly he was the fucking food guy from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
She said she was fine and settled at the computer to find movie listings. By the time Ryan returned from his shower, she had made herself comfortable, munching on chips and flipping from channel to channel.
"I'm trying not to be astonished by this house, by what I'm a part of now." Lindsay confessed. "But it's impossible not to be. What's it like, living like this? I can't even imagine this lifestyle. They have more bags of snack chips than we have items of food in our fridge. I know that sounds stupid, to count people's chips but…"
"Um, twelve," Ryan interrupted her, lowered his head, whispered the number.
"What?" she asked, confused.
"When I first got here, I counted. They had twelve different kinds of bread." He looked up at her and Lindsay was ashamed of herself for forgetting that once upon a time Ryan most likely lived in conditions far worse than she could imagine. This was no more his standard of living than hers.
"Wow, no wonder you're in Pre-Calculus, you're quick with the math."
He laughed at her stupid joke and she watched with relief as his easy,mischievous smile reappeared.
Some things better left to the past.
Lindsay made a mental note not to ever comment on where or how he lived.
It didn't matter what his current address was.
Ryan couldn't be farther from Newport if he moved back to Chino.
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They decided the movie choices were boring. With Seth safely tucked away in Rancho Palos Verdes, far, far removed from the Bait Shop, the boardwalk seemed a more interesting diversion.
They ate dinner at a small seaside hut and sat on the beach, watching people and just talking. He asked her if she wanted to go back to his house, play some videos, watch some TV. But she told him no. She loved the ocean, wanted him to love it as much as she did.
Eventually it got late and Lindsay yawned.
"I have to go. My mom wants me home by midnight."
Ryan glanced at his watch. Shit, 11:45. How the hell had that happened?
When they got to the parking lot, most of the crowd was gone. Just a few cars were scattered haphazardly.
Ryan automatically reached for her hand.
It was dark, relatively abandoned and even Newport was dangerous when the lights were turned off.
She hesitated at first and then molded her hand into his. They had held hands before, but the sensation was still a thrill, still made her smile inside, still made her wonder why he wanted to hold her hand, and not that beautiful girl, the one he used to date, the girl who lived in the palace and had the legs that didn't stop and the white teeth and perfect skin.
Why was he here with her, Lindsay wondered, when he could be with that girl?
A harsh tug from behind abruptly scattered her thoughts, tore her from Ryan's grasp.
What the fuck?
Bad things happened quickly, and slowly, all at the same time. Lindsay remembered this from when she was twelve and her mom's car crashed into a cement pile-on. She wasn't hurt, but she'd never forget the strange blend of slow motion and fast action as the car spun out of control.
It was happening now, fast and slow, slow but fast, a man slapping at her, spinning her around by her purse strap, farther away from Ryan, and screaming, repeating the same thing at her, "Let go of your fucking purse lady!"
And then Ryan rebounded and suddenly the guy was off her and on the ground.
Now Ryan was the one yelling like a crazy man, over and over again, "Get your fucking hands off her. Leave her alone you piece of shit."
Fists up and down, but consistently landing on the man's face. Ryan was caught up in a pattern; kick the guy in the side, yell, two quick blows to the face.
"Ryan," Lindsay found her voice. Was it her voice? She had never heard herself so shaky.
"Ryan, stop. You should stop now."
A kick, a yell, more punches. Ryan was drawing blood now and all Lindsay could think about was that the guy might have AIDS and now Ryan would get it and it would be all her fault.
Was this person even Ryan?
Ryan Atwood had been replaced by someone else, she was sure he was possessed.
"Ryan," she tried again. But her voice was still shaking and Ryan was still yelling.
The guy was unconscious now, Lindsay was sure of it. So in addition to AIDS, Ryan would now be committing manslaughter on her behalf. She had to do something to stop him.
"Ryan!" she screamed. "Ryan, stop it, you're killing him."
And he stopped as suddenly as he began.
He leaned over the mugger, heaving deep breaths, bracing himself with one hand on the parking lot asphalt; the other smearing sprayed blood off his face.
He looked up at her, panting.
"Ryan, we should go, we should go now."
She tugged at his arm and Ryan swayed from side to side as he managed to stand up.
The man moaned and Lindsay thanked God.
Noise meant alive.
Ryan stumbled forward, dazed, and Lindsay just started talking.
Anything, everything.
"Thank you, you saved my life Ryan, it's going to be ok, well get you cleaned up and call the police, this is self-defense. Everything's going to be fine."
She frantically scanned the dark parking lot. Where was Ryan's truck?
She spotted the black Range Rover and steered him to it, one faltering step at a time. When they reached the vehicle, Lindsay dug into Ryan's jeans pocket, concentrated on finding his keys.
"Hold it right there you motherfuckers."
Lindsay turned around slowly.
A man stood there.
With a gun.
"You little fuckers. That was my goddamn baby brother back there you rich little fucks. All we wanted was your purse bitch."
Lindsay started to cry.
The man stepped forward, holding the gun just like on TV, handle up, the barrel slightly down.
It was five minutes after midnight and on the fourth day after Christmas, Ryan Atwood stood in an almost empty parking lot with a gun to his temple.
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End of part 3