Mornings were always his quiet time. He came in for breakfast around nine – if Kirsten was home, she was still in bed. And if she was going to work, then she was already gone. He had grown accustomed to enjoying a bagel and orange juice, sometimes coffee, prepping himself for the day ahead. He was finding it was the only chosen part of his routine, the only thing that he did for himself anymore. And as simple an act as it was, he needed it.
By sunrise, he was determined to tell Kirsten exactly what Summer had told him the night before. They both needed help, something that they couldn't give each other. He was going to tell her that he intended to get some help, even if that meant he had to move in with Seth and Sandy for awhile. He had rehearsed and committed to memory an entire script, down to the last detail. If he didn't look her in the eye, and he remembered that this was the best thing he could possibly do for both of them, everything would be fine. He could do this. He had to do this.
But then, just like everything else in his life, the plan changed. When he opened the glass door to the kitchen, he found Kirsten sipping coffee and reading a newspaper, dressed in jeans and a tank top, her hair in a ponytail. She turned to him and she smiled. She let their eyes meet, and she smiled directly at him. It was enough to nearly knock him backwards. "Morning, Sweetie," she winked, going back to her reading.
Ryan gave a faint wave. Who was this woman? Why wasn't she in a bathrobe, with stringy hair, barely mumbling something about going back to bed? Why wasn't she angrily ranting about how Sandy had destroyed her marriage and stolen her son? Why wasn't she screaming in frustration at some associate on the phone? Why was she looking at him like that – like she was happy to see him? She wasn't supposed to be acknowledging him.
His entire plan hinged on her not knowing he was around, not even caring whether he stayed or went. This Kirsten, the one who was smiling at him and offering him half of her bagel, did not fit into the plan. This Kirsten didn't show up often, and Ryan knew he couldn't run her off before she was ready to go.
"So, it's Sunday," she stated, as though he didn't know that. It was far more likely that she hadn't known that, until opening her paper that morning. "There is supposed to be this great jazz festival down at the pier today." She shut the newspaper and pushed it to the side, leaning against the counter as he rested his weight on the opposite side. He was truly afraid that he might fall over if he didn't lean on something. "I thought maybe we could go down there? You could invite Marissa if you want. We haven't had much fun around here lately," she grinned.
It was an old smile, the kind she used to give him when they were sharing knowing looks about Seth and Sandy's jokes – it was genuine. It was the look he had longed for over the last few months. It was the look that said they were going to be okay, no matter what they went through. It was the look that hypnotized him into a false sense of security and made him forget everything he was going to say.
"That'd be great," he agreed. Maybe he could still work the conversation in – and maybe she would really listen. Maybe this was her way of telling him that she had realized the same things he had. Maybe this was the way they found common ground and healing. Maybe he was wishing for the impossible, but he didn't care. Kirsten was offering to spend time with him. And she appeared, at least, to be sober. Nothing else mattered.
"Great," she nodded with a determined smile and pushed the cordless phone toward him. "Why don't you call Marissa, and I will go get the digital camera. Meet me at the car in five?"
Ryan's shoulders fell slightly. "I don't know if Marissa's really gonna wanna," he started and then stopped. He didn't feel like talking about his relationship with Marissa at the moment. He didn't feel like talking about anything that would wipe that smile off of Kirsten's face. "Um, maybe we can just do this by ourselves?"
She turned her head and studied his face, as if looking for the answers to a million of her own questions. And then she nodded. "I'd like that," she said and headed toward the stairs.
The words rang in his head long after she was gone. She, the closest thing he'd had to a mom in years, said that she would like to spend a day with just him. A whole day. If the entire world crashed around him at midnight, if the carriage turned back into a pumpkin and the horses turned to mice, he didn't care. He was going to spend a day with his mom, and it was going to be the best day ever.