Written for the second OC sentence challenge. The sentence was this one by Muchtvs: A member of Casa De Cohen doesn't come home one night.
No pairing. .
Rating: T- ish for language
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except a few minor characters, a couple of whom have speaking parts.
Betaed, as ever, by the lovely BonnieD.
One night in ChinoRyan takes a deep breath, counts to five, exhales slowly. Nope. No change. Seth is still irritating the shit out of him.
"Come on, bro', just this once – you know I need you to have my back."
Just this once. Like Ryan isn't always there for him, hasn't always had his back, isn't always listening to his whining about Summer, about Alex, about Zach, or Luke, or Reed, or whoever. It grates.
It grates more than it ever used to, and Ryan can't handle it anymore – not since that night, not since his carefully maintained Newport life fell apart. Not when Trey is still in the hospital, fresh out of the ICU and headed back to jail. Not when Marissa is withdrawn and freaked out and consumed with guilt about the whole thing and won't return his calls; not when Kirsten is packed away at that fucking rehab resort and Sandy is struggling to keep a normal life going on at home. There's so much still too raw, too fucked up, and how Seth can ignore all this and give way to his self-absorption just baffles him. And makes him angry.
"Ryan, I know it's not the best timing but trust me, she…"
"No." It comes out harsher than he expected, somehow, but it's appropriate, and Ryan doesn't even feel guilty about it. Actually, it's a relief to stop bottling it all up.
"Uh?"
"No. I'm not going to do whatever stupid thing you want me to do. I'm tired; I want to go to bed. Figure it out on your own." He figured out a while ago that it pays to be blunt with Seth if you really want him to get the message.
As if on cue, Seth takes on an aggrieved expression.
"Dude? That is so uncool. I thought we were a team. You know, united we're unstoppable, divided…" And then Seth's brain finally catches up with his mouth and he shuts up. For some reason, though, this is all it takes for Ryan to snap. That last casual thoughtless quip sends him over the edge, from irritation into real, serious anger – and he knows that if he stays, he will punch Seth.
So he pushes himself up from his bed, takes another deep breath and tries not to clench his hands into fists as he walks towards the door, avoiding Seth's eyes. Half a dozen steps and he's free – that's all it takes. Walk away, for once in silence because it looks like Seth has belatedly realized that he has committed a major blunder, and that perhaps this whole whining about him and Summer, a week after Ryan and Trey's epic fight, and the shooting, and the complete implosion of life as they knew it could be perceived as insensitive.
The silence continues all the way down the steps, and across the patio, because Seth hasn't moved from the pool house, standing there shell-shocked like some war vet who's been too close to too many bombs. As he passes through the kitchen, Ryan hesitates, and then plucks the Rover keys from the bowl on the counter. Fuck it. He needs out – and since Kirsten's been away it's more or less become their car. His and Seth's. Tonight, it's definitely his turn.
The sound of the front door slamming, the low thrum of the Rover's engine, the squeal of the tires as the car pulls out of the drive – Seth follows it all from his position, stock still in the middle of Ryan's bedroom, still stunned at his own stupidity. He cannot believe he slipped into his "people get shot" routine so easily, so carelessly.
For the first time, Seth understands the whole concept of scales falling from his eyes because, yes, he can suddenly see himself from Ryan's perspective – well, a Seth Cohen-like version of Ryan, at any rate – and undoubtedly, he is a ginormous, self-centered tool. It's a miracle Ryan didn't punch him. It is also, frankly, amazing that he didn't notice this until it was too late, but that, he knows, is very much what he is about.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Seth is also somewhat relieved that Ryan left with the Rover – sure, it means he can go further than on foot, or on his bike. But knowing Ryan, it should also mean that he intends to come back, and probably not too late. Unless, perhaps, he is so pissed at Seth that normal rules don't apply. After all, for the past week or so, it's not like Casa Cohen has been functioning under normal rules.
As the evening progresses, though, Seth begins to think that his blithe assertion to himself about Ryan coming home soon may have been the product of his fevered imagination, because it's now past ten, and there is no sign of him, or the Rover, and Seth realizes that in all likelihood he's going to have to deal with his dad before Ryan turns up. And the thought of telling him that he behaved like an ass and chased Ryan out of his home as a result is not appealing at all. He's left approximately seventeen messages on Ryan's mobile, full of abject apologies, begging Ryan to come home, offering himself as a punchbag, asking for an answer, any answer. None is forthcoming.
When he hears a car pulling up the drive, Seth hopes and prays to Jesus, Moses and any passing benevolent deity that it's the Rover rather than the Beamer, but he knows it's futile even before the call echoes through the kitchen.
"Boys? Anyone home?"
He squares his shoulders and steels himself mentally for the trial to come. It's time to face the music. Seth Cohen, asshole extraordinaire, who managed to chase his best buddy/almost brother from home, a week after one of the most traumatic events of his life, by insisting on his own petty needs ahead of anything else. Way to go, dude. And he knows exactly how annoyed his dad is going to be at the news.
Except that he turns out to have underestimated the scale of Sandy Cohen's righteous anger – especially in the absence of Mom's calming influence.
"Hey, dad." He's already adopted a subservient pose, head down, staring at his feet, avoiding his father's eyes, and he knows that the lawyer won't have missed the body language.
"Seth? What's happening? Where's the Rover?"
Seth sighs. "Dad, I screwed up. I think I really pissed Ryan off, and… I have no idea where he's gone. Except that he took the Rover, and I think that means he's coming back. I hope."
"And how exactly did you piss Ryan off, Seth?" his father says, his voice sounding dangerously calm.
"Well, um, you see, I had this thing planned to surprise Summer, but…"
Half an hour and many painful words later, Seth is in his room, and as far as he is concerned, he may stay there for the rest of the week. Or month, whatever. Just as long as he never has to face his dad like that again. Forget Kid Chino and his Fists of fury, this is Self-Righteous Dad and his Voice of Doom. Much, much scarier.
He settles onto his bed, pulling the striped comforter around his shoulders, thumbs through his iPod until he finds the right kind of music – Damien Rice seems to fit the bill – and then curls up on the mattress, Captain Oats by his side. It's going to be a long night.
Ryan drives off without thinking about where he's headed – his one thought is to get out, leave Seth and his fucking whining and his big mouth behind, just get the fuck out of Newport and its claustrophobic Cohens, Coopers and Nichols. He's almost surprised to find himself on the 55, on the way to Chino, as if his body had bypassed his brain and just set him on autopilot. Weird. He looks at his hands on the steering wheel, the knuckles almost white, he's gripping it so hard, and wonders what he hopes to find there.
But then, it's not like he has anywhere else to go, and maybe it's makes sense that he should home on Chino tonight.
He boosts the aircon to the maximum – the cold makes him feel alert and he needs all the stimulation he can get, what with the run of sleepless nights in the last week. He pushes a few random buttons on the radio, searching for something, anything that will keep his mind engaged without distracting him too much from the driving. Something angry, with a beat, preferably. He settles on a rap station blasting out 50 Cent – there's no escaping the shooting theme tonight – and bobs his head to the beat. At least he won't fall asleep at the wheel. The traffic is heavy, but it's moving, and now and then he hits a fluid stretch and makes up some time. Not that he's in a rush to get anywhere – just to leave Newport behind.
By the time he coasts down the streets of his old neighborhood, he's feeling a little less angry with Seth, a little more pissed off at life in general. He's trying not to think about Trey, or Marissa, or Kirsten; he's letting old memories surface instead – memories of Theresa, of kisses shared sitting on the swings at night in the deserted kiddies playground at the end of their street; of fumbling in the back of 'Turo's car on sticky sweaty summer nights, trying to stay as quiet as possible; of knocking at her window on bad nights when Dawn freaked out or AJ hit him.
He never thought about it until now, but he really misses Theresa sometimes, even after their disastrous attempt at living together and playing grown-ups last summer. He wonders how she's doing in Atlanta, whether she comes back often to visit her mom, whether he'll ever run into her like he did last month, whether she misses him at all.
"Hey Ryan, get your ass over here!"He turns towards her voice, squinting in the sun. He's been cutting grass in the yard – he likes to do stuff in his spare time, because the more he works the less he has time to think about what's coming.
Theresa's smiling, waving something at him.
"The Cohens have done it again! Kirsten sent another parcel of baby clothes – really cute. And get that, this time she didn't stick to neutral, she got both boy and girl stuff!"
Ryan shakes his head and smiles as he walks back toward Theresa. He's told them they're crazy, that it's best to wait until they know, that it's a waste of money, but Kirsten asks him to indulge her – baby clothes are so cute she can't resist.
"Isn't this just adorable?"
Theresa is holding up a pale pink sleepsuit embroidered with little bunnies, and even Ryan has to admit it's sweet. She pulls him into a hug.
"Hey, our child will be the best-dressed kid in Chino. I can't wait to see what it'll look like on her. Or him," Theresa says, giggling.
"No way! No son of mine is ever getting dressed in pink," he tells her, and because she looks so excited, cheeks flushed, eyes shining, he picks her up on impulse and swings her around. She feels heavier, more solid than before, the weight of the baby altering almost week by week her balance in his arms. When he puts her down gently, she lets out a little sigh and rests her head on his shoulder.
Just then, for an instant, it feels right.
Jesus, he's a fucked-up mess if he starts thinking wistfully about those freaky few months last summer when he was pretending to be a man caring for his family instead of a scared kid trying to deal with the prospect of impending fatherhood. He still feels guilty that he didn't push harder to see Theresa after she set him loose over the phone. And at the relief that flooded through him when she told him, even as he felt the pain of their loss.
Ryan turns a corner and sees the lights are on at the convenience store where he used to run Dawn's errands, buy groceries with the leftover booze money, now and then slipping in a pack of cigarettes for himself. On a whim, he pulls over and hops out. He wonders whether the clerks are still as laid back when it comes to selling to minors.
First surprise of the night – the outside might not have changed, but they've jazzed up the décor inside. It's looking better than he ever remembers, white and gleaming and clean. Even if the same cheap brands are still stacked along the aisles. The second surprise is the girl on the till – she used to be in his class two years ago. Pretty, dark-eyed, brown curls piled on top of her head. Name begins with M, he thinks – he better remember, Christ, they hooked up a couple of times at parties and they definitely traded favors. She was pretty good at giving head, too.
"Miranda," he says when he reaches the counter, and he smiles at her. Thank fuck for the hidden pathways in his brain that can source obscure bits of information and present them at the right time.
She looks up at him and returns his smile after a couple of seconds of puzzled frowning.
"Ryan? Ryan Atwood? Hey, guero, what are you doing here?"
"Just visiting. What about you – summer job?"
She shakes her head, laughing. "No, man, regular job. I dropped out after Serena was born, my daughter, you know? It's not bad here – Luis is a pretty good manager – look what he did to the place."
Ryan makes a show of looking around and nodding, and to tell the truth he agrees – it's amazing what a lick of paint will achieve. He feels his heart constricting at the thought that this could have been Theresa's job, if the baby had made it. Or even his, if construction hadn't worked out. The air-conditioning is chilling him to the marrow, even though it's no cooler than in the Rover here.
"Serena, huh? How old is she?"
"Nine months. You wanna see a picture?" It's a quiet evening, no one else is waiting in line, and Ryan can't refuse. And actually, he is kind of curious. Nine months – a little older than his own child would have been, but same ballpark.
Miranda pulls out a couple of photos from her purse under the till – a chubby brown baby with her mother's curly hair, smiling, a spoon clutched in her dimpled fist. And the same baby, a little older, in the arms of a dark-haired, bare-chested kid wearing low-slung jeans, grinning at the camera. His eyes jog Ryan's memory – fuck, if it isn't what's his name, Carlos, a lowlife friend of Trey's who used to come and smoke Trey's stash and pick up pretty much anything in a skirt.
He looks up at Miranda, her face beaming with motherly pride. "She's cute – I bet you'll be beating away the guys when she grows up."
She laughs. "No worries – her dad'll do that. He won't stand and watch the cholos coming after her. You remember Carlos, don't you?"
Ryan nods, non-committal. What he remembers more than anything else is what a fucking pendejo the guy was. Still, he seems to be sticking by the mother of his child, which is more than he'd have given him credit for.
He exchanges a few polite enquiries about schoolmates, evades questions about himself and convinces her to sell him some cigarettes – it's not that illicit, he's only a couple of months short of legal age – before leaving.
"Don't be a stranger," she calls out as the doors close, but it's unlikely he'll take that request to heart.
Outside, on the forecourt in the muggy heat, he pulls out a cigarette and lights it, knowing he is being stupid and self-destructive but refusing to care. It takes two of the cardboard matches to get the tip glowing, and when he first inhales his whole body feels the rush. God but he's missed this, the slight headiness, the pleasure spiking through his bloodstream, the subtle feeling of relaxation. No wonder this shit is addictive.
He finishes the smoke before climbing back into the cab, and after a brief inner debate – pointless, since this is really what he came here to do in the first place – he hits the road, driving towards his old street. It looks just the same as it always did in the dimming light, shabby and run down, most houses this side of distressed, with junk cluttering the front yards, rusty cars parked by the curb, loud voices and arguments coming out of the open windows.
Here and there, though a particularly clean house sticks out – Theresa's mom's house was like that, always immaculate despite the poverty, until they moved, and he's sad to see that the new owners are definitely not as house-proud.
Ryan parks a little way up the street, near the children's playground, and walks over to the place that used to be his home. He's never come back here since that day with Sandy – not even when he was in Chino last summer. Especially not last summer, when he was trying to avoid thinking about his family, his childhood, what his parents were like and focusing instead on becoming a good father, despite the bad Atwood genes.
The house hasn't changed much – it's a different heap of mattresses and old junk on the front porch, but only to his experienced eye. Anybody else would just see the same old crap. There are a few toys strewn around the front yard, too, a kid's tricycle, a football, a red plastic bucket and spade.
Through the window, Ryan can see a woman moving around the kitchen, cooking perhaps, or cleaning up after a meal, it's hard to tell. A couple of minutes later, she shuffles out of the front door with a bag of trash in her hand – she's maybe thirty, with a puffy face and what looks like the tail end of a black eye, hair scraped back in a ponytail, weary. Not unlike a young Dawn, actually, except with darker hair.
Ryan wonders about the black eye – well, he has a pretty good idea of where it comes from – behind the woman as she walks back into the house, he can see a pair of male legs, denim-clad, stretched across a settee in front of a loud television, and a couple of cans of beer on the floor. Yeah, he knows that kind of guy all too well.
The front door slams, hard enough to knock something off the living room wall, which crashes onto the floor and wakes Ryan from his fitful sleep. He starts, disorientated, his mind still half asleep, and hears the sound of boots stumbling through the living room, accompanied by cursing, and his mom's shrill tones, bawling out Lenny.
Shit.
Trey, in the bed across from him, is still asleep – he's always been a deeper sleeper than Ryan, and it's even worse now. He's probably getting stoned most nights, Ryan suspects, and once he's out, he's dead to the world. Which is one way of coping with this.
Ten minutes later, it starts, and despite his efforts at pretending this is not happening, Ryan can't ignore his mom's whimpers or the sound of Lenny slapping her, screaming obscenities at her. She might be a drunk and a fool, who's picked this asshole of a boyfriend, but that doesn't mean he can lie there and listen to this. He's not a baby anymore now, he's thirteen – he's got to do something
He gets up and pulls on his jeans before opening the door. He doesn't try to wake Trey – even if Trey was awake he's not sure what he'd do now. Last year, his brother would have been with him – this year? He's fighting with Mom all the fucking time and can't wait to leave home. No, it's not worth trying to shake him conscious.
Ryan opens the door and walks through to the living room.
"Leave my mom alone," he calls out, with all the conviction he can muster, in the direction of Lenny's skinny biker ass. The guy's hand is raised and Dawn is holding her cheek already, shouting some garbled nonsense at him. They turn around and stare at him – they both look unfocused, drunk and high on God knows what. At least the punches probably hurt less in their state.
Unfortunately, Ryan is stone cold sober.
Mrs. Ellman holds him back after class on Monday.
"Ryan? I wanted to have a quick word, if I may," she says, her voice soft, and behind her glasses Ryan can see concern, and pity. He stiffens automatically, ready to lie or flee if he has too. He knows his right eye looks bad, swollen shut, with some multicolored bruising coming up around it, but that doesn't mean he wants to be fucking pitied.
"Is there trouble at home? Anything I can help with?" she asks when there's only the two of them left in the classroom. "Seriously, Ryan, if there's anything going on, if you want to talk to anyone…" Her voice trails off, and her eyes are boring into his, with an expression that is both desperately earnest, and kind. He looks away.
"No," he mumbles in response. "Just, uh, some fight I got into with an asshole." Which is pretty much the truth anyhow. He's damned if he's going to let some social services do-gooder poke their nose into his private life. No matter what.
The sound of a car driving slowly down the road startles Ryan out of his thoughts, and makes him realize he looks like some kind of perv, standing on the sidewalk staring through the mesh fence at his old house. It's disturbing how easy it was to lose himself in his memories, just now; how close they are to the surface these days. But he feels in a way like he's exorcising something, although he's not quite sure what.
Anyhow, he's a little rattled. He pulls out the pack of Marlboros from his jacket pocket, lights another one and smokes it as he makes his way back to the car, lost in thought. Nicotine's not quite enough, though, to calm him down. He needs a drink – a beer, maybe, nothing heavy – and he sits in the driver's seat for a couple of minutes, pondering where to go.
Since this is a trip down Memory Lane, though, it's a no-brainer. Besides, it's the one place where he knows for sure he'll get served, no ID needed, no questions asked.
He leaves the car a block away from the bar, under a streetlight – better safe than sorry – and makes his way towards the flickering neon sign. This is the place he went to with Trey the night the two of them went carjacking, a grimy pool hall in downtown Chino where he learnt to play the tables and to make money out of it.
Ryan walks through the swing doors and blinks, adjusting to the dim light inside. He scans the place quickly – looks like it hasn't changed one bit in nearly two years. Same pall of smoke hanging over the pool tables in back, same dead-eyed patrons scattered through the place, drinking shots with beer chasers between rounds of pool; same skanky-assed girls, breasts spilling out of cheap tight tops trying to cozy up to the flusher-looking customers. It's as if he'd never left.
His shoes stick to the floor as he walks to the bar, and he orders a beer – the barman looks familiar, although he can't remember his name. All he knows is they never asked him for anything here – he remembers ordering his first drink when he was fourteen, and getting away with it.
"Trey!" Ryan whispers when he gets back to their pool table. "Check it out." And he flourishes his beer bottle at his brother
"Told you," Trey smirks. "I've never seen them ask anyone. Now you better pay attention, bro', because the next one's a tricky shot."
Trey lines up his cue, taking careful aim, makes his ball ricochet against the side of the table, and almost gets it into the bottom right pocket.
"Fuck that shit!"
Ryan ignores Trey's anger, focusing instead on the table. This is the third week in a row he's come here with Trey, who's determined to get his brother proficient enough at pool that they can work the tables together, and Ryan's picking up on it pretty quickly. Actually, he has an uncanny ability to plot the course of balls – well, uncanny for Trey; Ryan knows it's just basic physics – which is serving him well.
"You should've aimed it here," he says, pointing at the side of the table. "If you'd gone in at the right angle, the ball would've gotten in."
"Don't be a fucking smartass," Trey says, but his eyes aren't angry, and Ryan feels proud that he's beginning to pick up on stuff that Trey doesn't see.
Later that evening, they get challenged by a couple of Latino guys in their twenties who make the mistake of thinking that Ryan is too young and too inexperienced to handle the pressure of playing for money. It turns out they're wrong.
The game does go right down to the wire, and Ryan's holding it in the palm of his hand at the end, with only the eight ball left for him to sink. It's not an easy shot, but he takes his time, calculating the angle in his head and checking it out from all sides before he starts measuring up the shot.
"Deja de joder, cabron," one of his opponents mutters, "stop fucking around!" but Ryan ignores him and takes another couple of minutes before shooting the ball.
He can feel three pairs of eyes following his every move, but when he does it, he knows he's hit it right, because the shot unfolds just like he planned it, and gets the eight smoothly in the side pocket. It looks pretty impressive, too.
"Coño!" the taller of the two guys calls out. He looks shocked – as he should, because the Atwood brothers have just fleeced them to the tune of thirty bucks.
"Motherfucker," Trey breathes out, and Ryan can tell that he is really impressed. He feels pride blossoming in his chest. It's not every day he gets to earn Trey's respect.
Nursing his beer at the bar, Ryan looks across the room – it's Friday night, fairly busy, and most of the green baize tables are taken. There's a steady buzz of conversation under the overhanging lights, with occasional raised voices and swearing. He can spot a few kids like him and Trey here and there among the older guys, skinny young teenagers with attitude, hungry for cash, looking for a break, for someone to hustle.
He's suddenly jostled by someone's elbow, and nearly drops his bottle. The fuck? It's not like he's in the middle of the room – he's leaning against the bar for Christ's sake. He looks up and into the hatchet face of a strung-out, nervous kid, maybe a couple of years older than him, who's looking malevolent and breathing halitosis all over him. There's more than a hint of the junkie about him – bad skin, pinned eyes, one hand scratching feverishly at his side.
"What you doing here, man? You're a little far from home, right?"
Ryan winces – Jesus, his breath really stinks.
"Not really." Because he is, and he isn't. It's funny, he knows this place better than the Bait Shop, or the diner back on the pier; he could walk from the bar to the urinals with his eyes closed (not that he would) without hitting a single pool table, and yet he's never felt less at home anywhere. Maybe it's because of Trey, too. Without Trey, without the likelihood of the two of them ever coming back here, this is just a sad drinking den where pool sharks hang out.
And annoying smackheads. "Yeah? You think you can walk in here with your fucking hundred-dollar haircut and your designer jeans and just blend in?" The guy's whiny voice is really getting to him.
"Listen, man, what's your problem? I'm having a drink, minding my own business. Back off and quit hassling me."
Unless the guy has a lot of backup in the room – and Ryan doesn't discount that, but junkies don't tend to make themselves popular in places like this, so he figures he's probably safe – he can definitely take him in a one-on-one, if he has to. He feels the adrenaline starting to pump in his veins, and maybe there's some of that unresolved anger from earlier egging him on.
He can see it unfolding in his head, a few more words and then a couple of punches before they get thrown outside – Stan, the owner, if he's still running the show, never tolerated fights. And then what? Much as Ryan wants the release, he can see it all turning to shit. Maybe the guy has a knife, or he'll try to bite him and give him hepatitis or worse. At best, all he'll get is a chance to beat up some sorry-ass skinny wreck. It's just not worth it. Suddenly his anger and frustration melt away, leaving nothing but weariness in its wake.
Fuck Chino. He's had enough. Enough of reminiscing about his crappy life, and his crappy family; enough of romanticizing his near-psychopathic brother who almost killed him last week, after trying to rape his girlfriend; enough of wondering whether he belongs here since life in Newport has entered the twilight zone. He doesn't.
He belongs with the only people who care about him, no matter how selfish and irritating they can be – and God, Seth can be both. And they need him, right now, as much as he needs them. Funny how it takes a junkie in a dive in Chino to make Ryan realize this. He needs to be back in Newport, shoulder to shoulder with Sandy and Seth at a time when their family – his family – is falling apart.
He drains his beer and places the bottle back on the bar, carefully.
"You're right," he says. "I am a little far from home. Gotta jet."
It's nearly two am when he slips into the pool house, having dropped the car keys back in the kitchen. He closes the door and starts pulling down the blinds on his windows, intent on getting to bed as quickly as possible. Sandy and Kirsten's bedroom is already dark, but as he raises his eyes, he notices the light in Seth's bedroom turning off.
Unbelievable – Seth actually heard him come in and managed to stay in his bedroom and hold back. Ryan smiles as he begins to unbutton his shirt. And stops. He looks at his hands, poised to divest him of his shirt, and thinks about Seth, who has clearly been waiting up all this time. So has Sandy, for all he knows, except that Sandy's more stealth and probably turned off the light the moment he heard the Rover pull up in the driveway.
With a sigh, Ryan steps back outside. He makes his way quickly through the dark kitchen and up the stairs to Seth's bedroom, and knocks on the door, softly.
"Ryan?" Seth's voice is hesitant, hopeful.
Ryan pushes the door open. Seth has just turned on his bedside light. He's looking confused, and contrite, and Ryan can't help but notice that Captain Oats' legs are peeking from behind his pillow.
"Look, I don't want to disturb you. Just to say I'm back. Sorry I took off. Talk tomorrow?"
Seth blinks and nods, smiling tentatively. "Sure," he says. "Tomorrow. Thanks. And sorry." And Ryan can see him making a superhuman effort to keep his mouth shut. He can virtually read the questions bubbling up – Where did you go? Why did you come back? How can I make it up to you? Does the fact that you're up here mean that you've forgiven me? But nothing comes out.
Ryan closes the door carefully as he steps back into the dark hallway and stands there for a second, sucking his teeth. He knows how much effort this is costing Seth, and even if he doesn't kid himself that this will last past the weekend, he appreciates the attempt. There may be hope for Seth Cohen after all.
Besides, after his little escapade, Ryan remembers there are worse things than being talked at.
When he finally slips between his sheets and closes his eyes, he feels sleep washing over him like a wave. Tomorrow there will be time enough to explain himself to Sandy; to talk to Seth; to brood about Trey. But he's not going to obsess about what happens next, or how to deal with Marissa, or when to go and see Kirsten, or whether he should just leave. That at any rate is no longer an issue.
For the first time in a week, there are no nightmares to haunt his sleep.