The characters are on loan from Schwartz & company.
What You Once Knew Was True
Sunshine sparks off the front windshield of the Rover. It is sharp and insistent, pushing itself everywhere, too bright, too hot, too full of false promises.
Like the shimmer of whitewashed buildings that pretend to be cottages, the waxy perfection of each flower petal in the surrounding gardens, the transparent turquoise of the manmade lagoon in the distance.
None of it looks real. Ryan refuses to believe that it is real.
He tries, but he can't stare any of it away.
And he can't delay getting out of the car any longer.
With a groan, because he's been sitting too long and his cramped muscles object to sudden movement, he stands up. He takes a few minutes to stretch, wondering why, when the air is heavy with heat, he still feels cold.
Oh, that's right. It's fear.
Because he's here by himself.
Seth should be with him, or Sandy, or better yet, both of them.
They were supposed to come, but yesterday Seth got the flu, and this morning Sandy was called to court, and so Ryan was left to make the long, silent drive to the clinic alone.
"If you'd rather wait for us, kid, we can all go together next week," Sandy suggested. "I'll clear my schedule, and Sniffle-Seth over there should be off his sickbed—or sick couch—by then." Seth waved a listless hand and nodded, coughing his agreement. "Of course, Kirsten will be disappointed if none of us come today, but she'll understand. It's up to you, Ryan. What do you want to do?"
How could he answer that question? It was impossible. Ryan didn't even try.
For a moment, he considered claiming that next week would be better for him too, except he had no reason at all to postpone. Not unless he could create an excuse of some kind.
But he couldn't.
He can't.
Ryan can't lie. And anyway, he wants to see Kirsten.
He does. But he's so afraid.
Maybe it's a good thing Seth and Sandy aren't here. Ryan doesn't want them to recognize how he feels.
Still, he misses their solid presence, the sound of their voices. If they were here, at least he could hide behind them, and their conversation. Without them around, there's only Ryan, so Kirsten will have no choice. She will have to look right at him.
And that's it, Ryan realizes. Of course that's it.
Stupid . . . he had assumed that his fear was a matter of simple dread—that he was frightened of what he would find when he saw Kirsten again.
That he might look at her and discover another Dawn.
But that's not it at all.
Kirsten will never be Dawn—certainly not the way, someday, Ryan suspects that Marissa might. There's a core of strength inside Kirsten, an honesty with herself, about herself, that Ryan's own mother never possessed. And yes, she may have a problem, but she isn't the problem.
Ryan knows that there's a difference. He knows what that difference means.
That's why, when she was preparing to leave, and Kirsten assured him that she would get well, it didn't occur to Ryan not to believe her.
It didn't occur to him that she wouldn't come home.
He's prepared for the fact that it may take a long time. But Ryan's not afraid that Kirsten will fail. Not at all.
No, his fear is something else entirely.
Ryan is afraid of what Kirsten will see when she looks at him. Because whatever it is—whoever it is—her eyes will reflect the image right back, and Ryan will have to face it too.
He's avoided mirrors ever since that night with Trey. He doesn't want to confront the person he suspects that he has become.
No one else seems to recognize how much he's changed: not Summer, not Marissa, or Seth, or even Sandy. But they've been with him, and Ryan knows: you never notice a transformation that takes place in front of your eyes, not when it occurs in increments too small to measure.
But with distance, with perspective, with time away: ah, then, everything becomes clear.
He will be clear to Kirsten.
She will see him, scarred by rage and revenge and recklessness, and she'll be disappointed, or disgusted, or fearful, or maybe she just won't know him at all.
Won't want to know him.
Ryan doesn't think he can bear that.
Someone brushes past him, glancing back curiously, and Ryan starts, seeing the question. What is he doing just standing here? He realizes that even though he left the car, he hasn't moved since. Long minutes have elapsed, and still he lingers outside the Rover's door, fingers wrapped around the handle.
That's cowardice. Ryan has no patience for cowards.
Even so, it takes a conscious command from his brain before his feet propel him to the clinic door. At the reception desk, he gives his name, signs in, and is directed to cottage four, at the end of a meandering trail.
Ryan notices that all of the roads at this place curve and loop and swirl around. Not one goes directly in a straight line.
He wonders if that means something, because if it's a metaphor, he thinks it's a very bad one. Or maybe it's just a very bad joke.
Manicured shrubs and trees line the pathway he walks, creating a lattice of welcome shade. They block his view of what's coming next, so he has no time to brace himself. Ryan rounds a last bend, still thinking that he has a way to go, and there she is. So close. She's sitting on a veranda in a white wicker chair, writing something in a pad on her lap.
He stops abruptly.
Even so, some sense alerts Kirsten and she turns, dropping her pen. She catches sight of Ryan and he steps out of the shadows and her whole face lights up.
It does. Ryan can see it, and he knows it's no trick of the sun, or of even his own well-hidden hope.
She is happy to see him.
She doesn't even look past him, searching for Sandy and Seth. Of course, Sandy called so she knows they're not coming, but still Ryan had half-expected her to hold back, reserving herself for the people who really matter.
"Ryan!" she cries, tossing her pad aside. She hurries toward him, throws her arms around his neck, repeats his name two more times, and her voice climbs joyfully until all of a sudden everything crumbles—her smile, and her shoulders, and her precarious bliss.
He catches her as she sags in his arms. "Kirsten, don't," he pleads helplessly, holding her up. "Don't cry. It's all right. . ."
She straightens, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I'm being silly," she says, scrubbing tears away like a little girl. "But I was so afraid you wouldn't come. Not after what I said to you."
He hears "afraid" and he freezes. It takes a second for the rest of her words to register, a few more for him to realize what they mean.
They mean apology.
Kirsten is sorry for something, but Ryan can't imagine what.
"It's all right," he repeats vaguely, since that phrase seems safe and almost true.
Her hands run up and down his arms, warming him. "No it's not," she insists, and she sounds so sad. "I snapped at you, and I tried to shut you out, but I didn't mean it, Ryan. I just couldn't stand to know that I'd failed you too." Her voice thins, drifts away like smoke. "The same way your mother did."
He remembers now. "Don't you say a word. I let you into this house."
The words had cut, one wound among so many that day, but even at the time, Ryan had understood: Kirsten was not striking out, seeking to hurt him. She was striking back, defending herself.
"You never failed me," he tells her simply, and Kirsten can't argue, because she can hear the conviction.
Ryan believes what he says.
Her lips curve in a shaky smile. "I'm so glad you came," she murmurs. "I've missed you so much."
"Me too," he replies. It's an awkward answer, and it makes Ryan cringe: I've missed you? I've missed me? What does he mean anyway?
He fumbles for better words, but Kirsten doesn't notice his discomfiture. She laces her fingers through his and leads him back to her cottage, to a graceful two-person swing on the porch. Ryan hesitates. It looks too fragile to support his weight, and he won't risk breaking anything here. He resists her attempt to make him sit, so instead, they go inside.
She closes the door, dropping his hand, and just like that, they're silent, shy with one another.
And Kirsten is looking at him.
He fixes his eyes on the ground, grateful for the dark shield of sunglasses. Even away from the glare, Ryan won't take them off.
"How are you?" he asks finally, just for something to say. He can see how she is. She's tired and there's regret creased in the corners of her eyes, and oh, she's much too thin, but her fingers don't twist her rings, and her arms hang steady at her sides.
Ryan wants to wrap his own around himself, but he won't.
"I'm better," she says. Pauses, adds, "How are you?"
She waits, and he wants to answer her, he does, but really, what can he say? Sandy told her what happened, had to work hard to persuade her not to come home. Ryan knows she won't accept "fine". Her question reaches back, and forwards, and inside, and he has no clue how to reply.
He doesn't know how he is.
Right now, Ryan's not sure he knows who he is.
He digs suddenly into his pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper.
Because it's important.
Not because he's avoiding her question. Even though, of course, he is.
"Kirsten, before I forget. Seth wrote you a note."
She raises her eyebrows.
"You know," Ryan explains. "Because he couldn't come with me today."
She looks puzzled—she has email access, after all, and Seth sends a dozen messages to her every day. But she nods and reaches for the letter. Her fingers touch Ryan's and a jolt of static electricity jumps between them.
They both recoil, shuddering.
"Sorry," she murmurs. "It's the carpet. And these stupid slippers."
His skin tingles.
"It's okay," Ryan says, nodding reassurance. Because it is, isn't it? It's just an accident that contact between them caused them both pain.
He forces something that resembles a smile. "Anyway, I'm not supposed to give the note to you. Seth made me promise to . . . um . . . read it to you instead. Phonetically. I'm not sure why, but you know . . . it's Seth."
Kirsten's mouth crimps, like she can't decide whether to laugh or cry. "Yes," she echoes. "It's Seth." She sits down and looks at Ryan expectantly.
He opens the paper, scans it, and flushes.
It's not just his face. Red warmth floods the surface of his entire body. "I can't," he stammers. "Kirsten . . ."
"What?" she asks, confused. Ready to be alarmed.
"It's just . . . It's Seth, and he has the flu, so he's all congested. And he wrote this . . . It's just a joke, Kirsten."
A month ago, Ryan would have laughed, would have teased, "And he's going to pay." Or maybe "And Seth is so dead."
Not anymore though.
Not ever again
Kirsten relaxes. "Okay," she says. "Go ahead, Ryan. Read it."
His blush deepens.
He can't do this.
"Maybe you should just . . ." he suggests, and he refolds the note, offers it to her.
"Ryan?" Kirsten objects. She sounds faintly reproving and she clasps her hands in her lap. "Didn't you promise Seth that you'd read it out loud?" Her eyes remind Ryan what she expects.
He can't do this.
But he told Seth he would.
If he doesn't, he will have broken his word.
Between two impossible choices, Ryan picks the one that might preserve the person he wants to be.
He nods. Opens the paper. Deliberately smoothes out the crease. Begins to read. Chokes on the second word and starts again.
"I wub oo berry, berry much, Mom."
This time, his voice is scratchy, but sure. Ducking his head, he shrugs, sketches a half-smile.
She stands and crosses to him. Both hands reach up to his face. With one, she removes his sunglasses. The other strokes his cheek, fingers soft and certain against his skin.
"I love you very, very much too, Ryan," Kirsten whispers.
She tilts his head, looks deep into his eyes.
Smiles.
"And it is so good to see you."