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Collision Course Chapter 7
Seth stretched out on his bed, contemplating the nature of individual days.
He'd always thought that each day had a personality. Monday was eager and pushy and tended to barge right in. Tuesday was apologetic, as if it had to make up for Monday's bad manners. Wednesday was mopey, suffering from middle child syndrome, unable to forge any unique character of its own. Thursday was careful and dutiful, putting things in order, trying to tidy up before guests arrive. Friday was a little obnoxious, a runner, throwing its arms in the air, bursting through the finish line, ready to celebrate a win. Saturday . . . well, Saturday was drunk, a giddy, funny, charming, witty drunk (never a puking or embarrassing drunk, though. And Seth would know.) Then there was Sunday, slightly nostalgic, slow to move, but ready for a clean slate, all set to start again.
Seth had been alone in his room for so long that realized he had no idea what day it was without checking a calendar. Oh, yes, going to school told him what day it was supposed to be, but their individual personalities had vanished completely. They were all exactly alike, blank-faced Nothingday clones.
If he had more energy or interest in the subject, Seth might have believed that he'd discovered something profound, maybe a philosophy that deserved an "ism" attached to its name.
Sethism, maybe. Or did that sound too much like sexism? With a lisp.
And maybe it was also a little too me-centric.
Seth would worry about it, except.
He really didn't care.
Mentally, Seth switched activities and bounced an imaginary ball against his wall, but when, in his mind, he missed the catch, he gave that up too.
The knock on his bedroom door made Seth sat up hastily and pull a book in front of him. Both of his parents had made it clear that they were sick of finding him lying around doing nothing, so he figured he better at least act busy. He didn't need to give them anything else to be mad about.
"It's open, Mom. Or Dad. Whoever," Seth called.
He jumped, shocked, when he heard Summer's voice.
"If you were a gentleman, Cohen, you'd get off your ass and open the door for me."
"Summer," he stammered. "Summer. You're here and . . . yeah, you're here." Then he shrugged and added dismally, "What did you do, make a wrong turn? Ryan's room is downstairs."
Summer picked up a dirty t-shirt from his bed, holding it at arm's length between her thumb and index finger. "Ew. Do you have to wallow in self- pity and filth, Cohen?" She deposited the t-shirt on a pile of clothes in a corner and then sat on the patch of comforter that she'd cleared. "Anyway, I didn't come to see Ryan this time, idiot. I came to see you. I figured you might need a friend."
Seth looked at her in surprise. "Yeah? A friend?" he asked hopefully. "Then you don't think I'm a total ass?"
"Of course I think you're a total ass, Cohen . . . Although maybe not. That could be unfair to asses . . ."
"Oh, funny. So what? Mocking me is your idea of friendship?"
"Hey, I'm here, Cohen. I'm talking to you. Take what you can get . . ." Summer warned. "So come on. Tell me why you did it. I mean, Ryan's your best friend. You must have a reason, right?"
Seth buried his face in his hands. "Everybody has got to stop asking me that."
"Well, they might if you'd ever actually answer the question." Summer rapped her knuckles on Seth's forehead. "Hey! Don't try to hide in there. Cohen!"
"I'd answer the fucking question if I had a fucking answer," Seth retorted, his voice muffled.
"Ooh, profanity. I think I struck a nerve."
"You strike everything. People should be issued body armor when they have to be around you."
Summer grinned. "Now that's the Seth Cohen I know and . . . sometimes find tolerable." She smoothed her short skirt and assumed a businesslike posture. "Okay, Cohen, you couldn't answer the 1000 question. Let's try the 500 one. Why the hell were you mad at Ryan the night he came home? See, I can get why he would be mad at you. But vice versa? Not so much. Answer, please. The clock is ticking. The Jeopardy theme song is playing . . ."
Seth blew air out between his fingers. "He wouldn't forgive me."
"Ohhh." Summer nodded wisely. "Well then, no wonder. Shame on him."
"No, I mean he wouldn't forgive me, or let me try to make things right . . . I was gonna confess to my parents. They weren't going to have to just . . . " Seth shuddered at the recollection. "Overhear it."
"And Ryan didn't want you to?"
"No."
"Because?"
"Because he didn't want to upset them. He thought knowing they had a son who could do such a shitty thing would make them feel shitty too."
"And?"
"And he was pretty much right," Seth admitted, adding, before Summer could say anything, "But he was wrong too. I should have told them."
"Cohen, you know what? I agree with you," Summer declared positively. "If you had told your Mom and Dad they wouldn't have to find out in front of everybody. Especially your grandfather and Marissa's mom. That . . ." She shook her head and frowned, "was pretty brutal."
"Great," Seth concluded sarcastically. "One for my side. One million for Ryan's."
Summer rolled her eyes in disgust. "Is that seriously what you want? Sides? Keeping score? Because that is so going to make things worse."
"Worse, huh?"
"The worst," Summer said definitely. "And now that we've established that—we have established it, right-you should come out of your little bumpy turtle shell and face the world. Do it, Cohen. What have you got to lose?"
Seth dropped his hands and looked at her. "Nothing. Nothing to lose 'cause I've got nothing . . . No friends anyway. You know those leper colonies they used to have, Summer? Really would like to find one of those now . . . At least then I could hang out with the rest of the pariahs."
Summer shook her head again. "Self-pity, Cohen. Not an attractive quality . . . And I think it's pretty much what got you into this situation, right? You weren't having much of a life, Ryan was doing things that didn't include you, you were jealous and feeling sorry for yourself . . ."
"Are you charging me for this analysis?"
"Ooh, there's this adorable new purse I'd like to buy. Maybe I should."
"Well, fine, Dr. Roberts. You got it in one. Does your wisdom extend to fixing the problem?"
Summer laced her fingers under her chin and considered. "I'm not sure exactly . . . but I think you could start by acting like a friend. You, like, totally ignored Ryan's interests before, right? So now why don't you think about what Ryan wants and see if you can help him get it?"
Seth snorted. "Fine. He doesn't want me to be his friend."
"Cohen!" Summer exclaimed impatiently. "Did I ask you what he doesn't want? I don't think so. Learn to listen, okay? Now, what does Ryan want? And don't even mention any CDs or video games or Cohen-y toys. I mean, what really matters to him?"
Seth opened his mouth and closed it. A month ago, he would have answered that question with easy confidence. Now, after being so wrong about the internship, he realized to his surprise that he didn't trust what he thought he knew about Ryan. "I . . . don't know," he admitted sheepishly.
"Well then, genius, figure it out," Summer urged. "And when you do, give me a call. Maybe, if I'm feeling generous, I'll help you work out the next step." She stood up to leave, adding, with her hand on the door. "And Cohen, clean up this place before the health department makes you do it."
"Clean. Right. Will do . . . Hey, Summer. Thanks. For coming. And talking to me and all."
She smiled, a little smugly. "It's the candy striper in me. I minister to the infirm. And by the way, Cohen, other people might talk to you too, if they could find you. Hiding out up here? Just makes you seem guilty. Besides, other people aren't as willing as I am to pick their way through the landfill. Rejoin the world, okay?"
Summer swept out of the room with a backwards wave, and Seth bounced on the bed.
His first instinct was to race to the pool house with the news flash. She might act flippant, but Seth knew: he was definitely back on Summer's radar. Now he needed to dissect every word and gesture and get Ryan's advice: What did her visit mean exactly? How fast should he move? What approach should he take? Should he go for eager? Grateful? Suave? Could he even do suave?
Seth could actually hear his conversation with Ryan play in his head; he could picture Ryan's initial skepticism and raised eyebrows giving way to a congratulatory grin. Then he stopped, stunned by his own temporary amnesia.
He couldn't talk about this with Ryan.
He couldn't talk about anything with Ryan.
That was the whole point.
Maybe Seth and Summer had moved a little closer, but the chasm between him and Ryan hadn't narrowed at all.
Seth sank back, bumping his head on the wall, and wondered: What did Ryan want exactly?
-
The books Lindsay had brought to help Ryan catch up on his schoolwork were scattered around the floor, half-hidden under discarded items of clothing, and a chair was jammed against the door. Ryan had pushed it there twenty minutes earlier, explaining "No lock. And I don't want to be interrupted. And I really don't want to study. Lindsay . . ."
He had given her one of those smoldering looks that melted everything solid inside her, including all her good intentions, and Lindsay, flushed, had smiled happily in anticipation.
"You know," she had murmured, savoring his first slow, soft kisses, "we need to be careful."
"Always," Ryan promised.
He took his time, sliding her shirt off her shoulders, breathing against her skin, and following each hot breath with his tongue until he had licked his way down her throat, across her collarbone, along the inside of her arm.
When he reached her hand, Lindsay's fingers twisted in his hair and pulled his face down between her breasts. Ryan's eyes were half-closed, but Lindsay kept her own open.
She loved to watch him love her.
Every time they'd been together, he treated her body like a gift he had been given, a package wrapped so beautifully that he didn't want to rush to get inside. He wanted to open it slowly, uncurl each ribbon, unfold the fragile paper, appreciate and admire it from every angle. Ryan timed every move to her body's response, never rushed her, always coaxed her along until their rhythms meshed perfectly. She never knew how it was possible, but with him, Lindsay felt, somehow, both wholly safe and deliciously out of control.
But tonight, somehow, things changed. Ryan changed.
It happened in an instant. One moment Lindsay recognized Ryan, understood and trusted him completely; the next, he was a stranger in the dark and she was afraid.
Ryan's muscles tensed and his body clamped down hard on hers. His fingers dug into her flesh, and even though she was nowhere near ready, his erection thrust against her with a kind of heedless urgency. Lindsay could hear sounds deep in Ryan's throat, like the snarls of a feral animal, cornered, and ready to strike. Passion become insistence, desire became demand, eager hands and mouth turned rough and devouring until that all Lindsay could feel were teeth and nails and need.
"Ryan," she gasped, trying unsuccessfully to writhe out from under him. "I don't think . . . we shouldn't . . ." Her sweat-slick hands slid off his shoulders, and she pushed back against the bed for leverage.
"Yes, we should," Ryan growled. He nuzzled deeper into her neck, gripping her back, breaking the skin as he grazed around her ear.
"No, I mean . . . Stop! Stop it!" Lindsay cried. The edge of panic in her voice ripped through Ryan and he sat up, stunned.
His eyes were unfocused, and he had to wait a few moments before speaking. "What? You don't want to . . .?"
"No . . . Yes, I do, yes," Lindsay tugged back her damp hair, briefly fingering a bruise that was already forming on her shoulder. "But . . ." She couldn't think how to explain what had gone wrong. Embarrassed, strangely ashamed, she settled for an evasive, "You could hurt . . . yourself." She gestured at Ryan's sling, which dangled uselessly around his neck, and the brace that he'd ripped off and tossed to the floor.
Ryan stared at them blankly. He seemed to have forgotten not only that he had been wearing them, but what they were for.
"Remember? You could do some serious damage if you go too fast, or . . . hard," Lindsay explained as she sat up. She eased his arm back into the sling, checking to make sure that the fabric lay smooth, and his shoulder was positioned properly.
"Mm. All better now. And I'll be . . . really careful this time." " Ryan murmured, catching her fingers in his mouth.
Lindsay pulled them away gently. "You said that before," she reminded him. "Maybe we should go back to studying. Or we could just talk. We're in the house, Ryan . . . and I'm not sure this is right."
"It's right," he insisted.
He leaned forward, panting, his body urging Lindsay onto the bed. She lay down, stroking his face, hoping to summon the Ryan she knew, wanting him to say her name. Instead, he groaned. His eyes went dark and shuttered, and his hand plunged under her bra, shoving it up so he could suck her breast, while he ground his uninjured knee between her legs, forcing them open.
"Ryan . . . Ryan, wait. Don't."
Ryan moaned, fumbling to find the zipper on her jeans, scratching her as he yanked it down. Lindsay resisted. She wedged both hands firmly against his chest, pushing him away from her.
"Ryan, no!"
"No? . . . What the fuck?" He pushed the words out between irregular breaths. "You said . . . you wanted to."
"I want to be with you, but I don't . . . I feel used . . . like this. Ryan, get up. Get off me. Please . . . You're not like this . . . Please."
Ryan released his grip abruptly, twisting upright, and Lindsay pulled herself from underneath him. She sat for a minute catching her breath, waiting for Ryan to say something. When he didn't, when he wouldn't even look at her, she slid closer, placing her hand gently on his wrist.
His fingers dug into the mattress. "I wasn't using you. I don't . . ." he said flatly. "I wouldn't do that to you."
"Ryan," Lindsay whispered. "You were doing that. You barely knew I was there. I could have been anybody . . . I just don't want us to be like that." She waited through more long moments of silence and then added, "It doesn't mean I don't want you."
Ryan turned to her, his eyes despairing. "God, Lindsay. I'm so sorry . . . Did I hurt you? I swear I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Mostly just . . . my feelings," Lindsay said. She didn't want her voice to shake, but it did anyway. "And you scared me, a little." Ryan's face flashed agonized remorse, and she continued quickly, "But you stopped, Ryan. You stopped. Honestly, it's all right."
"It's not," Ryan insisted. He pulled his hand away, made a fist that he jabbed, hard, into his own thigh. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore. Everything is just so . . . fucked up . . . I don't even know how it got so out of control. And now I'm just making it worse . . . I think . . .Lindsay, you should go."
"Ryan, I don't want to go," Lindsay argued gently. She slid her arm up his back, and edged nearer. "I just want you to . . . see me when you're with me."
Ryan's eyes were dark and desolate. He nodded and rested his forehead against hers. "I will. I won't do . . . that . . . again," he promised. "I just thought . . . it's so fucking weird here now . . ."
He broke off, sighed, and sat up straight. Lindsay positioned herself against the headboard of the bed and patted the spot next to her. Ryan looked at her dubiously, but she nodded, so he inched next to her, settling close with another sigh.
"Weird how? Talk to me Ryan."
He dropped his head onto her shoulder unconsciously, pulling her hand onto his lap and playing with her fingers.
"Nothing feels real here anymore."
"Go on." Lindsay stroked his hair as he spoke.
"That sounds stupid, but . . . Sandy and Kirsten are so careful around me. It's like they rehearse everything they say, and they keep watching me . . . and Seth. Just, sort of, waiting. And Kirsten . . ."
Ryan stopped. Kirsten was Lindsay's sister. He didn't want to tell her how worried he was. Maybe she hadn't noticed that Kirsten seldom left the house anymore, that she never looked rested or relaxed, that her hands seemed to flutter in the air uselessly when they weren't holding a glass.
"I think she still feels guilty, like all this was her fault . . . But it's not, none of it, and I don't know how to convince her . . ."
"What else, Ryan?"
He felt drowsy and detached, as if Lindsay's fingers were hypnotizing him. "I've heard them arguing. . . Kirsten and Sandy. Seth has too, I think. But they don't know we heard, so they act like nothing's wrong. And Sandy keeps joking and working so hard to pretend everything is . . . well, the way it used to be."
Ryan thought about the family dinners Kirsten and Sandy still insisted on. Every night Sandy would launch monologues to cover the uncomfortable silence at the table. He would describe his work day, outbursts at court, how he passed the time talking with the driver in the next lane during a rush-hour traffic jam and discovered that they'd both clerked in the same law office while they were in college, ten years apart. Occasionally he would pause for Kirsten's questions and Seth's and Ryan's half-hearted comments, but Sandy made sure the conversation never came to a stop. Then, after dinner, he would make the whole family gather in the living room for a movie.
It was as if he hoped that pretending normalcy could somehow, magically, produce normalcy.
Lindsay could sense Ryan drifting into his own thoughts, and she really didn't want him there alone. "Keep talking, Ryan," she urged.
"Yeah, and everybody else is being so . . . nice. All these people come by to see me, but nobody knows what to say. Except they all know the subject to avoid . . ."
"Seth."
"Yeah . . . Seth." Ryan's fingers tightened around Lindsay's. "And it's not just that they avoid talking about Seth. They act like he's not their friend anymore. That doesn't even make sense, Lindsay. He didn't do anything to them." Ryan frowned, his jaw tensing in frustration.
"They're just trying to be supportive, Ryan," Lindsay said cautiously.
"But what happened between me and Seth . . . it's not their problem," Ryan argued. "This is Seth's home. He shouldn't feel like he's not even welcome in it."
Lindsay moved a hand to Ryan's back, began rubbing small circles on it. "It sounds like maybe . . . you're not as upset with Seth as you were before."
Ryan sighed. "I don't know how I feel. I don't want to be mad at him anymore . . . and I'm not, really, not the way I was at first, but . . ."
"But you're not ready to forgive him."
Ryan shook his head, his hair brushing against Lindsay's cheek. "It's not that. At least I don't think so . . . It's just, he's Seth, you know? I never thought I'd have to forgive him—not for anything that matters anyway."
"He is really sorry, Ryan."
"I know. I know that."
He wished he could get his thoughts and feelings straight. They kept getting tangled, maybe because of the constant dull headache that had settled behind his eyes when he first came home and had never quite gone away. Or maybe the twisted emotions were causing the headache. Either way Ryan was having a hard time sorting through the mess of sensations inside him.
Physical pain was so much easier to handle. And he was desperate for physical release, anything to take him out of his own head. But he knew he couldn't push Lindsay the way he had. He hadn't meant to do that, not to her.
Ryan became aware that she was speaking to him. "So?" she was prompting. "Ryan? If you know Seth's sorry, and you don't want to be mad at him anymore, what's the problem exactly?"
"I owe Seth, you know?"
"I don't understand, Ryan," Lindsay said, confused. "You owe him what?"
Ryan pulled away so that he could face her. His voice was low and somehow ashamed. "Everything, pretty much. My being here. It was because of Seth. I mean, Sandy brought me here, but it was only supposed to be for a few days. Seth was the one . . . he convinced his parents to let me stay. So I feel like . . . I've never had the right to be mad at him. No matter what. Like I'm the one who's been wrong from the very beginning. Like anything he took from me . . . it was his in the first place."
"Ryan! That's . . . twisted. And it's not true," Lindsay argued.
"Yeah, it is," Ryan insisted. "This is his home, his family, and he just shared them, no questions asked. Besides, it's Seth, so it's hard to stay mad at him anyway. You know? But I can't help it, I just . . . don't feel like he's really my friend anymore. Like I can trust him the way I used to . . ."
Lindsay nodded. Her fingers rubbed Ryan's arm, soothing, keeping him tethered to her. "I know that," she said. "Seth does too."
"But the thing is, Lindsay," Ryan began. He stopped, gathered his voice, and finished hoarsely, "the way are between us now . . . I don't see how I can stay in his house anymore. If Seth and I aren't friends, I really don't belong here."
-