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Collision Course Chapter 9Something woke Sandy, some whisper of sound or movement, and he rolled over, automatically reaching for Kirsten. Her side of the bed was empty, and the sheets were cool to his touch. Alarmed, he sat up. In the thin darkness, he could see her standing motionless in front of the window, her arms hanging by her sides.
"Kirsten?"
Sandy padded over. His arms circled her, pulling her back against his chest. He hoped that he was just imagining how frail she felt, how very breakable.
"Honey, are you okay?"
Ever since the accident she had woken, almost nightly, reliving images of the crash. She never screamed, just gasped, flinging herself upright, her eyes wide open but blind to the familiar comfort of her bedroom, fixed with fear and horror on her own memories. Sandy felt her the instant she stirred, the way he used to when Seth was a baby and she would get up to feed him, or just to check that he was safe and snug and breathing. Only then, they would share tired, contented smiles over the downy head of their son, nestled in Kirsten's arms, or sprawled flat in his crib. Now, Sandy would draw his wife's rigid body to him, but it would take long minutes before Kirsten would relax or even acknowledge his presence.
"Sweetheart," he would croon. "It's all right. Ryan's all right, he's fine, everything's fine. You've got to let it go, okay? It wasn't your fault."
Sandy wished that he could offer Kirsten proof. He wished that everything at least appeared fine. Ryan obviously chafed at his continued need to use the crutch and brace and sling, but Sandy suspected that he was just as eager for those ugly supports to be gone. They were visible reminders of all the hurt, physical and emotional, that his family had endured.
Maybe when Ryan looked fully recovered, it would be easier for them all to heal.
"Kirsten?" Sandy prompted, when she didn't respond. "Nightmare again?" She felt cold, and he rubbed his hands up and down her arms, trying to kindle some answering warmth in her body.
"Hmm?" Kirsten roused and shook her head. "No. No, I just couldn't sleep. Look, Sandy. Ryan's out there, see, sitting by the pool. He's been there for at least half an hour. Don't you think one of us should go . . .?"
Sandy wrapped his arms tighter, rubbed his chin against the top of Kirsten's head. "No, honey, I don't. It's Ryan. You can't smother him. You just have to wait for him to come to us."
"Unless he decides to leave us first," Kirsten murmured.
"He won't," Sandy assured her. "He told you he wouldn't. And I can't imagine Ryan ever breaking a promise to you, sweetheart. Now come on back to bed, okay?"
Kirsten followed him obediently and let Sandy tuck her in like a child. She nestled close, sighing against his chest. "I hope I wasn't wrong to make him promise," she whispered. "I hope he doesn't feel like I trapped him here . . . And Seth . . . God, Sandy, he's so angry and hurt and guilty. I don't even know what to hope for him. I just want . . . so much . . . for both our boys . . . So much . . ."
"I know," Sandy said. "Me too."
He held her until they both fell asleep.
-
Ryan stretched out in one of chaise lounges by the pool, his forearm covering his eyes as if to block out the nonexistent light. He could hear tiny, soothing sounds—crickets, a faint murmur of leaves, the distant call of some night bird. Gradually, he let himself relax, and his mind, released from the braided strain of worry, anger and doubt, drifted. It took him, unbidden, to an afternoon about three weeks earlier.
Seth and Ryan had been playing video games, so engrossed with the action on the screen that they didn't notice when Sandy and Kirsten walked into the living room.
"All right, boys. Game over. It's quality family time," Sandy announced, clapping his hands. Simultaneously, Kirsten took Seth's video controller and, ignoring his yelp of protest, efficiently killed his player.
"You two have been impossible ever since your anniversary," Seth complained. He leaned back into the cushions of the couch, arms crossed over his chest, mouth upended in a pout. "Meaningful conversations. Family time. Red state values. Did I teach you nothing?" He shook his head sadly and turned to Ryan. "All those years I spent training them, gone to waste."
Ryan grinned and Seth added, "Oh yes, you smile, suck-up. You're just happy because it was my guy Mom destroyed."
"That? You should be grateful. That was a mercy killing. You were going down, Seth."
Ryan spun off the couch and ducked behind Sandy as Seth heaved a pillow at him. It fell a foot short. Sandy sighed, picking it up. "My son, the athlete. And by the way, Seth, there is nothing wrong with certain red state values."
"Better not let the Nana hear you say that," Seth warned.
Ryan tossed the pillow back to Seth, who caught it and made a "See that!" face at his father. "So, did you guys pick out a movie?" Ryan asked. "Should I make popcorn?"
"Actually," Kirsten replied, "I'm not in the mood for a movie today."
"She means she's not sleepy," Sandy interjected.
"I do not fall asleep every time," Kirsten objected. Sandy, Ryan and Seth exchanged glances and she repeated, "I do not! Stop that, all of you. I just thought we could do something different this afternoon. Play a game maybe."
"Mom, not to point out the obvious," Seth said in a patient, explaining-to-a-four-year-old tone, "but Ryan and I were already playing a game."
"Not with us," Kirsten said.
"Not with us," Sandy echoed.
"Okay, fine. One of you can have next," Seth suggested, trying to reclaim his controller. "You can take the loser's spot. That, by the way, would be Ryan's."
Ryan took the controller from Kirsten's hand and passed it to Sandy as Seth lunged for it. "I don't think that's what your mom has in mind, Seth. And it would be your spot anyway."
"Hey, kid, back at you!" Sandy called, lofting the controller back into Ryan's waiting hands.
"Playing keep-away. Real adult, Dad. Ryan, come on, you're supposed to be on my side. Gimme," Seth pleaded.
Ryan looked at him innocently. "Oh, you wanted this?" he asked. "I'm sorry, Seth. Here you go." He held out the controller, feinted left, dove right, and handed it to Kirsten with a slight bow.
"Okay, Ryan, you? Are violating every bylaw in the brother-slash-friend-slash-us-against-the-parents rulebook. I'd fire you as sergeant-at-arms except that would mean I'd have to hold all the offices." Seth plopped back onto the couch, assuming his I-am-sulking face.
Kirsten pulled Ryan into a one-armed hug and ruffled his hair. "It is so nice to have one son who understands me. And for your information, Mr. Playstation, I was thinking more of a game where you actually look at the people you're with and not at a TV screen."
"Ryan and I are not playing Truth or Dare with you guys, Mom."
"Truth or Dare," Sandy mused, nodding. "That is an idea. We might learn a lot, honey."
Ryan's eyes widened and he pulled away from Kirsten, shaking his head violently. Seth choked.
"Of course, they could learn a few things about us too, so maybe not," Sandy concluded with a meaningful wink at Kirsten. "Better to preserve the mystery, sweetheart."
Both boys sighed in relief. Then Seth sat up, suddenly suspicious. "Wait. There are things to learn about you two?" he demanded. "Like what . . .? No, don't answer. I didn't ask. I don't want to know." He cupped his hands over his ears, humming loudly.
Kirsten ignored him. "We have all those board games in the study closet," she said thoughtfully. "The ones Martin gave you, Seth. We could play one of those."
"Martin?" Ryan asked, pulling Seth's hands down so he could hear the question.
"A guy who worked at the P.D.'s office with Dad," Seth explained. "No real family of his own, so he appointed himself my unofficial uncle. He bought me a different game every year for my birthday."
"Yeah? And you kept them all?"
"Oh, they're still coming. It was Boggle this year, wasn't it, son?" Sandy recalled.
Seth rolled his eyes. "Nice guy, Martin, but he has me pegged at twelve."
"Twelve, huh?" Ryan pursed his lips, considering. "Seems a little generous. I'd say more, nine and a half."
"Stop it you two," Kirsten said automatically, grabbing the pillow Seth was poised to throw again. "You know, we should play one of those games. None of them ever got much use."
"Or, like, any," Seth cut in. "Most of them are still in shrink wrap."
Kirsten grew more animated as she spoke. "We could play outside on the patio. Eat ice cream sundaes. It'll be fun. You boys don't have anything pressing to do, do you?"
"Not . . . pressing," Ryan conceded. Kirsten looked so eager that he couldn't disappoint her. He would reschedule with Lindsay.
"Well, I was supposed to have that root canal, but hey, sure, this will be more fun that that," Seth scoffed. "A little."
"Good. Ryan, Sandy, you help me get the ice cream. Seth, you go pick out a game."
"You know," Seth grumbled as Ryan pulled him forcibly to his feet. "There's a reason why they're called board games. People get bored playing them . . . Okay, okay. Stop shoving. Mom! Make him stop shoving. I'm going already."
Ten minutes later, Seth came out to the patio carrying a colorful box, and dragging his feet like a condemned man.
"Don't look so miserable, son," Sandy laughed. "We have mini M Ms for the sundaes. And butterscotch topping and hot fudge and whipped cream and slivered almonds and maraschino cherries."
Seth scooped a heaping spoon of hot fudge from the serving bowl, complaining around a mouthful, "You think you can win me over with multiple toppings? Think again, mon pere."
"Yeah," Ryan said dryly. "It would only take the cherries."
"All right, Atwood. I don't care what we play, you are going to lose, my friend. Big time. See this?" Seth pointed to himself and scowled. "This is my game face. Ha! You feel the terror now, right?"
"Ooh, I'm shaking," Ryan mocked. "The hot fudge on your cheek? Really intimidating, bro."
"What game did you pick out, Seth?" Kirsten asked. She looked at the box curiously and began to make room on the table to arrange the board.
"I used the time-honored selection process of closing my eyes and pulling down a box. Oh, and by the way, you may find a few other games on the floor of the closet. They did the Jill-came-tumbling-after thing. Anyway, this one is . . .?"
"Cranium," Ryan read. "The game for your whole brain."
Sandy rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "Ah, this sounds like my kind of game. An intellectual challenge. Boys, honey, I'm sorry, but I don't think any of you stand a chance against me."
"Actually, dad, one of us is going to have to have a chance with you." Seth scanned the directions page over Ryan's shoulder. "The game is played in teams. And I am officially not inviting he-who-ridicules-me to be my partner. But I'll be generous. R.A., you can pick first. Which of the parents do you want on your team?"
Ryan looked momentarily dismayed, his eyes darting from Kirsten and Sandy, unwilling to choose between them.
"Hey, kid," Sandy said gently. "You're just picking a partner for a game, not taking sides in a custody battle. You're not going to offend either one of us."
Ryan ducked his head, embarrassed. "Okay, then. Kirsten? Would you be on my team?"
"I would love to," Kirsten said, sitting down next to him. She leaned over and whispered confidentially. "Good choice, Ryan. Sandy likes to think he's good at games, but I am much, much better."
Sandy slung an arm around Seth's shoulder. "Okay, son. Looks like it's you and me."
"Do I have any other choices?" Seth asked. "Rosa, maybe? Captain Oats? That bird over there?"
"All right, now? Now I am offended. But you'll see, Seth. With my intellectual prowess and your . . . your . . . your what?" Sandy paused, looking at his son skeptically.
"Dice-throwing ability?" Ryan suggested.
"Dice-throwing ability," Sandy agreed. "Between the two of us, we can take them, son. Okay, how do you play this game?"
"It looks . . . strange," Kirsten commented, as she unpacked the box.
"It has clay!" Seth exclaimed happily. "There may be some hope for this afternoon yet." He opened the container and began kneading the purple blob enthusiastically. "Now, Ryan, watch the artist at work. I can, with my incredible skill, turn this ordinary clay into an eel. Or a worm. Or possibly the Alaskan pipeline. I was always the best in my kindergarten class with Play-Doh. Just ask Mom."
"Oh yes, he was. He ate the most," Kirsten recalled. "Put that away, Seth. It's for us all to use . . . somehow. And if you're hungry, eat your ice cream. Yours, please. That's mine."
Kirsten pulled her bowl out of Seth's reach and she and Ryan both looked dubiously at the boxes of cards as they set them on the table.
"Creative Cat," Ryan read. "Word Worm. Data Head. Star Performer . . . Seth, how old did you say that guy thought you were? Maybe we could just play cards. Gin rummy? Hearts? Texas Hold'Em?"
"A card game might be a better choice," Kirsten agreed. "This looks a little . . . silly."
Seth picked up one of the cards. "I don't know, Mom. I like to think of myself as a very Creative Cat. In fact, that may be the caption under my yearbook picture next spring."
"The censored version anyway," Ryan murmured.
"Hey! I heard that, Atwood. Deny it all you want, you clearly fear the superior imagination that is Seth Cohen . . . Dad, what do you think? Should we play this? Because in my opinion card games? Only interesting if they involve money changing hands . . ." He looked hopefully at his parents.
"Not happening, Seth," Kirsten declared.
"Right. Or clothes coming off. Which, considering the present company, I am now so, so, so sorry that I even mentioned."
"We're all sorry about that, son," Sandy groaned. "I think we better stick with what we have. Besides, that Star Performer box? That sounds promising. Maybe I'll get a chance to sing."
Seth raised his hand. "Mr. Chairman? I'd like to change my vote."
"The chair does not recognize the representative from Outer Sethland," Ryan replied, waving him down. "Kirsten? This game deal was your idea. What do you want to do?"
Kirsten's eyes circled the table. "I just want to enjoy a beautiful afternoon in the company of my guys," she said, smiling at each of them in turn. "Yes, let's play."
So they had. There had been laughter, humming (to Sandy's chagrin, "Star Performers" weren't allowed to actually sing), clumsy charades, indecipherable drawings, shapeless sculptures, heated arguments about the definitions of words, and more laughter.
When the game ended, Kirsten pulled Ryan to his feet, holding his hand aloft in triumph.
"Losers clear the table and do the dishes," she declared. "Winners get extra ice cream."
"Wait! Is that in the rulebook?" Seth asked, scanning the directions. "Yeah, no, I didn't think so. Anyway this game is not officially over. I'm staging a formal protest. Dad and I were robbed."
"Face it, man," Ryan said smugly. "You lost to superior talent, that's all."
Seth dumped the Word Worm box, scattering its contents over the table. "Where is that card? 'Boreal?' I want to see that definition."
"Stop making a mess, sweetie. I told you, it's a temperate climate. Boreal doesn't mean tedious." Kirsten slapped his hand lightly and attempted to shuffle the cards back together.
"Well, it so should. As in," Seth explained, "this game is so boreal that we will never play it again." He found the card, read it, scowled, and flung it back down. "Temperate climate. Fine, whatever. Only, wait, the game isn't officially over until . . . until you guys run a victory lap around the pool."
Kirsten promptly sat down. "Seth, I am not running around the pool."
"Oh, I am." Ryan looked at Seth and grinned wickedly. "On three, Seth. One, two . . ."
"Dad!" Seth yelped, taking off as Ryan charged after him. "A little help here!"
Sandy got up, sighing. "Son," he drawled, "I'm sorry to do this to you but . . . I think I'd rather be on the winning side this time." He signaled Ryan to turn and then ran to cut Seth off in the other direction while Kirsten laughed and clapped. Trapped between the two of them, Seth looked around frantically. Then he threw up his hands in defeat, kicked off his shoes, held his nose and jumped into the water to escape.
"You are such a traitor, Dad!" Seth spluttered as he surfaced. He climbed out of the pool, wringing out his t-shirt. "First Ryan, now you. And you too, Mom! Cheering them on! I'm revoking your memberships in Team Seth. All of you. Trust me," he added with an attempt at dignity as he sloshed toward the house, "you will rue this day."
Sandy slung an arm around Ryan's shoulder. "So?" he asked. "What do you say? Did I earn extra ice cream?"
Ryan nodded, smiling into the waning light. "Oh yeah," he said warmly. "Two scoops at least."
Ryan felt himself smile again, recalling that afternoon. Then he sat up, searching his memory. He tried, but Ryan couldn't remember the Atwood family ever enjoying a day like that, even before his father had been arrested. They never played games together, or even just shared the same space, relaxed in each other's company. On the best of days, the ones when his parents were both sober, his father had just collected a paycheck, there was food in the refrigerator, and Trey was in protective big-brother mode, Ryan had still sensed danger. It was as though they were all walking on ice. He knew if they were careless, moved too fast or hard, or took one step too far, the thin shell below them would break and send them all plunging beneath the surface.
It was so different with the Cohens. That Saturday, they had spent three silly, comfortable, idyllic hours together. It hadn't even been a special occasion-just a perfectly ordinary, extraordinarily perfect, afternoon. And Ryan had taken it for granted. Maybe he had been stupid, or spoiled, but he hadn't realized that he should savor it while it lasted. Now the moment was gone, and it was too late.
Ryan turned in his chair, looking back wistfully at the dark, closed Cohen house.
He wondered: how was it possible to be homesick when you were at home?
How could you miss people that you saw every day?
-
Seth had forgotten how late it was until he heard Summer's sleep-husky voice on the other end of the phone.
"This had better be a wrong number or an absolute emergency," she warned. "Because if it's anybody I know and you don't need an ambulance, you will pay for waking me up."
"Summer? It's, um, Seth."
"Great. Cohen," she groaned. "Somebody I know and a wrong number all in one phone call. All right, what is so important that you had to call me at—what time is it anyway?"
"Let's see. Looks like . . . 2:37."
"2:37."
"In the morning," Seth added helpfully.
"In. The. Morning. If I have dark circles under my eyes tomorrow, Cohen, you will be five different kinds of dead. I didn't even take after-midnight calls from you when we were going together." Summer sighed and wedged the phone under her ear as she rolled onto her back. "Okay, I'm awake. Sort of. Talk. But make it fast. You ramble, and I'll reach through the wires and pull out your tonsils."
"Okay, but Summer? I had my tonsils out when I was six."
"Cohen!"
Seth rubbed his ear, sure that Summer had set a new record decibel level for an un-amped human voice. "Fine. And also, Summer? Ow. So . . . I had a talk with Ryan tonight. Or, yeah, we talked."
"Really? Was anything broken during this talk? Dishes? Windows? Noses?"
"No, see, that's it," Seth said eagerly. "I think maybe . . . well, I can't really say that the Seth-Ryan team is ready to ride again, but us talking, it was . . . almost normal."
Summer laughed. "You were involved in this conversation and it was almost normal? Call Ripley's, Cohen. But go on."
"Okay, so at dinner today Ryan asked dad to go to court and have him declared an emancipated minor so he could live on his own."
"He what?" Summer suddenly sounded much more alert.
"Yeah, my reaction entirely," Seth agreed. "And I called him on it because shit, that idea ranks right up there with Val Kilmer as Batman. Mom and Dad vetoed it anyway, but they sort of hinted—okay, insisted—that my comments weren't helping matters." Summer made a noise that sounded suspiciously and rudely like a snort, but Seth decided to ignore it. "So I apologized."
"And? The clock is ticking here, Cohen."
"And this time Ryan listened. And he pretty much said that he forgave me. Kind of. Maybe. I think. He even sort of apologized—which, by the way, he needed to do, because contrary to popular belief around here, he has not been Mr. Perfecto through this whole business."
"Tick, tick, tick . . . Come on, Cohen. You called me in the middle of the night because you and Ryan made up? That's great. It's all warm and fuzzy and hug-worthy, but couldn't you have saved the news flash until I was, I don't know, awake? Having my morning coffee—that might be a good time."
"Yeah, but no, see, that's just it. We had this conversation, and I get the feeling that we're working things out, or at least starting to, but then Ryan just leaves. He says he has to go outside and think—and that was, like, hours ago, and he's still out there brooding instead of inside sleeping like he should be doing."
"You mean like I should be doing? Like I was doing before a phone call from this crazy person woke me up?"
"Come on, Summer, work with me," Seth cajoled in his best wheedling tone. He smiled, but the effect was lost since Summer couldn't see his dimples over the phone. "What do you suppose Ryan is thinking about?"
This time, Seth was absolutely sure that Summer snorted. "I'm supposed to know what goes on in Chino's head? Cohen, you know him better than anybody else. If you can't figure it out . . ."
"So I should just trust my instincts? Because my instincts tell me that Ryan's going into hide-in-plain-sight mode."
"Now see? I don't even know what that means. And at two—"
"2:43."
"2:43 in the morning, I really don't care." Summer yawned audibly and pulled her comforter higher. "Seth," she urged. "Go to sleep. Give whatever you call your brain a rest. I'll talk to you later—much later—or at your grandfather's party or something. G'night."
"Okay, yeah . . . So you'll be at the party? Great. You know, Summer, you could go with us if you want."
"Cohen! I'm going to the party with Zach. And you know that. Him, boyfriend. You, friend. Remember? Well, friend when you aren't torturing me with middle-of-the-night phone calls. Now. Is there anything else you need to say?" Summer didn't give Seth a chance to answer before she concluded, "I didn't think so. Good night, Cohen." Just before she hung up, Seth thought he heard her groan, "Boys!"
The dial tone humming in his ear told Seth that the conversation was irretrievably over. "Yeah. Good night," he said to nobody and hung up.
When he looked out the window again, he saw with satisfaction that Ryan was going back into the house.
Summer was right. It was time for bed.
-
The ringing of the phone startled Ryan and he groped for it, still half asleep.
"Ryan?" Lindsay sounded completely alert, but edged with anxiety.
He yawned. "Yeah. Lindsay? What time is it?"
"Early. Really early, I guess, but I had to know. Did you talk to the Cohens? Ryan? Did you tell them you want to live on your own? What did they say?"
"They said no." Ryan's voice was husky with sleep and suppressed emotion. "Kirsten and Sandy both . . . they said they wanted me to stay." He dug his fist into the bridge of his nose, remembering how their reactions had made him feel, that nearly incapacitating rush of simultaneous joy and worry, relief and apprehension.
"You see? I told you they would. So you are?" Lindsay prompted. "You're staying, aren't you, Ryan?"
"Yeah. Kirsten . . . she made me promise, so yeah."
"Good." Lindsay sounded as though she had just released a long-held breath. "I do love my new sister. She's very wise, you know." She paused for a moment, then added cautiously. "And what about Seth? What you said about not being able to stay if you weren't friends?"
Ryan ran his hand through his hair, squeezed his eyes closed. "I don't know. We sort of talked last night. I mean, we tried to anyway . . . And Kirsten and Sandy really need for us to work this out. So I'm thinking, I could just pretend none of it ever happened."
"Except it did."
"Except it did." Ryan sighed. "Maybe, I don't know, we sort of have to start all over, Seth and me."
"Could you do that?"
"I can try . . . Man, déjà vu," Ryan observed dryly. "It is just like my first day here in Newport. Big formal party tonight, me tagging along with the Cohens, pretending like I belong . . . Sandy insists that we all have to go together, as a family."
"The re-launch party for the Newport Group, right?"
"Yeah, right . . . Are you going, Lindsay?"
"No. It's still too strange," Lindsay answered. "He—my dad, Caleb, Mr. Nichol, whoever—he invited me. Actually, I think what he said was, 'Lindsay, as my daughter, you should be there.'" Even over the phone, Ryan could sense her distaste. "Who is he to tell me that I should or shouldn't do anything?"
"Nobody," Ryan assured her. "He's nobody."
Lindsay hesitated before suggesting, "I could come though. I mean, I would, with you. If you wanted me or . . . needed me or anything."
Ryan gripped the phone, glad that Lindsay couldn't see him. He was grateful that she had offered, and he wanted her with him, but something inside him recoiled, afraid. The actual party might be safe—Caleb's presence excepted—but inevitably, Ryan knew, he and Lindsay would find themselves alone together. And he was terrified that he still couldn't trust himself, terrified that he'd see that Lindsay didn't trust him either.
"Yeah, no. I mean, I never understood that whole misery loves company business," Ryan claimed. "You stay home. Read. Relax. Enjoy the evening for both of us."
"Okay. If you're sure," Lindsay agreed dubiously. "Or . . . I could come over now, Ryan. Or a little later, because I guess it is too early. We could spend the day together. You know, just talk, or . . . whatever."
"No, don't." Ryan heard his own abrupt cadence, and immediately modified it. "I mean, thanks," he said gently. "But, I'm really tired, and I've got to figure some things out. So, I'll talk to you later. Okay?"
After he hung up, Ryan paced quietly through the house to the French doors and opened them. It was barely after dawn, the day windless and already warm. He stood in the doorway, leaning his cheek against his raised arm, squinting into the sun.
Why did every emotion have to come wrapped up in its polar opposite anymore? Ryan desperately missed his friendship with Seth, but he still felt the need to put a safe distance between the two of them; he yearned to remain part of the Cohen family, but he felt suffocated in their house; he craved time with Lindsay, but he was afraid of how he might touch her, that his urgent hands and sheer need would destroy her and their relationship.
More than anything, Ryan wanted something simple. Something real.
He made a sudden decision and went back into the house.
TBC