For those of you looking forward to a Newport party, I promise we'll get there in the next chapter. Thanks for the continued reviews.

The characters are still borrowed from Schwartz and company, although my Lindsay has little in common with the show's anymore, except for red hair.

And this is still PG13.

Collision Course Chapter 10

When Sandy woke again, thin strips of sunlight were pushing through the blinds. He closed his eyes against the bright intrusion and stretched drowsily. "Mmm, sweetheart," he murmured, "I had the best dream. There was this gorgeous blonde, classy, elegant, every man's fantasy, and she just couldn't keep her hands off me. Care to make the dream come true?"

He rolled over, reaching for Kirsten, but once again the space next to him on the bed was empty.

"Kirsten!" Sandy called, throwing off the comforter. "Honey?"

"I'm here." Kirsten was standing at their bedroom door, holding it open. She turned around to smile at him, her face alight and her eyes dancing with excitement.

"Sandy, isn't it wonderful?" she asked. Her voice sounded almost giddy. Without moving, Kirsten stretched out her hand, beckoning him over. Sandy looked at her quizzically, but he joined her, and she laced her fingers in his, swinging their joined hands slightly. "It's Rosa's day off."

Baffled, Sandy shook his head. "All right, it's Rosa's day off. And this makes you so happy because . . . you feel like cleaning?"

"Sandy! No!" Kirsten laughed and tickled the side of his neck. "Sweetheart, you must still be asleep. Wake up. Rosa's not here. And I smell bacon."

-

Seth padded into the kitchen, sniffing. His hair was rumpled, and his left cheek was creased with sleep-wrinkles. He looked very much the way he had when he was a little boy creeping downstairs on Christmas morning—drowsy and hopeful and a little uncertain.

"Hey," he said with a tentative smile when Ryan turned from the stove, spatula in hand.

Ryan lifted one shoulder in greeting, opening a cabinet to pull out a mixing bowl. "Hey."

"You're making breakfast," Seth said unnecessarily.

"Yeah."

"Okay then." Seth nodded and took a step further into the room. "You're making breakfast, Ryan," he repeated. "Because . . .?"

"Nobody ate much last night and it's Rosa's day off," Ryan explained. His voice was neutral, and slightly muffled by the refrigerator door that blocked his face from Seth. "I figured people might be hungry for more than bagels and cereal, that's all . . . Pancakes or French toast?"

"What?"

"You want pancakes or French toast? I was kinda thinking, maybe French toast this morning. Apple spice variety? We haven't had it in a while."

"Yeah, good, absolutely. Apple spice French toast. Excellent choice," Seth agreed. Surreptitiously he pinched his own arm to make sure he was awake. "Ow . . . yeah, fully conscious here."

Ryan broke four eggs into a bowl with one-handed finesse. "Ow, what?" he asked, without looking up. "What did you do?"

"Nothing." Seth rubbed the sting out of his arm, said yet again, "You're making breakfast, dude."

"Yeah. I think we've pretty much established that."

Seth listened closely, almost certain that he could hear a hint of amusement in Ryan's voice. "So. Right. . . You need any help with that?" Seth indicated the awkward way Ryan was balancing the bowl between his sling and his chest while he whisked the eggs. "I mean, I could . . ."

"Nah, I'm good."

Seth shrugged and shuffled backwards, his expression crestfallen. "I'll just get out of your way then."

Ryan's eyes narrowed, watching him. Then he took a deep breath and braced himself. "You know, Seth," he suggested, "if you really want to help, you could get me the nutmeg."

Seth stopped, hopeful again. "You need the nutmeg?"

"Yeah. I definitely need the nutmeg."

Ryan gave a small, crooked half-smile and Seth grinned in response.

"Ryan," he declared exuberantly, "I would love to get you the nutmeg. And I will get you the nutmeg. Just as soon as you tell me what it is and where I can find it."

Ryan raised his eyebrows, frowning slightly. "This is just breakfast, Seth," he cautioned. "That's all . . . The spices are in the third drawer on the left. Same place as always. And read the label this time, okay? I don't want a repeat of the I-thought-it-was-oregano incident."

"Got it. Just breakfast. Third drawer. Read labels." Seth 's head bobbed enthusiastically. "Nutmeg coming right up."

He could decode the Ryan-speak message. Seth knew Ryan was warning him not to expect too much, to take things slow. This breakfast was probably his peace offering to the parents, to make up for upsetting them with the whole emancipated-minor-move-out business, but even so, Seth figured it had to be considered a breakthrough. Ryan was talking to him, voluntarily and, all things considered, pretty naturally. He was even including Seth in the preparations.

They were making breakfast together.

And breakfast, after all, was fuel for the day. Weren't the experts always saying that it was the most important meal?

Much more important than dinner.

Just outside the kitchen, Sandy and Kirsten paused, holding hands. They watched Ryan take a spice canister from Seth, read the label, scowl, and rap their son lightly on the head with it. They saw Seth whip out another jar from behind his back, and present it, beaming, then dance out of range as Ryan aimed another mock-blow. They heard Ryan growl, "Get rid of the oregano, Seth. Now," and Seth retort, "Whatever you say, Wolfgang. Sorry, I mean Mr. Puck. Sir . . . Geez, some chefs have no sense of humor at all."

Sandy tightened his hold on Kirsten's hand. "So, honey, you hungry this morning?" he asked.

Kirsten squeezed his fingers in return. "Oh yes," she answered blissfully. "Suddenly I am starved."

-

"Kirsten, what time do you . . .?"

"Shhh, Sandy," Kirsten cautioned from the armchair where she was sitting, a magazine open and ignored on her lap. "Ryan's asleep."

"Here?" Sandy looked past her and saw Ryan on the floor, legs stretched in front of him, back propped against the couch, head slumped into a cushion that was tucked awkwardly under his cheek. "Why is he sleeping here? That doesn't look comfortable at all. Want me to wake him so he can take a nap in his own bed?"

Kirsten laughed softly. "Wake him so he can go to sleep? No, leave him, Sandy. He's fine. He's seventeen. It's only old bones like yours that can't handle falling asleep on the floor."

She reached out one hand, patted an arm of the chair with the other. Sandy joined her there, pulling her against him and massaging the back of her neck.

"You are going to pay for that old bones remark, lady," he warned in a whisper. "Later. Maybe even on the floor." His eyebrows waggled lasciviously at Kirsten and she laughed again.

"I'm looking forward to it," she said. She gave a contented sigh and burrowed her head against Sandy's chest.

"So, what's going on here?"

"Well, I was heading into the den to return some calls when I heard the TV," Kirsten explained. "I knew it couldn't Seth, since he's doing dishes—he is doing dishes, isn't he?"

"As we speak. It will take longer, since he forgot the detergent the first time, but old bones here set him straight . . . You heard the TV? Sweetheart, the television isn't even on."

"No, I know," Kirsten murmured. "Ryan was already asleep in front of it when I looked in. He was up so late last night, and with everything that's happened, I think he's just exhausted. So I turned the TV off, and put that pillow under his head so that he won't wake up with a sore neck. He never even stirred."

Sandy's eyebrows shot up. "A sore neck?" he teased. "Kirsten, the kid is seventeen. He can't handle having no pillow? Now see, I'm a manly man. I can take it. Comes from having a wife who steals your pillows if you roll over during the night."

Kirsten slapped Sandy's leg playfully. "Behave, you. I do not steal your pillows. I may borrow them, but I always give them back."

"Mmm. You do, don't you? Sometimes with interest." Sandy dropped a kiss onto the top of Kirsten's head. "So, mama bear. Did you return your calls?"

Kirsten shook her head. "Not yet . . . Half of them were from Julie anyway. I swear she calls to get my opinion just so she can disregard it."

"That is a Julie Cooper-Nichol specialty . . . So in other words, you've just been sitting here, watching Ryan sleep? Because sweetheart . . ."

"I have not," Kirsten claimed indignantly. "I was reading." Sandy raised his eyebrows and she waved her magazine at him, insisting, "I was."

"Right. You were reading," Sandy drawled.

Kirsten sighed in defeat. "All right, Sandy, I know you think I'm silly. It's just that . . . well, the boys made breakfast. And everybody ate, and nobody stormed out or said anything hurtful."

"Some of us were even funny," Sandy recalled, patting himself proudly on the chest.

"Tried to be funny," Kirsten corrected affectionately. "Honestly, Sandy, that was not even close to a French accent, and French toast has nothing to do with France . . . "

Sandy nibbled her ear. "That's what made it funny."

"That tickles," Kirsten squealed softly. "No, don't stop . . . Anyway, when I saw Ryan asleep in here, it just struck me . . . Think, sweetheart. How often has he even left his room since he came home from the hospital? Voluntarily, I mean . . . I just wanted to sit for a while and appreciate how . . . normal . . . everything feels."

"Normal," Sandy mused. "It does, doesn't it?"

They sat in satisfied silence for a moment. The dishwasher hummed distantly from the kitchen, and Ryan gave a muffled little sigh as he shifted against the couch and pushed his cheek further into the cushion. Kirsten tiptoed over, took a throw from the back of the couch and draped it over his legs. When she returned to the chair, Sandy had claimed her spot, so she simply settled on his lap.

"Oh . . . so Sandy, what were you saying when you came in? Something about time?"

"And there goes normal," Sandy groaned. "I wondered what time you wanted to leave for your dad's party tonight. By the way, 'never' is a perfectly acceptable response. You don't have to be there early do you?"

"No, Julie is more than happy to be the sole hostess tonight . . . Oh, Sandy, I wish we could just send our regrets. But Dad thinks I'm neglecting the business as it is. He'll go through the roof if I don't show up tonight. And I can't go without you . . ."

"And neither one of us is ready to leave the boys home alone. So . . .what do you say? Seven-thirty?"

"Seven-thirty," Kirsten agreed.

"And it's what? Eleven-fifteen now?" Sandy looked at his wife with mock concern. "Honey," he urged solemnly, "better get moving. That only gives you eight hours to get ready."

Seth appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, in time to see his mother cuff his father lightly on the cheek and hear her tease, "You will pay for that, old bones. Later. Maybe even on the floor . . ."

Kirsten blushed at the sight of her son. "Oh, Seth, sweetie, I didn't see you. Your father and I were just. . ."

"No, no, no, no, no. Don't explain," Seth begged. "I don't want to know." He glanced down at Ryan's sleeping form. "So this is, what? Siesta time in Casa Cohen?"

"Don't wake him, Seth," Kirsten warned. "In fact, we probably should all get out of here and let him sleep in peace. All this talking is bound to wake him up."

Seth shuffled in place uncomfortably. "Yeah, okay, but . . ."

"But what?" Sandy asked, sitting up straight. Something about Seth's demeanor made him apprehensive.

Seth pulled an envelope out of his back pocket and handed it to his father. "I brought in the mail. Yours is on the counter, but this just came too. For Ryan."

Kirsten arched her head over Sandy's arm to read the envelope. "Oh," she breathed.

"Yeah." Seth chewed his lip. "It's from UCLA. It's gotta be about that internship thing, right? I thought that was all settled. Over." He looked at his parents, misery and self-recrimination evident in his dark eyes. "Man," he muttered. "Just when I thought we were getting past . . . well, you know. What I did."

"Maybe it's good news, son." Sandy bounced the envelope in his hand, as if its weight might tell him something about the contents. "Maybe they have an opening and want Ryan to reapply."

"You think?"

"It's possible," Sandy said, but his tone didn't sound confident.

"Let me have that, honey," Kirsten urged, taking the letter. "I'll give it to Ryan."

Seth coughed self-consciously. "Um, I could do that, Mom," he offered. "I mean, I probably should, all things considered."

"No, sweetie, I'll handle it."

"I would give it to him, you know. You can trust me," Seth said. His tone was defensive, on the edge of anger.

"Seth, honey, I know that. I'm not implying that you'd keep it from him." Suddenly Kirsten sounded very tired. "But just leave it to me, okay? I'll give it to Ryan later. There's no point waking him now. The news will be the same no matter what time he gets it." She stood up and cinched her robe tighter. "Well, I guess I'd better go make those calls."

"And I have a deposition I have to review," Sandy said, following her to the door. "Seth? You coming, son?"

Seth twirled the dishtowel he was holding and whipped it between his hands. "Yeah, sure," he said listlessly, giving Ryan a backwards glance as he trailed his parents out. "I'm sure I've got . . . something to do."

-

"Lindsay! Oh good, good, good, you're here!"

Summer grabbed Lindsay's hand and spun her into the room so that she landed a little breathlessly on the bed next to a stack of dresses. Snatching up the top one, Summer held it up to her body and examined the effect critically in the full-length mirror. She made a face, tossed the dress over a chair, and reached for the next one.

"Summer? Were you . . . expecting me?" Lindsay asked. "Because I just thought I'd drop in. If you left me a message or something, I didn't get it."

"What?" Summer asked absently, fiddling with the rhinestone clasps on the dress she was holding. "Shit, this one is broken . . . Oh no, no message, Linds. But I'm glad you stopped by because now you can help me decide what to wear tonight. I narrowed it down to these five—well, these three anyway. What do you think?"

"Oh, I . . . um, I don't know. They're all beautiful." Lindsay fingered the soft folds of the skirt nearest her, careful not to snag the delicate fabric. It looked really fragile, and as usual, her fingernails were slightly ragged.

"Honestly, can you believe Coop's mom, telling all the women that we should wear white or a shade of gold so that we won't ruin her color scheme? Boring! And not my best colors either. But I figure 'shade of gold' could mean lemon yellow, right? So . . . maybe this?"

Summer draped a silk confection in front of her and cocked her head questioningly.

"That one is gorgeous," Lindsay agreed. "Especially with your hair."

"Yes, see, that's just what I thought. As long as . . . you don't think it washes out my skin tone, do you?"

"No," Lindsay said, wondering exactly what Summer meant. "It's perfect."

Summer nodded, scooping up the rejected dresses and heading for the closet. "I guess I can live with perfect. What are you wearing Lindsay? Gold wouldn't be a problem for you, not with your red hair. Maybe something really deep and rich. Or are you going with white? You're not, are you? Because that would be a serious mistake."

"Actually, I'm not going at all," Lindsay said. She looked down at her hands, which she had unconsciously folded in her lap, wondering why she always sat like a parochial schoolgirl. Summer certainly didn't.

"Really? You're not?" Summer reappeared, holding two pairs of very high heels by the straps. " . . .Which ones, Linds?"

Lindsay pointed to the shoes in her right hand and Summer nodded, tossing the other pair back inside.

"So, why aren't you going? This is a party for your father's company at your father's house . . . Or, I mean, is that the problem?" She scrunched her nose in consternation. "Bad family relations? Should I even be calling him your father?"

"I guess," Lindsay shrugged. "That's what he is. The whole thing is still pretty awkward, though, and I hate the way those society people stare at me, so I decided I'd just stay home. But then I found out Ryan was going to be there, so I thought I'd go after all. Only . . ."

"Only?" Summer prompted.

"Ryan said I should stay home . . . Summer, that's why I came over. I wanted to talk to you. I think Ryan's avoiding me. He's found some excuse not to spend time with me ever since . . . well, you know." Lindsay flushed. "I mean, he's sweet and polite and all, but he keeps pushing me away. I hate it," she admitted miserably. "What do you think I should do?"

Summer sat on the floor, pulled her legs into a lotus position, propped her chin on her tented fingers, and studied Lindsay.

"I think . . ." she said slowly, "that you should put this in my expert hands. Let me get a read on the situation for you, Linds. I'll talk to Chino at the party and sound him out."

Lindsay shook her head, and Summer raised an admonishing finger.

"Subtly," she promised. "I'll just mention your name, see how he responds, find out what mood he's in, how he's feeling. You know, he's probably just doing the whole guilty-conscience, holding the weight-of-the-world thing that Cohen always talks about." Summer's voice got slightly dreamy, and she added, "Although I've gotta say, Chino does have the arms for it . . . Anyway, Linds, if it seems like a good idea, I'll call you and you come to the party and surprise him. Plan?"

Lindsay considered for a moment and then nodded. "Yeah, I guess. Plan," she agreed.

"In fact," Summer suggested mischievously, "there are a few other things you could do to surprise him too."

Lindsay bit her lip, half suspicious, half excited. "Really? Like . . . what exactly?"

Summer uncurled herself and got to her feet. "Just let me get us something to drink, and I will explain all," she declared. At the door, she paused to look at Lindsay appraisingly and add, "And Linds? Definitely no white. Wear something gold."

-

"Okay, Dad, I know I'm supposed to sort the recycling this afternoon. Be down in ten," Seth yelled when he heard the knock at his door in mid-afternoon. "I'm just finishing up some stuff in here. And by stuff, I mean homework." He shoved the comic book he was reading under his pillow and picked up his history text just in case his father walked in.

"Seth? It's Ryan."

Seth scrambled off the bed and yanked the door open, stumbling over two pairs of shoes in the process. "Dude," he said uncertainly. "I, um. I didn't think you were doing stairs yet."

Ryan scowled at his crutch, which he had used to knock on the door, and wedged it gingerly back under his arm. "Yeah, not supposed to, but this? Is getting really old."

Seth nodded, waited, nodded again. "So . . ." he stammered, just as Ryan began, "Anyway . . ."

"You go," Seth offered. "After all, you scaled the heights to get here. And so, yeah . . . did you want something, Ryan?"

"My calculus binder? You borrowed it a couple weeks ago . . ."

They both paused, realizing how long that couple weeks had been. Finally Seth said, "Shit, man, I'm sorry. I thought I returned that. You want to come in while I find it? 'Cause it may take a while. Mom's decided I should be my own maid service, and the service? Has sorta been on strike."

Ryan took in the shambles of the room, his nose wrinkling at the faint but unmistakable odor of overripe clothes and leftover food. "Yeah. I can see that. Smell it too."

"Or I could bring the binder down," Seth suggested. "Whatever's good for you, man." He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, trying to indicate that Ryan was welcome to come in, but that Seth wouldn't be offended if he left.

Ryan shrugged and stepped cautiously inside the door. He dropped down on the edge of Seth's desk, his braced leg stuck out awkwardly in front of him.

Seth opened his school bag, dumping out books, notebooks, comic books, miscellaneous supplies, a Gameboy, fifteen CDs and a Slinky. "Don't ask," he said in answer to Ryan's questioning look, as he started to forage through everything school-related. "So, um, how have you been?"

"Since breakfast?"

"No, I mean—ah, here it is!" Seth yanked Ryan's binder out from under a haphazard pile of textbooks and held it up triumphantly. "All in order. No coffee stains or anything."

"Thanks." Ryan crammed the binder under his sling and got up to leave, but Seth did a shuffle-step toward the doorway, blocking it.

"Yeah, so, how have you been, you know, generally?"

Ryan shrugged one shoulder. "I'm good. I get headaches sometimes, that's all."

"Hey, better than being a carrier," Seth joked. Then he backpedaled quickly. "But everything else?"

"Getting there. Really ready for all this to be gone, though." Ryan indicated the brace, crutch and sling with a scathing sweep of his eyes.

"Yeah, all that? I know it's the whole wounded warrior look, and some of the ladies find it sexy . . ." Ryan snorted and Seth grinned. "Hey, that's what I've heard. But I can see that it would cramp the Atwood style. You graduate from crutch to cane pretty soon though, don't you?"

"Not soon enough. Another couple weeks, depending on how rehab goes."

"Yeah, well, you'll ace rehab," Seth predicted. "And a cane . . . That's progress, right? Less Tiny Tim, more Mr. Peanut."

Ryan wrinkled his nose. "Mr. Peanut? Is that an improvement?"

"Actually . . . not so sure. Mr. Peanut is definitely more dapper, but also, you know, he's a nut, so point to Tiny Tim in the human being department. And Mr. Peanut is better dressed, but his body shape? Not exactly what we call ripped . . ." Seth heard himself babbling and stopped, self-conscious. "But, hey, whatever. I'm just glad you're . . . getting there. Back to normal."

Ryan twirled his crutch thoughtfully, studying the floor. "How about you, Seth? Doing okay?"

"Me?" Seth asked, surprised. "Dude, I'm not the one who played crash test dummy and has to have muscles knit back together in rehab."

Ryan grimaced. "Yeah, Seth, about that clinic business. I'm sorry Sandy's forcing you to be my personal chauffeur. That sucks, man."

"Yeah, cause it cuts majorly into my A-list social life." Seth noticed Ryan shifting uncomfortably and added, his voice serious, "I don't mind. Really, dude, I don't. I mean, it's sort of the least I can do . . . Ryan, you haven't seen Mom recently, have you?"

Ryan glimpsed up, surprised at the abrupt change of subject. "If this morning counts as recently, then yeah. But not since breakfast. Why?"

"Oh, no reason," Seth said evasively. "It's just . . . well, the whole cooking bacon thing meant a lot to her, that's all. You'd never know it to look at her, would you—that the way to her heart is through pork products?"

Ryan scratched his cheek with the edge of his binder, studying Seth. "You're acting a little strange, Seth. Strange-er, I mean. Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. I think. You know, sure. Why not? . . . Everything's copasetic. . . Okay, so you probably need to go. Sit down. Relax. Rest up for the big party tonight . . ."

"Right. The big party. Thanks, man—you know, for finding this." Ryan shot Seth a dubious glance, waved his notebook in farewell, and left.

Seth resisted the urge to help as Ryan maneuvered his way down the stairs, but he stood at the top watching, just in case, until he made it safely to the bottom. "Hey, dude," Seth called, as Ryan turned to head for his room. "That party tonight? I don't know. Did you want to, maybe, hang out there?"

Ryan bit his lip, shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Nah, Seth. I mean, you should spend time with everybody else. I was thinking maybe I'd just, you know, disappear once we got there. The idea of a party . . .?"

"Right. Not so high on the fun scale. Especially a Julie Cooper-Nichol party. So, cool. Disappear. Yeah, it's a plan." Seth bobbed his head. He backed up until he was in his room, where he flopped flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering how to decode the message of Ryan's visit. Combined with their talk last night and breakfast this morning, it had to mean something significant.

Maybe it was a personal overture.

Maybe it was a truce signal, the Atwood equivalent of waving a white flag.

Maybe it was, like, a rehearsal, or trial run, or some kind of friendship rough draft. The sloppy copy his teachers were always talking about.

But Ryan hadn't read his letter yet so maybe, Seth concluded miserably, he should just stop thinking about it.

In the end, it could wind up meaning nothing at all.

-

"Hi, sweetie."

"Um . . . hi," Ryan said, confused. He hadn't expected to find Kirsten in his room when he came downstairs. She was standing by the desk, tapping an envelope on the blotter, and the obvious strain in her voice worried him. He hoped she hadn't seen him going upstairs, and that he wasn't about to get a Mom-style lecture warning him not to rush his recovery. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't think so. I hope not." Kirsten gave him an apprehensive smile. "Ryan, I'm sorry for letting myself in. I knocked, but you didn't answer, so . . ."

Ryan waved his binder in explanation and set it down. "Calculus notes. I thought I could get caught up over spring break, but I left them with Seth . . . It's your house, Kirsten. You can come in anytime."

"Our house," Kirsten corrected. "And this is your room, and you are entitled to your privacy . . . By the way, breakfast was wonderful, Ryan. Thank you. It was sweet of you to make it."

Ryan shrugged, watching her closely. "Seth helped," he said.

"Oh, I'm sure he did. I just hope his help didn't make too much of a mess." Kirsten attempted a laugh, not very successfully. "I'm afraid Seth takes after me in the kitchen. But his intentions are good." Her voice trailed off.

"Kirsten?"

"Usually his intentions are good," she murmured to herself. Then she moved closer to Ryan and impulsively stroked his cheek, adding, "I can't tell you how happy I am that you boys are talking. Does that mean . . . are you friends again?"

It seemed to Kirsten that Ryan hesitated, just for a moment. "Yeah," he said softly. "We're friends."

"So you've forgiven him?"

"Kirsten." Ryan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why are you asking me this?"

"I just need to know. Have you?"

Her voice was earnest and beseeching, and it made Ryan very nervous. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her. "This thing drives me crazy," he muttered as he un-strapped his brace and massaged his knee, wincing a little. Then he added, without looking up, "I can't stay mad at Seth, Kirsten. It's not possible." Ryan turned around and faced her, his eyes challenging. "So now will you tell me why you're here?"

Kirsten took a deep breath and handed him the envelope she was holding. "This came for you today. It's from the selections committee at UCLA. About the internship, I assume."

Ryan looked at the white oblong blankly, running his thumbnail along the edge.

"Aren't you going to open it?"

Kirsten waited and then prompted again, "Ryan? I could leave if you'd rather read it alone."

"What? . . . No. No, you can stay."

Ryan took a penknife out of his desk drawer and slit the top of the envelope neatly and deliberately. Kirsten watched, trying to read his face as he scanned the contents.

"That's that, then."

With a ragged smile, Ryan balled the letter up and tossed it toward his wastebasket. It ricocheted off the rim, rolled onto the floor, and stopped near Kirsten's foot. She scooped up the wad of paper, cupping it between both hands.

"Ryan?"

He shrugged. "Just toss it."

Obediently, Kirsten dropped the letter into the trash. She took the envelope from the bed and threw it away too.

"Do you want to tell me?" she asked. "You don't have to, but . . ."

"It's not a secret," Ryan said evenly. He busied himself taking papers from his binder, rearranging them, and clipping them back inside. "Sandy said no more secrets, right? It's just . . . A few days ago I wrote to the selections committee and apologized for missing the interview. I told them I'd . . . that there had been an accident. And I asked if there was any chance I could reschedule. There's not." His eyes flickered up at her, nakedly despondent. "It's not a surprise or anything. I knew it would be too late."

Kirsten caught his hand. "Oh, Ryan, I am so sorry. Maybe if Sandy or I called . . . God, why didn't we contact the committee? We should have done that as soon as we found out what happened. I don't know why it didn't occur to us. It's just that with everything else . . ."

"Thanks. But it wasn't your responsibility, Kirsten." Ryan pulled his hand away gently. "Anyway, by the time you found out? The answer would have been the same. It's my own fault. I should have called right away . . .or let Seth do it when he wanted to. Now the slots are already filled. But hey, they told me I could apply again next summer so, who knows?" He looked up from under his bangs and gave Kirsten a wistful half-smile. "Sounds like what the losing team always says, doesn't it? Wait until next year."

Ryan blew out a long breath and reached blindly for a book. He pushed himself up against the headboard, opened to random page and fastened his eyes on the text.

Kirsten stood in the middle of the room, unwilling to leave, but unsure what to say.

"Ryan? Honey? Is there anything we can do?"

"Thanks, but no," he answered softly, his gaze downcast. "That is . . . Kirsten? Could you shut the door when you leave?"

"Of course."

Kirsten took a last look at Ryan, her heart twisting when she noticed the rigid set of his jaw, the way a muscle throbbed in his cheek, and his fingers clutched the book spasmodically. Then she put a hand to her own trembling lips and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

TBC