I still own nothing.
Collision Course Chapter 12
"I'm bored," Seth announced. He waited for a response, and when none came, repeated emphatically, "Bored. About to go out of my fucking mind, capital B-ored, bored. So . . . any ideas? Anything? Anybody?"
He stared at his silent audience. "Yeah, didn't think so. What can you expect from a bunch of mythical animals?"
Seth had taken refuge in what appeared to be Caitlyn's unused playroom. It was dominated by an impressively large collection of unicorns. Seth had already inspected all them closely.
That killed five and a half minutes.
"You know what you are?" Seth demanded, plopping back into a chair by the window. "Deformed Captain Oatses. Horses with horns. That is just wrong. And why does Caitlyn have a unicorn collection anyway? I thought she was supposed to be a pony person."
Seth drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and let another long minute elapse. Then he declared dramatically, "Ennui. I am suffering from an advanced case of ennui. Know what that means, guys? It means, in case I haven't mentioned it, that I am at a fancy-ass party and I am fancy-ass bored."
Over the years, Seth had devised a repertoire of Ways to Pass the Time Alone at Parties, but he hadn't needed any of them since he met Ryan. Looking back, Seth realized that none of those activities had been much fun anyway, but tonight they were completely worthless; lack of use had atrophied all his coping-with-loneliness muscles.
Now, after twenty-three minutes of solitude, Seth was cramping up. He dropped his head over the back of the chair, and launched into his best Ryan Atwood imitation.
Seth began to brood.
Specifically, he re-examined the events of the day, probing them for clues. He wanted to decipher Ryan's frame of mind, but Seth's trusty mood-meter hadn't picked up any clear signals since they'd left for the party. Ryan wasn't really acting upset. He just seemed preoccupied. Pensive.
Or maybe distant.
Seth couldn't decide if that was better or worse than outright anger.
Maybe if his reconnaissance mission that afternoon had succeeded, he would have some solid information; unfortunately, the operation had tanked.
After Ryan had come up to get his binder, Seth waited a couple hours. Then he casually wandered downstairs, telling himself he needed food, but making a totally unnecessary detour that took him past Ryan's room. If his mom had already given Ryan his letter, Seth hoped to do some sort of damage control. And if she hadn't . . . well, maybe he could cement the progress he and Ryan had made, shore it up so it could withstand another reminder of the Great Seth Screw-Up.
Last night Ryan's door had been open. Now, despite all the war-is-ending signs, it was closed.
Seth looked at it, frowning. He imagined all the doors in the house were the pretty much identical, but this one looked particularly thick and solid. And opaque.
No way to see through it.
Seth squinted hard, but he couldn't summon any x-ray vision.
He had stood outside the door for a few minutes, but no sound escaped from within and finally the heavy, forbidding silence sapped the last of Seth's courage. His fist, poised to knock, fell to his side, and he had slumped back to his room.
Seth pulled abstractedly at his curls, frowning. He was sure things would have gone differently if only Ryan had still been in the pool house. The pool house had windows. It was welcoming, and open, and held memories, echoes of conversations, hours of Seth-Ryan time.
Seth missed the pool house.
He wondered if Ryan did too. After all, the pool house was Ryan's sanctuary. It was his retreat, his personal fortress of solitude.
"There's an idea," Seth murmured. "Maybe I should talk to Mom about letting Ryan move back. I mean, shit, he'll never ask if he thinks the idea might upset her. It probably will too. I think she kind of likes the whole under-one-roof deal."
Seth thrummed his feet against the baseboard, nodding.
He could do it.
He could make the suggestion, take the heat, wheedle and cajole and pester until his mother saw the wisdom of his arguments . . . or until he simply wore her down. Seth considered himself a master at wearing people down.
And then he could give Ryan the pool house back. And Ryan would be . . . well, not grateful—Seth didn't want him to feel grateful—but glad, maybe.
Glad would be good.
Or . . . would Ryan believe Seth was interfering in his life? Making decisions for him again. And be angry, with him. Again.
Angry would absolutely not be good.
God, it was complicated, trying to consider other people's feelings.
Seth groaned.
He was tired of silence, tired of keeping himself company, really tired of trying to figure things out alone.
He needed people. Specifically he needed his erstwhile best friend, but he'd settle for Summer . . . Summer, definitely, but even Zach, Alexhell, anybody who was willing to talk to him.
Hell, even insults and criticism would be better than the silent treatment from mythical animals.
Seth plastered on an all-purpose grin. He checked himself in the mirror—teeth clean, dimples still endearing, hair artfully disarrayedthen meandered downstairs and into the thick of the party. All the faces in the foyer were unfamiliar, but Seth thought he could see Zach looming across the hall, and if Zach was around, Summer had to be nearby.
Unfortunately, Seth also recognized the elegantly tailored back of a man standing near the edge of the room.
Caleb.
"Shit," Seth muttered to himself. "What is the guy, fucking MasterCard? He's everywhere I want to be tonight."
Seth analyzed the situation. His grandfather was deep in conversation. As long as he was stealth, Seth figured he would be able to slip by unnoticed. Nodding to himself, he started to glide silently across the room when the sound of his own name stopped him.
"So, Cal, any chance of Seth joining the family business?"
"Seth?" Caleb snorted. "He would have to grow up first, Mark. It pains me to admit this but my grandson is hopelessly immature. Still reading comic books and drawing pictures of superheroes. I don't think he has the mind for the Newport Group. He's all Cohen—no Nichol in him at all as far as I can see."
Seth bristled. He ached to shout "Thank God!" but that would reveal his presence and leave him open for a direct assault.
On balance, not a good trade-off.
"Really?" Mark asked. "That's odd. Kirsten told me he has tremendous aptitude, real architectural talent. She said he single-handedly saved the renovation of their home."
Even from behind, Seth could see his grandfather's body stiffen. "She wasn't talking about my grandson."
"I'm sorry. I was sure she said her son."
"Her foster son." Caleb emphasized "foster" scornfully. "The boy who lives in their pool house, because my bleeding-heart son-in-law wouldn't let the system do the job that it's designed to do."
"Ah, I see." Mark swirled the ice in his drink with an awkward smile. "That's a damned shame, Cal. Kirsten showed me some of his drawings. Rough work, untrained, but definitely something there. Sure you won't want to bring him into the company after he finishes college?"
"I doubt if that boy will make it through college," Caleb sneered. "Or even into college for that matter. As for the Newport Group, I reserve nepotism for people who are actual family members, not opportunists pretending to be something they're not."
Mark gave an uncomfortable laugh and ran a finger under his collar.
Caleb swallowed the last of his drink. "It is some kind of cosmic joke, though," he mused. "The boy who could actually play a part in the family business is a delinquent interloper, while my own grandson can't contribute anything to the Newport Group except a cartoon for the company newsletter . . . Come on, Mark. Suddenly, I need another scotch."
Seth waited to move, seething, until his grandfather disappeared. He'd always known that Caleb regarded him as some feckless, overgrown kindergartener, but hearing his grandfather deride him publicly? That hurt. A lot.
What really fueled Seth's anger, though, wasn't his own humiliation. It was Caleb's callous rejection of Ryan. He acted like Ryan was some near-feral mutt that the Cohens were sheltering because the kennels were too full.
His grandfather, Seth concluded bitterly, was a close-minded hypocrite. And if he just had the courage—maybe of the liquid variety—he would tell him so.
In fact, Seth could identify only one valid point in anything Caleb had said: suddenly he needed another Scotch too.
Of course, Seth hadn't even had one drink yet, so it wouldn't actually be "another." And maybe not Scotch, at least not to start. But it was definitely time for something alcoholic.
Seth surveyed the room for his parents or likely spies who might report back to them, and then nonchalantly plucked a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.
It was amazing how much more confident Seth felt with his fingers curled around the stem of a wine glass. He gulped the contents quickly, grabbed another goblet, and emptied it, enjoying the little explosion of bubbles in the back of his throat.
A few more of these, Seth thought, and he might just be brave enough to. . . well, at least to leave the foyer.
Sandy felt like one of those ridiculous bobble-head dolls. His eyes were glazed over, but his head kept nodding and his mouth kept smiling automatically.
Twenty minutes ago, Sandy had found a secluded table where he thought he and Kirsten could sit quietly, until her Caleb-induced agitation subsided. Unfortunately, fifteen minutes ago, Philip Styles, a Newport Group lawyer, had joined them, uninvited. Ever since, he had regaled the Cohens with an endless series of stories, all variations on the same plot: Styles wielding his superior legal skills in a negotiating session (or in court), bringing his opponent to his knees (or, possibly, to tears) and winning (or, occasionally, saving) millions of dollars for the Newport Group.
Whenever he dared, Sandy darted a glance at Kirsten. She appeared engrossed, smiling warmly, asking questions, apparently interested in nothing except Style's current anecdote.
That kind of tact impressed Sandy. It also irritated the hell out of him. Even though he knew Kirsten resented Styles' intrusion as much as he did, she was still making him feel witty and welcome; it would be almost impossible for Sandy to dislodge the man.
Hell, it was almost impossible to interrupt him.
Sandy felt frankly relieved when he heard the trill of Julie's voice above the distant music. If anyone could press a man's mute button, she could.
"Sandy, Kirsten, there you are! Oh, and you're here too, Phil! Just the man I need."
"Julie," Phil said, lumbering to his feet. "You look ravishing as always."
Julie flashed her feline smile and inclined her cheek for Styles' kiss. "And you, Phil, are a darling. Now I do hope Kirsten and Sandy haven't been monopolizing you here all evening." Julie's eyes narrowed when she saw Sandy's sardonic expression, but she continued, her tone effusive. "I was wondering if I could persuade you to spend some time tonight with Roger Cousins? You know, he's representing the Bay Land Initiative, and I thought maybe you could work a little of your magic for us . . .?"
Julie smoothed Phil's lapel, patting his chest in the process, and he flushed. "For you, Julie? Anything . . . Kirsten, Sandy, a pleasure to talk with you."
Sandy waited until the man was out of earshot before muttering, "You mean, talk at you . . . Julie, I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I owe you one."
"Yes," Julie agreed sweetly, "you do. Phil is such a bore, isn't he? And aren't you lucky, Sandy? You can pay me back right now because I need a favor from you too."
Sandy glanced at Kirsten. Her polite façade had vanished along with Styles; lines of stress resurfaced around her eyes, and she was twisting her necklace into a tight topaz knot.
"Now?" Sandy objected. "Julie, Kirsten and I were in the middle of a private conversation when Phil joined us."
Julie frowned. "Honestly, Sandy, you and Kirsten can talk . . . or whatever . . . at your own house. This is a party. Kirsten needs to mingle, and frankly, so do you. You don't see Cal and me acting inseparable at parties, do you?"
"No, Julie, I can't say that I do," Sandy conceded dryly. "Not at parties or anywhere else, for that matter. . ."
"What favor, Julie?" Kirsten demanded suddenly. "What do you need Sandy to do?"
Julie's eyes had blazed at Sandy's comment, but she raised her hands in mock-surrender. "It's just a little thing. Sara Edelmann is her. This is the first party she's attended since David died, and she seems so lonely. Maybe you could take her some dessert, Sandy? Dance with her? Try to draw her out a bit? You and Sara have so much in common."
Sandy raised his eyebrows. "So much in common? You mean because she's Jewish?"
"No," Julie protested. "Well, not just that. Remember, Sara is originally from New York, Sandy. Just like you."
"Right," Sandy drawled. "Syracuse. The Bronx. We definitely have New York in common."
Julie closed her eyes, shaking her head sadly. "I just want Sara to have a good time tonight. But if you don't care about the poor woman's feelings . . ."
"So it's Sara's feelings you care about? Not the Newport Group shares that she inherited from Dave."
"You know, Sandy," Julie retorted, her tone clipped, "it is possible to care about both. And doing what's best for the company does not make me a bad person. Kirsten, please tell your husband . . ."
Kirsten sighed wearily. "Sandy, it's fine. I'm fine. You go talk to Sara."
"All right, sweetheart. If you're sure . . ." Sandy said doubtfully.
"I am."
"Oh good," Julie said, tossing her hair back. "See how simple that was? Now everybody's happy."
"Well, we know that's not true," Sandy murmured, after Julie blew them each a kiss and left. "Kirsten, are you really all right? Because I know how much your father upset you."
Kirsten smiled wryly. "He's my dad. He's done the same thing my whole life. I should be used to it by now. It's just that when he attacks the boys . . ."
"I know. Listen, honey, I won't be long. And we'll all go home soon," Sandy promised, leaning down to embrace her.
"Good," Kirsten whispered. She clutched his hand for a moment, her fingers icy. "Sandy? Could you keep an eye out for Ryan and Seth? I haven't seen either one of them since we got here. And I know it's silly, but I'd feel better if I knew where they were."
"I'm sure they're fine," Sandy declared confidently. "But I'll look around for them."
"Thank you." Kirsten gave Sandy's hand a final squeeze before releasing it. "Oh, and sweetheart," she added, "If you do see the boys . . . could you keep my father away from them?"
Sandy nodded. "He won't get within fifteen feet. Trust me."
Kirsten's precarious emotional state had concerned him so much that Sandy hadn't considered how Ryan and Seth were coping with the party. But Kirsten's apprehension was contagious. Sandy suddenly realized that except for a fleeting glimpse of Ryan, he hadn't seen the boys either, not with their friends, not together, not even loitering alone at the edges of the crowd.
Kirsten wasn't the only one who would feel better knowing where they were.
And what, exactly, they were doing.
"So, Atwood, rigor mortis set in up there yet? You'd think a woman as hot as Julie Nichol could throw a party that wasn't stone-cold dead." Eric laughed derisively. "Maybe it's because she married a living fossil. Whaddya think?"
Ryan raised an eyebrow and slouched onto a bench a little distance from the knot of kids. He didn't answer.
"Oh, fuck, hold on . . . Caleb Nichol. Kirsten Nichol. Kirsten Cohen. Hey, no offense, man. I forgot he's like practically your family or something, right?"
"Not my family at all," Ryan said tersely. "So, do you guys have any more . . . hell, anything?" His gesture indicated the beer, the weed, widened to include whatever else might be available.
"Shit, yeah. Hey, Justin," Eric called. "Bring us a couple beers, okay?. . . So what's going on, Atwood? I thought you were all about clean living this year. I mean, good grades, good girls . . . You know, a regular reformed character."
Ryan shrugged. "So now I've de-formed."
Jamie took a last deep drag of her joint and passed it to Eric. "Where is your girl anyway?" she asked, sliding onto the bench beside Ryan. Her words were slightly slurred. "I haven't seen Lindsay around tonight. And I'd expect her to be, like, glued to you . . . I know I would be."
An image of Lindsay pushing him away, eyes fearful and confused, flashed through Ryan's mind. He shook his head, trying to dispel it, or at least replace it: Lindsay smiling trustfully, Lindsay nestled against his chest, Lindsay blushing through a torrent of words that ended in a breathless kiss.
It didn't work. Ryan couldn't make that girl appear.
"She didn't come."
Jamie sucked her lip and looked at him speculatively. "Too bad," she said. "Or maybe . . . not?"
"Here you go, Atwood."
Eric passed Ryan a beer and his fingers closed gratefully around the neck of the bottle. He lifted it with a caustic half-smile. "Welcome to the dark side," he murmured.
Before Ryan could tip the beer into his mouth, Jamie's hand closed over his and pulled the bottle away.
"Ew, don't, Ryan" she said, shuddering so that her breasts shimmied under her gold mesh top. "Don't drink that. I cannot stand the taste of beer."
Ryan cocked his head quizzically. "You're not the one drinking it."
"No," Jamie conceded, her voice throaty and suggestive. "But I could still be the one tasting it."
Ryan's gaze skimmed over her, half sultry, half bemused. He made no move to reclaim the drink as Jamie passed it back to Eric. "How do you figure?"
"Like . . . this?"
Jamie slid her tongue lightly, experimentally around Ryan's mouth, then between his lips until they opened. Instantly, all subtlety disappeared. Her kiss was insistent, a little sloppy and bruising, like a fuck with no foreplay. For a moment, Ryan didn't respond. His brain was still engaged, and it was sending urgent warnings, sirens wailing, lights flashing, flares igniting behind his eyes.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Wrong.
Then the system overloaded. His mind shut down and Ryan surrendered himself to the moment, to Jamie's expert tongue and teeth. His hand came up, clutching the back of her head roughly, fingers tangling in her short, dark hair. Jamie gasped into his mouth, her breath redolent of smoke and weed and no other girl Ryan had ever known.
Behind them, Ryan dimly heard Eric whistle with mocking admiration.
"Impressive technique there, man. Looks like my beer-breath and I have been replaced. Guess I'll just let you and Jamie enjoy a . . . private party. When you're not . . . busy . . . feel free to join the rest of us. Jamie knows where we'll be." He signaled to his friends and they shambled off behind the bushes.
Ryan's eyes had closed, but they fluttered open and he withdrew slightly from Jamie, squinting after Eric's retreating figure. "You and Eric . . . you were together?" he asked, his voice raspy.
Jamie shrugged, unconcerned. "Only for the last ten minutes or so." Her nose wrinkled. "That's all I could take. He did taste like beer. You, on the other hand . . ." She kissed Ryan again hungrily. "Don't."
"Only because somebody stole my drink."
"You don't need it. I've got something better." Jamie pulled a baggie out of her tiny gold purse. "You do smoke, don't you, babe?"
Ryan nodded. "Not recently, but . . . yeah. Sure." To himself, he mumbled bitterly, "Why not?"
"Good. See, better smelling, better tasting, better buzz. Actually, I can offer you lots of things better than beer, Ryan." Jamie stood up, wedged one leg between his and faced him, her knee pressed against his crotch. "First, though, we have got to get rid of this thing."
She flipped the end of Ryan's tie disparagingly.
"Don't like the color?"
"Don't like ties, period."
Jamie began to undo the knot, and suddenly Ryan's brain began functioning again. He remembered Sandy adjusting the tie earlier that evening and smiling at him warmly, even proudly, urging Ryan to hold on to his dreams. Looking at him like a father with unspoken, unconditional love.
Ryan couldn't recall ever seeing that expression in the eyes of his own father—hell, not even his mother—but somehow he recognized it on Sandy's face.
He tried to fix the image in his mind, but it flickered, then faded completely. Ryan started to push Jamie's hands away, his lips even formed the word "Stop," but her mouth swallowed the sound, and then her fingers abandoned the tie. They slid under Ryan's collar, circled, slow and sensual, around his neck, and finally up behind his ears, rubbing and scratching and erasing his doubts, his loyalties, every coherent thought.
All that remained was intense, visceral need.
"Ties are just silly," Jamie purred. "And they hide one of my favorite parts of the body." She unbuttoned Ryan's shirt to mid-chest and leaned forward. "Right . . . here," she whispered, sinking her tongue into the hollow at the base of his throat.
His head dropped back and Jamie worked her way up, sucking the curve of Ryan's Adam's apple, grazing wet over his chin before finding his lips again.
Ryan's mouth felt raw by the time she pulled away.
"No, no beer taste." Jamie sat back on his good leg and licked her lips thoughtfully. "Not sure what it is. Delicious, though . . . I'll figure it out eventually."
Ryan looked up at her, silent, his gaze shadowed and unfocused.
"We'd probably be more comfortable if you got rid of this too," Jamie suggested, fingering his sling. "I mean, you don't have to wear it every minute, do you?"
Ryan inclined his head and let her ease his arm out of the support. His hand dropped to her thigh, automatically sliding underneath the silky fabric that barely covered it.
Jamie squirmed happily under his touch. "So . . ." she murmured, walking her fingers under Ryan's shirt. "I'm thinking, with the sling and the brace and all . . . maybe you have a couple scars somewhere, babe?"
Ryan's expression darkened. "Lots of them," he said, his voice harsh.
Jamie's eyes glittered, excited. "Really? Because I love scars, Ryan. They're all mysterious. And sexy. And a little, I don't know, dangerous. Like stories you tell in the dark, you know?" She pushed back his hair, fingered a mark above his left eyebrow. "There's one," she said, and kissed the spot. "And this little one . . . I've noticed it before." Her lips anointed a tiny blemish over the right side of Ryan's mouth. "Give me enough time, babe, and I bet I can find them all."
Ryan shook his head. "You never will," he warned.
Jamie smiled confidently and snaked her arms around his neck. "Maybe not," she breathed, hot, into his ear. "But I can try."
By the time he finished his third champagne, Seth decided that the drink was unsatisfactory. Too bubbly. Too tickle-y. He needed something serious, something that didn't even resemble a soft drink, if he was actually going to talk to people. Drawing himself up to his full height, Seth marched over to the bar and opened his mouth to place an adult, hard-liquor order.
"Cohen! Don't even think about it!"
Summer's voice immobilized him as if she had caught him in a game of freeze tag.
"Here," she said, thrusting a soda at Seth. "This is what you're drinking tonight."
"Um, Summer, thanks for the concern and all, but I'm just a teeny bit thirstier than that." Seth set the glass on a nearby table and swiveled back to the bar. He ignored Summer, which was difficult since she began plucking his sleeve and then signaling over his head. "All right, my good man. I'll have a . . . um, a scotch and water. Twenty-one year old scotch if you've got it. Twenty-one. Same age as me. Absolutely legal and everything, so no worries here, no-sirree, nada. None. Not a one."
Alex sidled in next to Seth and nodded at the bartender. "Just give him the water part, thanks . . . Nothing better to quench your thirst, Seth . . . Good save, by the way, Summer."
She and Summer each grabbed one of his elbows, and together they walked Seth away from the bar.
"What is this? A tag-team intervention? I haven't even had a drink yet," he protested. "Well, nothing I would really call a drink anyway."
"And that's just the way we're keeping it," Summer replied. "Do you remember what happened the last time you decided to get drunk, Cohen?"
"Uh, not so much. Although I did hear stories. Horrible, scary stories."
"Just be grateful they weren't illustrated. Vomit everywhere, Seth. And I have no intention of cleaning up after you again," Alex declared. "Literally or otherwise . . . Okay, Summer, I've done my part. He's all yours now." She dropped Seth's arm, turned him to face Summer, and strode away.
Seth flashed a wide, goofy grin. "So . . . I'm all yours?" he asked. "Okay . . . works for me. Hug? Hmm? What do you say, Summer? Little hug here?" He opened his arms wide and waited, swaying a little.
"In your dreams, Cohen. It was just a figure of speech." Summer pushed Seth down onto an empty loveseat, and then squeezed next to him. "What were you thinking?" she hissed furiously. "You were going to drink? Doesn't your mouth do enough damage when you're sober? And you're at your grandfather's house, dumbass. Your parents are here!" She rapped Seth sharply on the forehead with her fist.
"Hey!" Seth protested. "Watch it, Summer. You could cause some serious brain damage that way."
"Only if you actually had a brain," Summer retorted. "God! It's like every day you find new ways to be stupid."
"Yeah, well, I like to keep myself on the cutting edge."
Summer glared at him and Seth sighed. "Fine. You're right. You're always right, Summer. I probably shouldn't drink. Alcohol and I? Not exactly kindred spirits . . . See, 'spirits'? Alcohol?" He nudged her shoulder. "Get it?"
"Cohen, stop joking!" Summer ordered. "And definitely stop explaining your jokes."
'Oh. You don't like that either, huh?"
"Nobody does," Summer said firmly. "Just tell me why you're being such an idiot tonight."
Seth visibly deflated. His manic smile vanished and he slumped into the corner of the loveseat. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's just harder being here tonight than I thought it would be."
"Why? You should be used to Newport parties by now."
"Yeah, I am. And what's not to love?" Seth scoffed. "Pretentious music, pretentious food, pretentious people . . ."
"Present company excepted, right?"
"Right," Seth said listlessly. Summer elbowed him and he amended with more energy, "Yeah, right, Summer. You are the exact opposite of pretentious, whatever the opposite of pretentious is."
"Thank you," Summer purred. "It's real. I, Cohen, am real."
"Yeah, only see, you may be real, but you're not really with me."
Summer rolled her eyes. "Duh! Sitting right next to you, Cohen. How much did you have to drink before Alex and I got to you anyway?"
"Not enough. Unfortunately." Seth picked up a glossy Newport Living magazine and began flicking his finger at the picture of Julie on the cover. "See, though. this is like a mercy conversation, Summer. You'll hang around for a few minutes and then you'll be off to play Archie and Veronica with Zach again, and you'll forget all about me."
"I won't. Trust me, I've tried. It doesn't work. I think I need, like, a Vulcan mind-meld or something to erase my memories of Seth Cohen."
Seth's dimples flashed and Summer groaned. "You see? You see what I mean? Pre-Cohen, would I ever have used a Star Wars reference?"
"Trek. Star Trek. And it's touching, even if it's wrong."
"Whatever." Summer flipped her hair behind her ears, stood up and adjusted her skirt. "Okay, Cohen. Real world time. You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start dealing with your problems. Now the gang's outside and I'm heading back there. Oh, and hey, Luke's in town, so he showed up too. Do you want to come with?"
Seth folded the magazine cover in on itself so that it looked as if Julie was cross-eyed. It was a definite improvement. "What? And be the Jughead in the group? Yeah, thanks for the offer, but no."
"Then what are you going to do? Sit here and sulk?"
"Here, in the meet-greet-and-move-on room? No. I'm sure I can find someplace with better sulking atmosphere. Moodier lighting. Maybe some blues playing in the background."
Summer sighed. "I don't get it, Cohen. What's with the self-pity? I expected that you'd be in a good mood tonight. Did you and Ryan fight again or something? Because I seem to remember that when you called and, oh yeah, woke me up, you said things were getting better between you."
"Yeah, but you know the old two steps forward, one step back thing? I think with us it's more like one baby step forward, two giant steps back."
"So, what, you guys haven't been hanging out together?"
Seth hunched his shoulders.
"At all?" Summer's eyes widened with alarm. "Where is Chino anyway? I saw him earlier, but come to think of it, not for quite a while."
Seth shrugged again. "I don't know. Ryan disappeared pretty much the minute we walked in."
"You mean Chino's lost somewhere in this party?" Summer frowned, then pulled Seth to his feet. "Go. Go find him, Cohen. I'd help, but Zach is waiting for me and . . . God, Ryan better not be with that woman again."
"Woman? Ryan was with a woman? What woman?" Seth's eyes lit with interest.
"Never mind. " Summer blew out an exasperated breath. "Honestly, boys! . . . Just go track down Chino, okay? And when you find him, bring him back with you to the terrace. Got that, Cohen? Find. Bring. Terrace. Fast."
"Summer, I'm reasonably sure that Ryan doesn't need a search and rescue party. And if he did, he wouldn't want me running it."
"What Ryan doesn't need is to be alone at a party like this, Cohen. These people eat their young. Believe me, somebody already tried to turn Chino into an appetizer. Be a friend and go find him. Whether he wants to be found or not."
"Be a friend, huh?"
"Right. I just hope you remember how. Now go." Summer placed both hands against the small of Seth's back and shoved. "Cohen!" she ordered when he began to shamble idly away. "Move! I mean it! This is important."
Seth obediently picked up his pace.
Summer's voice called after him. "Remember, no more drinking. And Cohen, warp speed! We're counting on you!"
TBC