All disclaimers apply and all errors are mine. And as always, thanks for the feedback.
Chapter 17
The vibration of Summer's cell phone roused her from the semi-slumber she had been enjoying on Seth's bed. She sat up, checked the display and flipped the phone closed.
"Cohen!" she called softly. "Hey, Cohen, that was Lindsay. She's ready to go." Summer looked down at the floor where Seth was sprawled on his side, ear to the carpet. "What are you doing down there anyway?"
"Giving you room to stretch out on the bed," he claimed, raising his head and running a hand through his floor-flattened curls.
Summer gave an indelicate snort and kicked the leg nearest her. "You were so not. You were trying to hear what was going on in Ryan's room. Perv!"
"Hey!" Seth protested, scrambling gracelessly to his feet. "Ryan could be in serious danger down there alone with Lindsay. Hell hath no fury, remember?"
He danced away in time to avoid the swat Summer aimed at his chest.
"You want to see hell hath no fury?" Summer demanded. She planted her hands on her hips, glaring up at him.
"Okay, yeah, totally got the picture. But come on, Summer. I was just making sure that Ryan didn't need me to, you know, stop Lindsay before she made him sing soprano." Seth retreated again as Summer advanced toward him.
"Just because you saved Chino from being ripped apart by one female tonight does not mean he'll need you to do it again. But speaking of that incident with Jamie . . . come here, Cohen."
Seth looked at Summer warily, shaking his head. "Um . . . no, I don't think so. I kinda want to keep my body parts. You know, they may not be much, but they're mine."
"Come here," Summer repeated firmly.
Seth clenched his eyes and shuffled closer, wincing in anticipation.
"This," Summer said, "is for trying to be a superhero tonight, Cohen." Standing on tiptoe she kissed him gently on the lips.
Seth's eyes flew open.
"Summer?"
"You done good, Cohen. I mean, you failed in the end, but absolutely A for effort. And come to think of it . . ." Summer cocked her head thoughtfully. Then she kissed Seth again, a little longer and deeper, pulling away just as he began to respond.
"Um," Seth stammered, licking his lips. "And what was that for? . . . Not that I'm complaining, you understand, because yeah, definitely not, but . . ."
Summer picked up her shoes by the straps and grabbed her purse. "Well, I just realized—first I kept that walking plastic surgery ad from getting her claws into Chino, and then you kept Jamie from doing the same thing. That kiss was just to say, we make a pretty damn good team, Cohen."
Seth nodded eagerly. "Now see, that's what I've always thought . . ."
"Just don't go thinking it means anything else," Summer warned.
"Conclusions? You? No jumping, Cohen, I mean it."
"No, yeah, got it, we're just . . . a good team," Seth conceded, smiling smugly.
Summer rolled her eyes and picked up her purse. "Night, Cohen."
"Good night," Seth whispered. "No, Summer, hey, wait," he hissed, as she was slipping out. "What walking plastic surgery ad?"
Summer didn't answer. She just smiled and tiptoed downstairs, leaving Seth happy, hopeful, and more than a little confused.
"Sandy," Kirsten whispered. "Sandy, are you asleep?"
"I was," Sandy groaned, pushing a thatch of unruly hair out of his eyes. "What is it, honey?"
"I thought I heard someone on the stairs."
"Must be Seth," Sandy yawned. "We forgot to ground him from midnight snacks. Remind me to do that in the morning"
Kirsten started to settle back into her pillow, but then she sat up again. "Sandy! Didn't you hear that? That was the door . . . You don't suppose the boys . . .?"
"Oh, they wouldn't." Sandy kicked away the covers and crossed to the window in two steps. He pulled back the curtains, peering into the darkness outside. "What the hell?"
"Sandy?" Kirsten demanded, her voice thin with fear. "Did Seth go out? Or Ryan? We have to go after them . . ." She stumbled to the dresser, pulling out street clothes. "God, why would they do this after everything else? I thought they really heard what we were saying . . ."
Sandy put a pacifying hand on her arm. "Sweetheart, stop. It wasn't either of the boys," he reported, leading her back to bed, "It was Lindsay. And Summer. Leaving our house. I cannot believe Seth and Ryan snuck girls in tonight after we grounded them. What do they need? An itemized list of what they're not allowed to do? Because I will be more than happy to provide one." Sandy sighed, exhausted, and rolled over, trying to find the spot on the mattress already warmed by his body. "Okay. I am too tired to deal with anything else right now, but tomorrow, sweetheart . . . tomorrow those boys are going to learn exactly what consequences are. Nana Cohen style, too, if they cost me any more sleep."
Kirsten murmured agreement and burrowed into her favorite spot under Sandy's arm. Then, just as Sandy was drifting back to sleep, Kirsten nudged him.
"Sandy . . ."
"Hmm? Kirsten? What now?"
"Lindsay and Summer? Really . . . why would they be here? Seth and Summer don't go together anymore and Lindsay . . . after what Ryan did, I can't believe she's even speaking to him. What's going on?"
Sandy responded with a soft, and obviously false, snore.
Kirsten glared at him indignantly. "Sandy!" she protested. "Doesn't this bother you at all?"
"Of course it does." Sandy gave a weary sigh. "And I promise you, sweetheart, I'll let it bother me plenty more tomorrow. But for now, could we please get some rest?"
Ryan rolled over. His hand fell flat on the cool emptiness that Lindsay's body had filled a few hours ago, and his eyes fluttered open. Blowing out a defeated breath, he hiked himself up until he was sitting against the headboard, one hand pillowing the back of his neck.
The sun hadn't risen, but he was already awake.
It didn't make sense. He had fallen asleep so easily after Lindsay left. Sated, spent and content, Ryan had found himself smiling drowsily into the dark. His body relaxed and surrendered to oblivion almost before he settled all the way back on the bed.
For a while he enjoyed a deep, dreamless rest, but then something woke him, some nagging, nameless feeling.
Sighing, Ryan pulled a pillow over and hugged it to his chest. He closed his eyes again, taking deep breaths, trying to reclaim the sense of peaceful clarity that had lulled him to sleep by focusing on how last night had ended: soft words from Kirsten, empathy tempering Sandy's anger, a tentative rapprochement with Seth, and then, totally unexpected—undeserved too, Ryan thought—Lindsay's forgiveness.
Making love with her . . . it had felt almost like absolution.
But each memory Ryan summoned pulled along a distorted twin.
Kirsten, having to defend him to her father.
The disappointment on Sandy's face when he realized what Ryan was doing at the foot of the drive.
Seth, trying to extricate Ryan from the tangled mess he created, then getting snared in it himself.
Lindsay carrying her shoes and peeking furtively out of the guest room door, so she could slip away undetected.
Ryan pushed himself back down in bed and thrashed onto his side, wincing.
His efforts to thrust away those memories cleared the way for others instead. They whirled through his brain, a kaleidoscope that dizzied him, images that he wanted to stitch together, or else erase entirely. But Ryan couldn't separate them, couldn't fix anything in place.
Theresa's last kiss when he left her for Portland.
Sandy shouting from the stands when Ryan played soccer last year.
Trey in the back of the police car when they were arrested, flashing him a look of mingled apology, warning and regret.
Seth waiting at his locker each day after school, ready to erupt into an explosion of words, ready to share everything.
The metallic tone of the announcement, "This number has been disconnected," when Ryan tried to call Dawn last year and thank her for the Chrismukkah gift that she sent.
Lindsay's red-gold hair spilling forward whenever she dropped her face to Ryan's chest after they kissed.
Papers in his hand—the note his mother left when she abandoned him, legal documents from social services making him a number in the system, the rejection letter from UCLA.
Sandy and Kirsten checking his daily schedule along with Seth's, making sure they always knew where both boys could be found.
Caleb's curt, silent nod of acknowledgement when he came to the house and Ryan answered the door.
The impossible pride in Kirsten's eyes when Ryan gave her his first perfect report card last fall.
He had spent the last year working to keep everything in its proper place, but now it all jumbled together. And Ryan needed his world to be neat.
Maybe, he thought, everything seemed warped because he and Lindsay had made love here, in the Cohen house, after Sandy had grounded him. It hadn't felt wrong—it had felt wonderful, even necessary—but now other emotions attached themselves to the act: selfishness; guilt; even a kind of dread.
Ryan wondered how upset they would be if he told Kirsten and Sandy that Lindsay had been with him last night without their knowledge. Or rather, when he told them, because he decided that he had to confess.
But he was just so tired of apologizing for living his life.
For a moment, Ryan considered waking Seth and discussing the whole situation with him, but he couldn't make himself do it. "This is your mess. You clean it up, Atwood," Ryan muttered. Slamming a fist into his pillow, he buried his head in the hollow he had created, and willed himself back into oblivion.
Maybe the saying was true, and things really would look different in the morning.
Julie sat at a patio table, a satin sleep mask pushed high on her forehead. She was massaging her temples between sipping juice and nibbling a maple-nut roll. All outward reminders of the party were gone, except for deep circles under her eyes and a stray centerpiece that had somehow been overlooked when the wait crew packed up. Julie made a mental note to add that to the list of complaints she intended to file. None of the grievances were major but somebody had to insist on high standards of service.
God knows they were paying enough for it.
"Juju," Caleb said shortly, sitting down and pouring himself a cup of coffee.
Julie smothered a yawn and looked at him in surprise. "No good morning, Cal? No kiss?" She noticed the expanse of empty space in front of him. "And no newspaper? You always read the financial section with breakfast. What's wrong, darling?" Her voice tensed with foreboding. "Didn't you think the party went well? Because I worked so hard. . ."
"The party was fine. And I know you worked hard." Caleb declared. He turned around, snapped his fingers in the direction of the kitchen, and pointed imperiously to the table. "You must have, since it seems that we actually hosted two parties last night."
Julie squinted at him, trying to focus in the morning glare. She wished that she had remembered her sunglasses, and that she hadn't refused her regular Bloody Mary. A virgin version was no substitute. "Two? What on earth are you talking about, Cal?"
"I've just been on the phone with the security staff. It seems they discovered evidence of a little bacchanalia near the end of the driveway last night." Caleb tapped his fingers against his coffee cup in irritation. "Great work on their part, wouldn't you say? Telling me about it after the fact, instead of when I could have really used the information."
"Wait a minute, Cal. Back up," Julie urged in bewilderment. "A bacchanalia? What . . .?
Caleb snorted. "An orgy, or damn near close to it. Beer bottles, drugs, used condoms."
"Oh my God." Julie hastily swallowed more juice to hide the smile that appeared automatically at the fuzzy memory of similar parties in her past. "Cal, I swear I know nothing about that."
"Good God, Juju, I wasn't suggesting that you did," Caleb retorted. He gave Julie a measuring look, wondering how many misadventures his P.I.s had overlooked when they checked out her past. At the moment, though, that wasn't his concern. "However, I did get descriptions of some of the participants."
He paused, while their cook served his broiled grapefruit and egg-white omelet.
"So?" Julie prompted. "Who was there, Cal?" She leaned forward, attempting to show concern, but feeling a little thrill of happy anticipation at the prospect of a scandal in which she wasn't the star.
Caleb spooned up a grapefruit section and swallowed it with a slight grimace before answering. "Half a dozen members of that teenage and college crowd you insisted on inviting so that Marissa could mingle with the best people, Juju." His lips curled in derision. "So much for good breeding, obviously. Oh . . . and there was somebody else there. Someone we know."
Julie's eyes lit up. "Really?" She shimmied a little in her seat before stopping suddenly and demanding, "Wait. Please don't tell me that Marissa was there. She swore to me that she'd be on her best behavior last night, and I thought she spent most of the evening right here on the terrace. If that girl has found another way to embarrass me . . ."
"Marissa wasn't involved. At least not to my knowledge," Caleb said coolly. He drained the last of his coffee and smiled with bitter satisfaction. "But Ryan was. That boy has finally shown his true colors, Juju. Now I just have to make sure that the right people see them."
Kirsten smoothed a hand over her uncombed hair as she came downstairs and pulled her robe tighter. The rude, insistent sound of the doorbell had wakened her. When she had nudged Sandy, all she had gotten in return was an incoherent, "Hmmph? Wha . . .?" and she was sure the boys were still sleeping off the effects of the previous night. All the effects, she thought grimly.
So it was up to her.
Nine-forty-seven a.m. Not actually that early, except that it was a Sunday morning.
A Sunday morning after a dramatic Saturday night, Kirsten amended. A night that included a party, altercations with Caleb and Julie, a confrontation with Seth and Ryan, and finally an energetic private celebration with Sandy.
No wonder she was exhausted.
Kirsten groaned, half expecting to see her father when she flung open the door. He was tireless when he fixated on a project, and she knew he would want to resume his combination lecture/tirade from last night. Kirsten realized that she'd have to face that conversation sometime, but she really didn't have the energy for it now.
The defensive greeting she had prepared died on her lips when she saw Lindsay and Summer on the threshold.
"Girls?" Kirsten's surprise was obvious. "Good morning. I wasn't . . . expecting you."
Lindsay looked apologetic and a little embarrassed. Summer looked half-asleep.
"Kirsten, hi," Lindsay said uncertainly. "I'm sorry. We woke you, didn't we? We—I—should have called first."
Kirsten shook her head. "No, of course not. You're welcome anytime." Her tone conveyed hospitality, but a little suspicion. "Come on in, girls. Have you had breakfast yet? Would you like anything to eat? Drink?"
"Coffee please," Summer moaned. "Coffee would be good."
"I . . . sort of dragged her here," Lindsay admitted as they all moved to the kitchen. "For moral support."
Summer gave an extravagant yawn, perched on a stool, and cradled her head on the counter. "Wake me when you need me to say something supportive," she murmured. "I'll be right here, dreaming that I'm still asleep."
Kirsten's lips twitched in amusement. She turned on the coffee maker and pulled three mugs from the cabinet, asking over her shoulder, "Why do you need moral support to come here, Lindsay? After all, we're family."
Lindsay chewed her bottom lip and fiddled nervously with strands of hair that had fallen loose from her braid. "I have a confession to make. And an apology. And then a favor to ask."
"Wow," Kirsten observed mildly. "That's a pretty full order for a Sunday morning. So where do you want to start?"
"Um . . . with the confession?" Lindsay suggested. "Oh . . . good morning, Sandy."
Sandy gave her a bleary smile as he shambled into the kitchen. "Morning, Lindsay," he said, his voice raspy and not quite awake. He studied the slumped form at the counter, face hidden under cascading dark hair. "Summer?"
Without rousing, Summer raised a hand lethargically in greeting. "Yeah, it's me. I think. Morning, Mr. Cohen."
Sandy reached over Kirsten's head to take down another coffee mug, dropping a quick kiss on her forehead. "So I didn't dream the doorbell ringing? You poking me in the side to wake me up?"
"No, and no, and I did not poke you. I nudged gently," Kirsten replied, patting his cheek. "Do you want a bagel, honey?"
"Always," Sandy told her, adding, as Kirsten took out the slicer, "No, you handle the coffee. I'm in charge of the actual foodstuff."
Kirsten rolled her eyes. "I can't ruin bagels, Sandy," she protested.
Sandy leaned toward Lindsay, confiding conspiratorially, "That's what she says, but she can't schmear to save her life . . . So, what's up, ladies? To what do we owe the honor of this early morning visit? I hope you're not here to see Ryan and Seth. Because . . ."
"No. No, we came to see you. I mean, I did," Lindsay stammered. She pulled her braid over her shoulder, and tugged nervously at the end of it. "I was about to, well, confess something. And apologize. To Kirsten and . . . well, to both of you, really. Last night I, um, I used the key that you gave me. I let myself in."
Sandy raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Kirsten brought a tray with cream and assorted sweeteners to the counter, then sat down, looking at Lindsay attentively.
"Last night?" she prompted.
Lindsay fixed her eyes on her tightly clasped hands. Her voice was mortified. "Yes. Summer and I were already in the house when you came home from the party. She drove me here after . . . well, you know, Sandy."
Kirsten and Sandy exchanged looks. "Ah," Sandy drawled. "Well, that does explain a few things."
"I know we—I—should have let you know we were here." Now that she had started, Lindsay was eager to finish as quickly as possible, and her words began to tumble over each other. "But I was really upset, and I needed to talk to Ryan, only I knew you guys were upset too, so I was afraid you'd tell me to go home, or even if you didn't, Ryan would refuse to talk to me if he could figure out a way to avoid it. So," she concluded, suddenly exhausted, "I just waited in his room for him."
"We ambushed him." Summer's voice was muted by her arm-pillow, but it managed to sound smug anyway.
"Yes," Lindsay conceded. "We did. I did."
Sandy nodded sagely. "Ah," he said again.
"I know it was wrong and . . . and rude, and presumptuous, and practically trespassing," Lindsay whispered. "I shouldn't have done it. And I'm really sorry. If you guys want your key back . . .." She pulled it from her purse and held it out, her lips twisting apologetically.
Kirsten reached across the counter and covered Lindsay's hand with hers.
"Keep the key, sweetie," she said. "But in the future, Sandy and I would appreciate it if you'd let us know when you use it."
Lindsay bobbed her head in agreement, her eyes still downcast.
Summer raised a finger slightly and tapped her own head. "I'm sorry too," she said, the words half smothered by another yawn.
"Apologies accepted," Sandy laughed. "Bagel? Lindsay?"
"No, but thank you anyway, Sandy."
"Summer?"
"Mm, no thanks. Wait . . . maybe yes. Cinnamon raisin? No cream cheese, though. Too messy." Summer's hand reached out blindly and Sandy put a bagel into it, watching in amusement as she bit into it, eyes still closed.
Kirsten poured the coffee and passed cups around the counter. "So, you and Ryan . . . talked?" she asked Lindsay carefully. "Did you work things out? I know what he did must have been . . . hurtful for you."
Lindsay flushed and tried to hide behind her mug. "It was, but we worked everything out, I think, and . . . I'm really sorry, Kirsten."
"Sweetie, why are you sorry that you and Ryan made up?"
Lindsay's blush deepened painfully. "I'm not. I mean, it's not that. I'm just sorry that Ryan and I . . . that I was here so late last night. With him. In your house and . . . everything. We know we shouldn't have, but . . . things just happened. And I just want you to know. It's was my fault, not Ryan's."
"Oh," Kirsten breathed with sudden comprehension. "I see."
Sandy swallowed a smirk along with his bite of bagel, and his wife shot him a reproachful glance. He sobered instantly, observing, "I just hope you kids . . . made up . . . carefully, Lindsay. You did use . . .?"
"Oh, we did. I mean, we were. Oh God, this is so embarrassing," Lindsay moaned.
Sandy chuckled. "You think this is embarrassing?" he teased. "Check in with Ryan after I have a little talk with him later."
Lindsay's eyes widened and she sank down on her stool.
"Sandy, leave Lindsay alone," Kirsten scolded. "She was brave and honest to come here and tell us what happened, and I'm proud of her for doing that." She went to refill her coffee cup, despite the fact that it was nearly full. As she moved past him, Kirsten whispered in Sandy's ear, "But a talk with Ryan is definitely a good idea."
Summer peeked up from behind her hair. "Linds? Confession made, right? And apology accepted? Maybe it's time to ask for the favor."
"Can you wake up enough to help?" Lindsay begged. "Please? I need you to help me convince them."
"Convince us of what?" Sandy demanded, at the same time that Kirsten inquired, "What favor?"
"Just . . . something we want to do. Today. For Seth and Ryan. We think they really need it, Kirsten."
"Ryan and Seth are both grounded, girls," Sandy told them. "Whatever you have in mind will have to wait. Kirsten and I have our own plans for those boys."
"They said they were on punishment. But please, Sandy . . ." Lindsay began.
When she faltered, looking helplessly from Sandy to Kirsten, Summer jumped in. "Just hear us out, Mr. Cohen. Okay? Listen to our arguments, and then make your decision."
"Oh, so you two are the lawyers and I'm the judge," Sandy concluded. He looked over at Kirsten, who smiled and shrugged. "All right, ladies. I'll hear your case. But only because I always wondered what it would be like to sit on the bench . . . Honey, do we actually have a bench?"
Sandy strode briskly into Ryan's bedroom and flung open the curtain, letting in the insistent sunlight. To enhance the rise-and-shine effect, he began singing an improvised song with the "Happy Birthday" tune and "Good Morning" lyrics.
Ryan groaned, throwing a protective forearm over his closed eyes. The last time he had checked the clock, it was 4:15, and every muscle in his body was protesting a lack of sleep. He tried to burrow deeper into his pillow and cover his ears at the same time.
"Oh no you don't, kid," Sandy warned. He pried Ryan's arm away from his face and pulled him, not too gently, into an upright position. "Time to get up."
Ryan grudgingly opened his eyes and squinted past Sandy at Seth, who stood slumped and half-conscious in the doorway.
"Don't look at me, man," Seth shrugged. "Dad must be channeling his inner camp counselor. He just did the same wakey-wakey routine with me upstairs. Hint: if you don't move fast enough, he'll help you get dressed too."
Ryan's eyes widened in alarm. "Getting up now," he promised, his voice raw and deeper than usual. He started to struggle out from under the comforter. Then he hastily wrapped it around his waist instead, remembering just in time that he wasn't wearing any clothes, and that his chest sported several incriminating marks. "I can handle getting dressed by myself, Sandy."
"Glad to hear it," Sandy said cheerfully. "Okay, now, boys, here's the deal--"
"Wait," Ryan blurted. "Before you say anything else, Sandy. Just . . . wait."
Sandy's eyebrows furrowed in surprise, but he stopped talking.
Ryan blew out a breath and clutched the comforter tighter, bracing himself. "I just . . . you're not going to like it, but I've got to tell you. Last night . . . Lindsay was here."
Behind Sandy's back, Seth grimaced and shook his head violently, but Ryan ignored him. His eyes fixed on Sandy, expecting an inevitable emotion, anger or disappointment.
"Was she now?" Sandy asked neutrally.
Ryan blinked, surprised at the bland response. "Yeah," he confirmed. "I know that I'm grounded and I should have told her to go home, but I . . . wanted the chance to make things right between us."
"I see. So, did you?"
Ryan nodded warily. He wasn't sure what to make Sandy's continued indifference. "I think so. But . . . well, I'm sorry. For letting her stay without permission, I mean. I'll apologize to Kirsten too."
"Good idea," Sandy agreed. He gave Ryan a brief, penetrating look, then glanced back over his shoulder at Seth. "Anything you want to add to this discussion, son?"
"No. I don't think so. Well, maybe. Let me think. Okay, yeah," Seth stammered. "Summer was here last night too. In my room. With me."
"Waiting for Lindsay," Ryan interjected.
"Yeah," Seth confirmed, "or, I mean, well . . . yeah. That's why she came anyway. So . . . right, Dad. What Ryan said. Sorry. At least, well, you know, not sorry-sorry, but, yeah, sorry."
Sandy grinned. "Confession is good for the soul, isn't it?" He rubbed his palms together. "Okay, you guys have thirty minutes to get yourselves ready for the day. Shower, eat, have some coffee, brush your teeth—whatever you need to do. Then I expect both of you out on the patio. Your mother and I have a list of chores that you need to finish before two o'clock today."
"Chores?" Seth echoed in disbelief. "Today? Dad, today is Sunday. Day of rest, remember? Day of slow-motion movement. Day of ginormous newspapers with many, many informative articles and three really challenging crossword puzzles. Ryan, tell him."
Bemused, Ryan peered at Sandy and hazarded a half-smile. "The Sunday crossword puzzles are really challenging for Seth," he said innocently.
Sandy coughed to smother a laugh.
"See Dad? Even Ryan agrees with me, not that his opinion really counts where words are involved, but . . . Wait a minute. Challenging 'for Seth'?" Seth's eyes widened in mock-indignation. "'For Seth?' . . . Tried to slip that one past me, didn't you, dude? See, I do listen . . . Anyway, back on point. Dad, since when do we do chores on Sunday?"
"Since when do you two drink and smoke marijuana?" Sandy countered.
Seth winced. "Ouch. But Dad, as I believe I pointed out last night, the drinking, the smoking—two separate activities, two separate sons doing them . . ."
Ryan stopped gathering his clothes and darted a startled glance over his shoulder at the phrase "two sons."
True, Sandy sometimes called Seth and Ryan jointly "my kids," but Ryan assumed he meant the phrase the way teachers did when they used it to talk about their students: an inclusive expression, even an endearment, but one that didn't imply any real connection. And Ryan had become accustomed to the Cohens referring to him as a member of the family. That was a vague term, though; it could mean a distant cousin, an honorary uncle, someone who still had to wear a nametag to be acknowledged at a reunion. Even Seth's "bro" meant little more than his ubiquitous "dudes" and "mans."
"Two sons"? That was different. It was specific and significant and Ryan didn't understand how Seth could just toss it blithely into the middle of the conversation. He looked at Sandy closely, searching for a reaction that would mirror his own. All Ryan saw on Sandy's face was amused irritation as Seth spun an increasingly convoluted argument involving Jesus, Moses, and biblical precedents for keeping Sundays chore-free.
"You gave it a shot, Seth. Let it go," Ryan cautioned, heading for the bathroom. "My guess? Your dad's not in the mood for your unique logic today."
"Good guess, kid." Sandy smiled, propelling Seth out of the doorway and all the way into the bedroom as he left. Once in the hall, he paused, stretched ostentatiously, and volleyed a parting shot. "Now that you guys are moving, I think I'll kick back, put my feet up, and relax. Nothing I love more than a long, lazy Sunday morning with nothing to do. Except maybe a good crossword puzzle. Or three."
"Funny!" Seth called after him. "You're a funny man, Dad."
He collapsed onto Ryan's vacated bed and promptly closed his eyes, sputtering awake minutes later when Ryan emerged from the bathroom and dropped a damp towel on his face.
"I don't get to sleep, you don't get to sleep," Ryan growled. "Seth, what is going on with your dad? He was so pissed last night, and now he didn't even seem upset about Lindsay and Summer being here."
Seth wrestled the towel off his head. "Okay, that's two rude awakenings in one morning. Cruel and unusual, dude. And don't forget, Dad woke me up first. You got ten extra minutes of shut-eye out of the deal. Of course . . . " His eyes gleamed and he added meaningfully, "maybe you needed it."
Ryan glared at him.
"No, hey, dude, I meant because you got up early yesterday to make breakfast. That's all," Seth claimed. "Unless, you know, it's not." He started to get up, fell back on the bed, and stretched an arm up with a beseeching smile. Ryan rolled his eyes, but he reached down and hoisted Seth to his feet, then took the towel back into the bathroom and draped it over the shower rod to dry.
"Yeah," Seth continued conversationally, as he finger-combed his hair in front of the mirror. "I don't know what the hell's gotten into Dad this morning. It's like his Grinch-y heart has grown two sizes too small overnight. You'd think that the never-ending grounding would satisfy him. Now he's adding chores? On a Sunday? And what is the deal with things having to be done by two o'clock? What things? Why two?"
"Don't know, don't know, and also do not know," Ryan answered. "Come on, Seth. We've got exactly twenty-four minutes to have breakfast."
"And speed read the paper, dude. Don't forget that. If my fingers aren't stained by newspaper ink on a Sunday, civilization as we know it ceases to exist." Seth slouched after Ryan to the kitchen, almost barreling into him when Ryan halted abruptly in the doorway. He peered over Ryan's shoulder to see why he stopped.
"Whoa," he breathed.
"Yeah," Ryan murmured, scanning the room. "Whoa."
"Ryan?" Seth asked, his voice bewildered. "What the hell happened in here?"
TBC