Collision Course 18
Seth and Ryan froze, staring bewildered at the scene in front of them.
The kitchen was a mess, with sticky notes plastered everywhere: "Clean me," on the counter, which was smudged with cream cheese, peanut butter, and at least two kinds of jelly; "Wash me," on a stack of dirty dishes; "Rinse me," on the grimy coffee maker; "Fill me," on an empty juice carafe; "Sweep me," staring up at them from the soiled floor.
Seth tiptoed around the room warily. "Ryan?" he whispered, as if the place was a crime scene and the murderer might still be lurking within earshot. "What in the names of Jesus and Moses do you suppose happened here?"
Ryan touched a finger to the sticky surface of the counter and hazarded a guess. "Your parents had breakfast? Lots of breakfast? With their eyes closed?"
"Yeah," Seth murmured. "And maybe right after they read Alice in Wonderland." Ryan shook his head blankly and he explained, "The bottle? The cake? 'Drink me'? 'Eat me'? . . . Okay, I did not just say that . . . Anyway, Ryan, look at this. I mean, it's Mom's handwriting, but . . . do you suppose it's some kind of code?" Seth pulled a "Scrub me" note off the sink and turned it over looking for clues.
Both boys jumped slightly when Kirsten's voice startled them out of their stupor. "Oh, good morning, Ryan. Seth. Glad to see you up and around finally." She waved casually as she strolled to the French doors, carrying the magazine section and a bottle of sunscreen. Automatically, silently, Seth and Ryan each raised a hand in dazed greeting.
Kirsten paused before she went outside to smile and add, "Be sure to finish those little jobs before you come out, all right? You have, let's see, twenty minutes now."
"We have twenty minutes," Seth repeated numbly. "Ryan . . . dude . . . something is so not right here. I don't mind telling you, I'm scared. I am very, very cue-the-Twilight-Zone-music-scared. Maybe the 'rents are punishing us by, I don't know? Becoming pod people overnight?"
Ryan stared with dismay at the stacks of dirty dishes, cups and silverware. "It doesn't make sense. How could they use so much stuff just for breakfast for two people? When they didn't even cook? It's like they messed things up on purpose . . . Seth, they wouldn't mess things up on purpose, would they? Just to make work for us?"
"Hey, man, I don't know what 'they' would do," Seth admitted. He clenched his eyes shut, opened them again and shivered. "I'm not sure who 'they' are."
Ryan frowned, looking pensively out the window at Kirsten and Sandy who were stretched out in neighboring deck chairs, their fingers touching lightly on Kirsten's armrest. The scene looked relaxed and normal, but Ryan had the uneasy feeling that something had been deliberately skewed, that he and Seth were being kept off balance on purpose.
He could imagine Sandy doing it—manufacturing some contrived circumstance that would force them to interact. But it would be something believable like the situations he'd already arranged—mandatory family dinners, Seth having to chauffer him to rehab. Not like this. This was just really . . . silly.
But maybe, Ryan thought, that was the whole point.
For the past couple weeks, every encounter in the Cohen household had been so intense, so fraught with import and potential pain. Maybe this morning, Sandy and Kirsten wanted to lighten the mood somehow.
Ryan suddenly became aware that Seth was watching him, eyes dark with anxiety.
"What are you thinking, dude?"
Ryan shrugged.
"No, seriously," Seth persisted. "Metaphorical wheels turning, gears grinding, light bulbs flashing . . . I got a whole rumination-on-the-verge-of-eureka vibe just now."
"You got all that, huh?"
Seth idly rearranged the nearest post-it notes so that "Empty me" wound up on a box of Cap'n Crunch instead of the garbage compactor.
"Yeah, well, I like to think of myself as the resident expert on Atwood non-speak," Seth explained. "So what about it, Joe Hardy, have you solved the mystery of the messy eaters?"
Ryan glanced at the message on the cereal box and obligingly shook out a handful of Cap'N Crunch. "I'm not sure," he admitted around meticulous bites. "It just seems like . . .maybe Sandy and Kirsten thought we needed, I don't know, an icebreaker or something to get us talking this morning."
"Okay, yeah, but no, Ryan, an icebreaker?" Seth wrinkled his forehead dubiously. "Like that 'Two truths and a lie' game we always played the first afternoon at Camp Tuckahoe? Which, incidentally, was pretty much a complete waste of time because for the game to work the lie has to be plausible, and really, how many twelve-year-old boys have been on a space trip to the moon or own talking monkeys, or are in the Guinness Book of World Records for the world's biggest--"
"Seth!"
"Hey, man, it wasn't my lie. I said that I won the America's Cup. Although that actually wasn't so much a lie as a prediction, I mean if I ever decide to sail competitively . . . But anyway, why would we need an icebreaker, Ryan?" Seth asked, finally pausing to breathe. "We're already talking, right? I mean, we are talking, aren't we?"
Ryan's lips quirked in a rueful half-smile. "You are, definitely."
"No, see, that's what I mean," Seth declared, almost knocking over the juice in his enthusiasm. "Banter, give-and-take, a little of this, a little of that, just a classic Seth-Ryan exchange. Okay, we may be a little rusty after . . . everything, but it's all coming back to us, isn't it, bro?"
"Sure, Seth. It's all coming back."
Sidestepping Seth, Ryan went to the cabinet and got out the Tylenol. He swallowed two of the pills, then splashed some cold water over his face, scrubbing it dry with the sleeve of his shirt.
Seth eyed him with concern. "You okay, Ryan?"
"Little headache," Ryan explained. "Not enough sleep. And probably too much . . . well, other things."
"Me too," Seth confessed, shredding the post-it note he was holding. "Well, maybe not the same other things, but too much anyway . . . Ryan, you really think the 'rents are worried about us talking to each other?"
Ryan's face clouded momentarily, but before he could answer Sandy's voice called from outside, snapping him back into the moment.
"Guys! You better be working in there. Seventeen minutes and counting . . ."
Seth and Ryan exchanged panicked looks.
"Shit," Seth breathed. "Do you think he means it? He actually expects us to do all . . . this? In seventeen minutes?"
"I think," Ryan said slowly, "we have to assume he does. So . . .?"
Seth surveyed the room, plucked off a post-it note and stuck it to Ryan's sling. "Counter top for you, my man Atwood." He flexed his arms, adding dramatically, "I personally will take all the jobs that require two working hands . . ."
"'Working' hands?" Ryan repeated, lifting one eyebrow.
"Okay, fine," Seth conceded. "Not hands that are used to working exactly, but hands that can work, so yeah, still, working hands . . ." He mimed a broad illustration, stopping mid-gesture to grab for the broom Ryan thrust at him.
"Oh yeah," Ryan drawled, as Seth fumbled the catch and the broom fell to the floor. "I can see your point. You are one with the work, Seth."
Seth grinned and started to sweep.
"Of course I know it's Sunday," Caleb snapped into the phone. "I simply don't care. The man is on retainer. His time is mine if I need him. So get him from church, or the golf course—wherever it is he's 'worshipping' this morning—and have him call me as soon as possible."
He hung up and shook open his newspaper, creasing it precisely on the fold as Julie sauntered out from the house. The circles under her eyes were gone, or at least artfully concealed with makeup, and she was dressed in a casually expensive lilac sweat suit.
"I'm going to the club for a sauna, darling," she announced. "Event planning is just so stressful. And then I may do a teeny bit of shopping, but I should be home by late afternoon." Julie stood behind Caleb, reading the stock market figures over his shoulder and kneading the base of his neck. "Ooh, Cal, maybe you should come with me and get a massage. I feel a lot of tension here . . ."
Caleb shrugged her off. "I have other ways of dealing with my tension, Juju."
"Yes, I know you do." Julie leaned down, whispering in his ear. "But maybe we could do that later, Cal? I'm still tired, and you know I like to be at my best for you . . ."
Caleb turned and glared at her. "I am not asking you for sex, Julie. Right now I happen to have other things on my mind."
"Well, I'm sorry," Julie huffed, offended. She retreated, holding up her hands. "What has you in such a foul mood anyway?"
"I'm waiting for my attorney to call me back. And I do not enjoy being kept waiting."
Julie took a mirror out of her bag and pouted at her reflection as she reapplied some lip-gloss. "Why do you need to talk to Sandy?" she asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
"If I had meant Sandy, I would have said Sandy," Caleb snorted. "I want to talk to Phil Styles about that extracurricular activity at the party last night."
Julie clicked her mirror closed and dropped it back into her bag. "You mean Ryan's behavior? Darling, you don't need to talk to Phil about that," she declared. "I can tell you exactly what your legal options are. You don't have any. Really, Cal, it wasn't some major orgy. Just kids being kids, that's all. Besides, you don't have any proof of anything."
"You weren't so sanguine when you thought Marissa might be involved."
"Oh well, darling. Marissa is a whole different matter. If there's a way to self-destruct, she'll find it," Julie explained, waving her hand vaguely. She frowned as she noticed a chipped nail and made a mental note to have it repaired.
Caleb speared another grapefruit segment and swallowed it with an acid scowl. "In any case, I wasn't thinking about having the boy arrested," he protested. "I can hardly afford to alienate my daughters that way. But if Ryan is doing drugs and behaving promiscuously, I need to know what recourse I have to protect my family. After all, he lives like a parasite in Kirsten's house, he has undue influence on my grandson, and now he's dating Lindsay . . ."
Julie pursed her lips and considered. "Maybe not any more," she observed thoughtfully.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, Lindsay did leave the party in tears, didn't she? Maybe she already knows how Ryan . . . entertained himself last night. That could be why she was so upset."
Caleb contemplated the idea, smiling with satisfaction. "And Lindsay is a very bright girl. So she might already have ended their ridiculous little romance."
"Possibly," Julie agreed. She added with a faraway expression that let Caleb know she was reminiscing about her own life, "Of course, couples do kiss and make up. That's always fun . . ." Caleb glared, and she insisted, "Well, darling, you know that they do. Unless, of course, some clever person sees to it that forgiveness is out of the question."
Caleb looked at Julie and nodded slowly, his expression both angry and admiring. She smiled and batted her eyes.
"When will you learn, Cal? I am much smarter than I look." Julie leaned close, lowering her voice. "My talents aren't just physical, darling."
Caleb caught her hand and kissed it. "So," he murmured, "what do you suggest I do?"
"I'm afraid I can't help you there." Julie sighed regretfully. "I fought my own battles with Ryan about Marissa, and I didn't have a lot of success. But I can tell you that threatening him doesn't work. It just makes him more determined." She patted Caleb's cheek, and picked up her bag. "But I have faith in you, darling. You'll think of something. Just remember what they say . . . think outside the box."
Twenty-two minutes after they had begun Seth and Ryan, both munching bagels, emerged sweaty and a little breathless from the kitchen. Kirsten and Sandy looked up from their newspapers, and Sandy pointedly checked his watch.
"Done," Seth announced. He started to plop into the lawn chair next to his father and had to scramble to keep his balance when Sandy yanked the seat out from under him. "Dad, hey, come on! Nobody's done that to me since . . ."
"English lit?" Ryan supplied. "Three weeks ago? That girl, Cassie, after you said the poem she wrote sounded like lyrics for a Brittney Spears song?"
Seth shrugged, chewing. "Oh yeah. That. Not one of my finer moments, dude. Although to be fair, I made a really graceful recovery . . ."
"You fell on your ass, Seth."
"I made the graceful recovery after I fell on my ass, Ryan."
"Boys!" Kirsten admonished. She covered a secret smile. "Don't say 'ass'."
Sandy tapped his watch face. "And don't sit down, gentlemen. You don't have time. You're three minutes behind schedule already." He furrowed his brows menacingly. "Not acceptable. When we give you a deadline, we expect you to meet it."
Kirsten got up, sipping her ice tea, and glanced into the house. "Now, sweetheart, at least they did a good job. The kitchen looks spotless."
'Yeah, and, about that," Seth began, taking a defensive step away from his father. "What happened in there anyway?"
"It got dirty," Kirsten said mildly. She returned to perch on the foot of Sandy's chaise lounge.
Seth looked at Ryan, who shrugged. "I told you not to ask, man." He backed toward a chair, started to sit down and then pulled himself back to a standing position when Sandy glared at him. "So . . . what did you want us to do next?"
"And I told you not to ask that," Seth protested. "See . . . now he's going to answer you."
"Yes, son, yes I am," Sandy said heartily. "Your mother and I have decided to have a few people over today."
"Today?' Ryan echoed.
Seth shook his head in disbelief. "A few people? Over . . . here?"
Sandy grinned. "I'm glad you boys understood all that. After your misadventures with controlled substances last night, I wasn't sure you'd be able to follow a complicated conversation like this."
Ryan caught a flash of movement and glanced over to see Kirsten, trying to hide laughter behind her magazine. He nudged Seth who followed his gaze and then mouthed to Ryan, "They are so up to something."
Sandy drained the last of his ice tea, got up, and continued, "So here's the deal. We need the patio and all the furniture out here wiped down. Oh, and the pool cleaned, and the hedges over there clipped. Seth, those are your jobs."
"Mine?" Seth objected, spinning around to stare at his father. "Yeah, but no, Dad, that's, like, physical labor. You know, sweat, sore muscles, actual tools and the ability to use them without severing a limb? Not exactly Seth Cohen-friendly."
"We have every faith in you, son."
Seth turned desperately to Ryan.
"Oh no," Kirsten warned, before Seth could say anything. "Ryan needs to avoid wet areas. He can't afford to slip out here and re-injure his knee. Besides, those jobs all take two hands."
Ryan lifted his sling apologetically. "I could still help . . ."
"But you won't," Kirsten cautioned in her no-argument voice.
"Don't worry, Seth," Sandy said, clapping a hand on his son's slumped shoulder before turning to Ryan. "We have work for Ryan too . . .You, kid, are in charge of the food."
Seth looked at his father suspiciously. "So Ryan has to do what? Choose a menu and phone in the order? 'Cause see now, I'm sensing a little favoritism here . . ."
"Actually," Sandy explained, lifting his abundant eyebrows in admonition, "Caleb's party was catered, so we thought it would be nice to have home-cooked food today. And since you managed breakfast yesterday, Ryan, we figure you can handle this too. Nothing fancy. Burgers will be fine, maybe some of those grilled fruit and vegetable kabobs you make, some salad. Something for dessert. Surprise us."
"Oh . . . kay," Ryan said slowly. "How many people are you expecting?"
Sandy looked at Kirsten. "Sweetheart?"
"Oh, eight I think," she answered vaguely. "Make enough food for ten, though. Some of them might have hearty appetites . . . Well, Sandy, we should clear out so the boys can get to work. Besides, reading the paper has exhausted me. I think I'm ready for a nap. You?"
"A nap?" Seth choked. "It's not even noon."
"She means a nap," Sandy said, stressing the last word significantly. "And sweetheart, I am so ready."
He leered at Kirsten, looped his arm around her waist, and led her into the house. Behind them, Seth made gagging noises.
"Stop that, son," Sandy ordered, without turning around. "And get to work."
Lindsay began talking excitedly the instant she opened her front door.
"Everything's all set, Summer, and . . . Oh!" She stopped and took a step back, frowning in surprise. "Caleb . . . or, I mean, I guess . . . Dad? I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting . . . that is, I thought you were Summer."
Caleb forced a chuckle in an attempt to put Lindsay at ease. "Apparently so, although I can't see the resemblance myself." She didn't smile, and he gestured inside the house. "May I?"
Lindsay moved aside with a guilty blush. "Of course. I'm sorry. It's just . . . Please, come on in."
Caleb looked around the small room, his lips pursed appraisingly. "Your home is charming, Lindsay. Cozy. I'm glad I finally have the opportunity to see it."
"Thank you. I guess," Lindsay murmured, standing uncertainly just inside the front door. "I mean . . . My mother's not home if you were looking for her."
"May I?" Caleb asked again, inclining his head toward a chair. Lindsay nodded mutely, and he took a seat. "Actually, I stopped by to see you. I hope it's not an inconvenient time." He settled back, evidently intending to stay.
Lindsay took a deep breath. "You know what?" she said, lifting her chin. "It really kind of is. I don't mean to be rude, but I have plans this afternoon. So maybe we could do this—whatever this is—some other time . . .?"
"You seem upset, Lindsay," Caleb observed. "Is that because of what happened last night?"
Lindsay's skin paled and then flamed painfully. Her fingers tightened around the doorknob, clutching it behind her. "What do you know about last night?" she demanded. Despite her attempt to control it, an involuntary quaver in her voice signaled her anxiety.
"I know that you made a last-minute appearance at my party," Caleb replied, his voice cool and evasive. "But you left before I even had a chance to greet you or introduce you to my guests. Julie told me she saw you leaving. She said that you were in tears." He leaned forward, fixing Lindsay with an intent look. "You're my daughter. I'm concerned about you. That's why I decided to stop by today—to see if you're all right."
"Well, you can see me," Lindsay said, pressing her lips together. "Obviously I'm fine."
Caleb shook his head, dismissing her claim. "You have your pride, my dear. I appreciate that. It's an admirable quality, one that I share. But it's clear to me that you are not fine at all. Did something happen at the party? Was someone rude to you there? Hurt your feelings, perhaps? Now I know it's late in the game for me to play father . . ."
"You're right," Lindsay agreed curtly. "It is." She turned the knob and stepped forward, opening the door behind her. "Anyway, I don't need your help. Everything's fine." When Caleb made no move to get up, Lindsay sighed and added reluctantly, "Look, I had a . . . misunderstanding with Ryan last night, that's all. And yes, I was crying. But we straightened everything out, so there's nothing for you to worry about. Now, if you'll excuse me, Summer should be here any minute . . ."
Caleb's eyes flashed briefly before he caught himself. "So then, I take it that you and Ryan . . .?"
Lindsay's expression softened and she ducked her head, smiling shyly. "We made up," she confirmed.
"I see," Caleb said tightly. He stood to leave. "Lindsay, are you really sure about that boy? I mean, if he made you cry once . . ."
"I'm very sure about Ryan. And you know what?" Lindsay retorted. "Lots of people have made me cry in my life. Like my father, for instance, all those times when I wanted him and he wasn't around."
"I've explained why I couldn't be part of your life . . ." Caleb paused, waiting, but Lindsay just gave him a long, measured stare. "Well," he said finally, "I'm here now, Lindsay. And as your father, I do intend to take care of you . . . But I won't keep you now if you're expecting company. We'll talk again soon, my dear."
Lindsay gave a noncommittal nod, murmured goodbye, and closed the door.
As soon as he got in his car, Caleb took out his cell phone and dialed his security company. He didn't bother saying hello before launching into a clipped series of commands.
"Caleb Nichol. I want a full report on the illicit party that took place on my grounds last night. ASAP. Get me a complete list of the participants . . . Yes, everything you can tell me about them. In particular the young lady who was spending time with Ryan Atwood."
"Guys? Everything all set?" Sandy called as he and Kirsten ambled into the kitchen, looking rejuvenated, relaxed, and definitely satisfied.
From their slumped positions at the counter, Seth and Ryan glanced up, exhausted.
Seth waved a hand listlessly toward the French doors and murmured a barely audible "Yeah." Then he turned to Ryan. "Dude," he moaned, "look what they've done. They've made me too tired to produce more than one single-syllable word at a time."
"Um . . . Seth?" Ryan frowned and cocked his head toward Sandy, who was soulfully playing an imaginary violin.
"Oh. Sort of spoiled the whole verbal collapse thing by talking to you in complete sentences, huh?"
"Sort of," Ryan agreed. He massaged the back of his neck wearily. "The food's all prepared, Sandy. It's in the refrigerator, ready to be grilled."
"And?" Sandy prompted.
Ryan's eyes widened. "What?" he asked, dismayed. "I'm supposed to do the grilling too? But I thought . . . Don't you want to do it yourself, Sandy? You know, during your party so you can cook the burgers to order?"
"Yeah, Dad," Seth interjected. "You like to grill, right? Besides, Ryan and I figured we'd just go to our rooms, let you and mom enjoy some adult company—you know, since we're grounded and all, which we so totally deserve, by the way. And then there's the whole 'children should not be seen and heard' deal . . ."
"The expression is 'children should be seen and not heard'," Sandy admonished. "And I'm afraid that's impossible in your case, son. If we see you, we hear you."
Seth tried to glower, but it was too much work. Instead he elbowed Ryan in the side and pleaded, "Dude? Could you give Dad the glare of doom for me, please?"
"Can't," Ryan mumbled. "Eyes closed now. Trying to squeeze in a five-minute nap."
"Ooh, is that shortcake? Good dessert choice," Kirsten observed, peeking into the refrigerator. "Don't worry, Ryan. You're not in charge of the grill today. And neither is Sandy. That honor goes to . . ."
Seth clasped his hands together dramatically. "Don't say it. Please don't say it."
"The Grillmaster himself, Mr. Seth Ezekiel Cohen," Kirsten concluded.
"Fuck," he muttered. "She said it."
"Language, son," Sandy reproved. "And just be grateful that your mother didn't say she'd do the cooking. Anyway, I'm sure Ryan will be more than happy to help."
Ryan produced a wan smile. "Yeah," he sighed. "More than happy."
"You know, though, guys, you'd better hustle and get yourselves cleaned up." Sandy eyed the boys critically. "The guests will be arriving soon and frankly . . . well, you both look like hell."
Seth groaned audibly as he pulled himself to his feet. "Yeah. Wonder why. And by the way? Language, Dad."
Ryan emerged from the guest room, showered but scarcely refreshed, just as Seth hobbled downstairs, clutching the banister as if his legs were about to buckle under him.
"Aches. Pains. Major muscle spasms," Seth groaned, dropping onto the last step. "I cannot believe Mom and Dad are actually going to make us work this party like . . . like . . . indebted servants or something."
Ryan collapsed into the nearest chair. He ran his fingers through his damp hair, yawning. "Indentured."
"Huh?" Seth raised his head, which he had cradled on his crossed arms.
"Indentured servants. Not indebted."
Seth mouthed the words, trying them out and then shrugged. "Inde-whatever. The point, Ryan, is that the 'rents have been giving us all these bizarre chores that really don't need to be done and being totally too cool for school about it, which is really age-inappropriate of them. It's like madness but no method, you know?"
"Maybe not," Ryan mused. "They could be playing us, Seth."
"Yeah, and that game would be what now?"
Ryan traced patterns on the floor with the tip of his crutch. "Keep us busy, keep us confused, keep us talking about what's going on with them instead of what's going on with us."
Seth looked up, suddenly apprehensive. "Why? What's going on with us?"
"Nothing. It's just . . . maybe they think we need a break," Ryan suggested. "From all the . . . drama, I mean . . ."
"Drama," Seth repeated flatly. "Right. That's what we need. A break from the drama."
There was an uneasy silence. Then Ryan gave an apologetic shrug. "Hey, it's just a theory, Seth. Probably wrong. It could be that, you know, this is all just some weird punishment. Kirsten and Sandy were really pissed last night. Especially Sandy."
"But that was hours ago," Seth moaned. "Isn't there a statute of limitations on parental anger? I mean, couldn't we maybe appeal to Amnesty International or something? Look at my hands, man. I have blisters. Blisters, Ryan. Three of them." Seth held up his palms plaintively. "And they hurt."
"They won't once they turn into calluses."
"Okay then, something to look forward to. Or, you know, not." Seth's brows lowered in a dubious frown. "Because don't you have to work, like, a lot to develop calluses, dude?"
Ryan inspected his own hands, briefly sucking a small cut at the base of his thumb. For a moment, he remembered the early days last summer when he was working construction, the heavy gloves that didn't completely cushion his skin, the constant sting of his palms and fingers before they developed a protective hard shell.
"I don't think you need to worry about that, Seth," he said shortly.
Seth thought he heard an accusation, and his eyes flashed for a moment, but then he flinched. Unsure whether he should feel angry or guilty or just really sad, he decided to ignore Ryan's caustic tone.
If his parents were scheming to keep things light, Seth was more than happy to play along.
"Ah," he said, bobbing his head hopefully. "So you don't think the parents intend to keep up this child labor routine all during spring break? Because really, how much entertaining can they do anyway? I mean, I love them and all, Ryan, but they are not that popular."
"Well, I don't think they'll throw a party every day," Ryan conceded. "The work thing in general, though? Yeah, they might keep that going."
"Shit," Seth groaned. "Well, all I can say is that it's a good thing I have Summer's visit last night to sustain me." He brightened visibly, grinning at Ryan. "By the way, dude, did I happen to mention that Summer kissed me last night?"
Ryan shook his head. "You did not mention that. I'm stunned that you did not mention that." He looked at Seth with surprise and something like respect.
"Yeah, well, Summer says it didn't really mean anything. Either time." Seth paused, waited for the words to register, and then repeated, "That's right, Ryan. Either time. Two kisses. Two of them, right on the lips. Tell me that two kisses on the lips don't really mean anything. Personally, methinks the lady doth protest too much. What do you thinks? Think, I mean?"
"I don't know, Seth," Ryan said slowly. "I mean, that's great, I guess. But . . . isn't Summer still with Zach?"
"'With' is kind of a vague word, Ryan. Maybe she's with him, but not with him with him. You know what I mean?"
"Unfortunately, yeah . . . But no matter what's going on in their relationship, Zach is your friend, isn't he, Seth?"
Something in Ryan's voice alerted Seth, and his smile dimmed, then vanished completely. "Yeah," he replied carefully. "He is. So . . .?"
Ryan ducked his head, rubbing an invisible smudge of dirt off the arm of his chair. "So I just think . . . friendship has got to count for something."
"It does," Seth agreed seriously. He tried to catch Ryan's gaze, but it remained locked on some apparently subterranean spot. "It totally does, Ryan."
Seth waited uncomfortably for Ryan to look up or say something else, but suddenly the conversation seemed to be over.
Keeping things light, Seth decided, was definitely harder than any of the jobs he had done today.
"Man," he muttered after a couple minutes of silence. "You'd think after Mom and Dad rushed us all afternoon, they'd be here already. It's two-twenty. Wasn't this party supposed to start like, half an hour ago?"
Ryan's eyes were closed. "Thought so," he said shortly.
Seth jiggled his legs and tapped his fingers against his knees. "So . . ." he said, grabbing the first subject that occurred to him. "How did it go with Lindsay last night? I mean, I can pretty much guess, but . . . You guys are okay after the whole Jamie fiasco, right? Everything forgiven and forgotten? Maybe even, I don't know, some hot, hot make-up sex right here in the big house?"
Ryan's eyes opened to slits. "Seth . . ." he warned.
"Yeah, no, not digging for details here, dude. But Lindsay was in your room for quite a while, so I mean, that's good, isn't it? Because after all, nothing really happened with Jamie . . ."
"Seth . . ." Ryan repeated, his mouth closing firmly on the end of Seth's name.
"So . . . what? What's wrong? Lindsay's not still mad, is she?"
The subject had appeared safe, but now Seth wasn't sure. Conversations with Ryan had never been peppered with booby traps before, but now it seemed to Seth that he had to sidestep them constantly.
Ryan blew out a frustrated breath. "No, she's not. She was never mad exactly. It's just . . . complicated, Seth."
"I don't get it. Complicated how?"
Ryan shrugged.
"How, Ryan?" Seth persisted. "Come on, dude. You can talk to me."
"I don't know, Seth," Ryan said slowly. "Can I?"
The doorbell rang, startling both boys.
"Seth! Ryan!" Sandy called. "Are you two ready? Your guests are here."
Ryan and Seth aimed identical incredulous expressions to the top of the stairs, where Sandy was leaning over the balustrade.
Surprisingly, Ryan was the first to find his voice.
"Our guests?" he asked.
TBC