Collision Course 23
"Hey," Lindsay called softly, peeking through the front door. "Anybody home?" Her face lit up when Ryan turned back from the hallway at the sound of her voice. "Oh good—just the person I want to see."
Ryan shook his head grimly, even as he greeted her. "Not a good time, Lindsay. At least not to see me."
"Why not?" Lindsay asked. She studied his face, noting with alarm the dark bruises and the darker despair. Instantly, her voice climbed an octave. "What happened, Ryan?"
"Short version? I fucked up." Ryan replied. He shrugged, lips twisting into a sardonic half-smile. "Yeah, right. Again."
Wordlessly, Lindsay reached for his hand. Ryan flinched, and she glimpsed his raw, swollen knuckles. Her breath caught, but she simply slid an arm around his waist and propelled him to his room. Once they were inside she closed the door, turned around to face him, and ordered, "Okay. Now tell."
Ryan sank down on the bed. "Not much to tell," he reported. "Went to rehab. Did too much. Punched a guy who was dogging Seth. Guy hit back. Everyone's upset again. End of story." His bleak gaze flickered up. "Getting really old, huh?"
Lindsay nodded reluctantly. "Really, Ryan? Yeah, it sort of is," she agreed. "I mean, the everyone being upset part? I kind of thought that it was over . . ."
"Me too." Ryan pounded his pillow, then winced. "Should have just left the clinic when Seth wanted to," he muttered.
"Hey, Atwood! Stop that!" Lindsay protested. She sat down, pulling his hand onto her lap. "That is a perfectly innocent pillow. It did nothing to you—and besides, from the looks of your knuckles, you've done enough hitting today. . . So why didn't you? Leave when Seth wanted, I mean?"
Ryan hunched one shoulder. "Thought I'd do a few extra reps," he explained. "Speed up the healing process." He smiled sheepishly, putting a finger to Lindsay's lips, which were already open to object. "And yeah, you don't have to tell me. I know. Stupid idea."
"God! So beyond stupid!" Lindsay exclaimed. "Maybe I was right in the first place and God really doesn't give with both hands . . ." Ryan tilted his head, peering at her through his lashes. "Do not try to charm me," she warned. "I am totally immune to those soulful looks—right now, anyway. Why are you in such a hurry, Ryan? It's not like you'll get a prize for the fastest healing time or anything."
Ryan plucked at the fabric of her skirt. "No, I know," he conceded. "But I can't work construction this summer wearing a sling and hopping around on one leg. And summer's not far away."
"Oh," Lindsay breathed with sudden comprehension. "Is that what you want to do now, Ryan? Get a construction job this summer?"
"No," he admitted. "Not what I want exactly. I mean, don't get me wrong, Lindsay. I like the work. It's honest, you know? Real. And I'm pretty good at it. But after last summer?" Ryan cringed slightly, remembering . . . Chino . . . Theresa . . . their baby . . . so many goodbyes. "I really wanted to do something different this year." He kissed Lindsay's forehead softly and sighed. "You know."
"Yeah, I do," she whispered. She nuzzled her face against his neck. "And I know it's not fair. But even if you can't do . . . what we planned . . . why go back to construction, Ryan?"
Ryan slid back on the bed, pulling Lindsay with him and threading his fingers through her hair. "The money's good," he explained. "And, you know college costs, Lindsay. A lot. So if I don't start saving now . . . Shit." He broke off, his voice abruptly bitter. "Who am I kidding? Now is like twelve years too late."
"You know . . . " Lindsay began, stroking the back of Ryan's wrist. "Kirsten and Sandy would be happy to--"
Ryan wrenched his hand away. "No! I mean . . .Yeah, I know they would, but . . ."
"But what?" Lindsay prompted, honestly confused.
"I can't ask them for money."
"Well, then, it could just be a loan . . ."
"No. I can't ask them for money," Ryan repeated.
Lindsay pushed herself off the bed and whirled around to face Ryan, hands on her hips, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Okay, now it's official. You are stupid, Atwood. Why can't you ask them?"
"Come on, Lindsay." Ryan tried to draw her back on the bed, but Lindsay stepped further away, and he sank back in defeat. "I figured at least you'd understand," he muttered.
"Understand what?" Lindsay countered. "Your stubborn pride? Oh, believe me, I understand that."
Ryan gritted his teeth. "It's not pride," he argued. "It's just . . . the Cohens have already done so much for me."
"Okay, that's true. But have you asked them for any of it?"
"No, not really. But . . ." Ryan's voice trailed off, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Lindsay explained, her hand sweeping around the room, "you never asked them for any of this, have you? Not for a single thing they've given you. Whose idea was it to bring you to Newport, Ryan? Make you part of the family? Send you to private school? Buy you . . . well, anything?"
Ryan clenched his fist in frustration. "Okay, but Lindsay, that's exactly the point. The Cohens have given me everything. How can I ask them for more? Besides, I'll be eighteen soon—"
Lindsay snorted derisively. "So what, Atwood? Fine, you'll be eighteen in a few months. You think your birthday will change anything important?" She took a deep breath, forcing herself to slow down. "Okay, tell me this. Do you love the Cohens?"
"I . . . " Ryan stammered.
"Answer the question, Atwood. Do you?"
"Yeah," Ryan admitted. "I do." His mouth crimped slightly and he added, "I love them a lot."
Lindsay's face softened, and she sat back down, nestling against his shoulder. "See," she murmured as she dropped a kiss on his arm. "That wasn't so hard to say. So, Ryan, when you wake up on your eighteenth birthday, will you suddenly stop caring about them?"
"No, of course not, but . . ."
"Well then, idiot, why would your birthday change how they feel about you?" Lindsay smiled tenderly, playing with Ryan's fingers. "Just think about this, okay? The Cohens made you a member of their family. That was their choice. It wasn't something you forced them to do, or even asked them to do, and they have never, ever suggested that they expect anything from you in return."
"But that doesn't mean I should take advantage of them, Lindsay." Ryan's voice was quietly desperate, begging her to understand. "And just because they haven't asked me to repay them—that doesn't mean I don't owe them. God, I owe them so much already."
Lindsay touched Ryan's chin and tilted his face, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "I know you do, Ryan. Just like I owe my mom, and Summer owes her dad. Just like Seth owes Kirsten and Sandy."
"It's not the same," Ryan insisted.
Lindsay's voice was utterly firm. "It is exactly the same. You want to give the Cohens something, Ryan? Something that will really mean something to them? Well then, let them know how much you love them."
Ryan shook his head, bewildered. "You don't think they know that?"
"No, they do. In a way. But your love comes all wrapped up in gratitude and obligation. I'm not saying you shouldn't feel those things too, but sometimes . . . sometimes, Ryan, those emotions get in the way of what really matters." Lindsay held his gaze for a long, intense moment. "Do you understand? You should accept what the Cohens want to offer you, Ryan. Just try. Stop looking at everything they do for you like, I don't know, some debt you have to repay. I swear, sometimes I think you keep tabs of every time Kirsten buys you clothes, or Sandy pays your tuition bill . . ."
Ryan shifted slightly, and Lindsay stared at him in astonishment, watching a slow flush wash over his skin. "You do," she breathed. "Ryan Atwood, you do keep some sort of record, don't you?"
"Not anymore," Ryan mumbled into his headboard. "But I used to, yeah. Until it got too depressing, because, God, there was so much. And no way I could pay it back."
"Well, of course you can't, dumpkopf!" Lindsay slapped his wrist lightly. "Ryan, if you try to keep a balance sheet, it will never, in a million years, come out even. But you know what? Listen to me now," she warned, her voice a fierce whisper. "Because this is something I absolutely know. It. Doesn't. Have. To. Seriously, Ryan, it doesn't. Not for family." Her tone softened, and Lindsay gently traced the line of Ryan's jaw. "That's all that the Cohens want, silly. They want you to accept them the way they've already accepted you. And just . . . trust them, Ryan. Can you do that?"
Ryan closed his eyes and sucked in his lower lip for a moment before answering cautiously. "I want to. But . . . trust is hard, Lindsay."
"I know it is. But do you think the Cohens deserve it? I mean, all of them? Even Seth?"
Ryan didn't hesitate. "Yeah," he said gruffly. "They do. But that doesn't make it any easier."
"No," Lindsay agreed. "But the fact that it's hard, Ryan . . . that's what makes it the perfect gift."
"The perfect gift," Ryan repeated, twining his fingers through Lindsay's. "Okay. I guess that makes sense. I should just . . . love them. And trust them."
Lindsay sighed happily as she snuggled closer. "Of course it makes sense," she murmured. "I'm quite brilliant, you know."
"Yeah. Pushy too," Ryan teased.
Lindsay's eyes widened. "Oh, you think so, do you?" she asked, sliding a hand under his shirt. "Well, you're right. I am. But tell you what, Atwood. Today I'll let you push me right back."
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Seth drummed an erratic rhythm on his knees, an accompaniment to the argument he was having with himself.
Maybe, he thought, Ryan would resent him if he revealed their conversation to the 'rents. There might be some best-friend confidentiality clause, or some unwritten code that he would be breaking—what's said in the Rover stays in the Rover or something like that. So there was a good chance that the latent anger still simmering inside Ryan—because hell, it was obviously there, no matter how much he denied it—would boil over and scald everyone it touched.
Mostly, Seth figured, it would burn him.
Not an appealing prospect.
On the other hand, he reasoned, everything had gone wrong in the first place because he had blithely ignored Ryan's best interests in favor of his own. So unless he wanted to make the same mistake twice--which would be stupid when there were so many other, brand-new mistakes he could be making instead--Seth couldn't disregard what he had learned today.
Shouldn't, even.
That is, unless he should.
Shit, Seth swore silently. He was probably screwed either way. His fingers strummed faster, and just for good measure, he added a frantic toe tap.
"Son? You wanted to talk to your mother and me?" Sandy prompted, his voice verging on impatience. "Well, we're waiting."
Right. It was decision time. Seth's hands slammed hard on his thighs and he sat up straight.
"There's a lot of money in my college fund, isn't there, Dad?" he blurted.
Sandy's brows furrowed in confusion. "What?"
"A lot of money," Seth repeated. "I mean, enough so if I decide I want to go someplace really expensive, like, like . . . hell, I don't know. Like maybe Harvard. Is that really expensive, or just hard to get into? Although getting in is so not the point--"
"What is the point, Seth?" Kirsten demanded irritably.
Seth forced himself to focus. "Okay, the point," he answered, "I just want to know . . . you guys have enough money saved so we could afford a really, really, really expensive school, right? Without taking out a second mortgage or one of us selling a kidney on E-bay or something?"
Sandy exchanged a puzzled look with Kirsten. "Right," he confirmed warily. "But why are you asking? And remember, Seth, that money is set aside for your education. Not a new sailboat, or a collection or classic comics, or--"
"I want to give half of my money to Ryan," Seth announced abruptly. His voice was firm, but his eyes were pleading. "Would that be okay? And if I did, would it be, like, enough so he wouldn't have to worry about, you know, working this summer? If he couldn't get a job, I mean?"
Kirsten's eyes widened, and the sharp lines of annoyance that had creased her face vanished. Sitting down next to Seth she asked softly, "Sweetie, what is this all about?"
"Okay." Seth took a deep breath and looked seriously at each of his parents. "Ryan and I did it, Dad. We talked today. I mean, you know, really talked, the way you wanted us to. On the way to the clinic and even—" He winced. "Yeah, even after the whole Attack of the Cohen Mouth incident. And there's a reason Ryan was pushing so hard at rehab, Mom." Kirsten's face clouded again, and Seth explained hastily, "Okay, no, listen, he wasn't being reckless—not on purpose--or, you know, playing Superman or anything like that. It's just . . Ryan's worried that he won't be strong enough to get a construction job this summer."
"Construction?" Sandy repeated dubiously. "Are you sure, Seth? I didn't think Ryan wanted to do that again."
Seth's entire body contorted into a guilty shrug. "Yeah, no, he doesn't. Shit, we know what he wanted--the internship--only I totally fucked that up for him . . . Sorry, Mom. But yeah, I so totally did. Anyway, now Ryan figures he lost a good chance for a scholarship, and he's got to earn a lot of money if he wants to go to college. And he really wants to go to college. So can I?" he finished breathlessly.
"Can you—what?" Kirsten asked.
"Give him my college fund. Or at least half of it," Seth answered restively. "Remember—the whole point of this conversation?"
Kirsten squeezed his hand. "Oh, sweetie," she murmured. "That is the most thoughtful, generous idea you've ever had, and I am so proud of you for even thinking of it." She leaned over and kissed her son's cheek. "No, you can't."
"Thanks, Mom, that's great, because—okay, wait now, what?" Seth's triumphant grin disappeared abruptly, along with his dimples. "No? You're saying no? I can't? Really? Dad?"
Sandy joined his wife and son on the couch. "No," he confirmed. "Seth, I told you, that fund is for your education. Your mother and I can afford college for Ryan without dipping into what we've saved for you."
"Yeah, but no, see, that won't work," Seth argued desperately. "Come on, Dad. The dude's got that whole stubborn pride, independent, do-it-myself—or you know, himself--thing going on. Ryan won't let you guys pay."
Sandy frowned. "Well then, Seth, what makes you believe he'd accept money from you?"
"He won't want to, probably," Seth admitted. "But I think I can convince him to take it because, after all, I kind of . . . owe him. For, well . . . you know. And Ryan understands repaying a debt, so, yeah, I think if I pressure him enough . . ." Seth shrugged miserably, and his eyes shone with unshed tears. "Man," he mumbled, "I thought sure you guys would let me make this right. Because Ryan can't work construction again this summer. I mean, even if he's healed, he can't . . . It wouldn't be fair."
"Seth--" Sandy began.
"No, see, you don't get it, Dad," Seth interjected. "I've been trying to find some way to make it up to him—you know, like helping him get another internship or something like that this summer, but—no luck. And after today . . . God, I've got to do something." He slumped forward and dropped his head into his hands.
Reaching over, Sandy kneaded the back of his son's neck. "I know, son," he said sympathetically. "Lindsay and Summer came to see me this morning. They hoped I might be able to help, maybe come up with some contacts or resources you could use."
"Yeah?" Seth lifted his eyes hopefully.
Sandy shook his head. "Sorry, no. I tried, son, but it's late—the deadline has already passed for everything I could find."
"Shit," Seth moaned, burying his face again.
"Don't say shit, Seth," Kirsten reproved absently. She had been running her fingers through his hair while he spoke to Sandy, but now she sat up, nodding to herself. "You know," she said. "I just might have a solution. It would give Ryan a job this summer and add something significant to his résumé at the same time."
Seth looked up cautiously. "Really, Mom? You do? Because hey, if you can come up with something, I will be your best friend forever, I swear. Name it. Name anything and it shall be yours."
Kirsten's eyes danced. "Be careful what you promise, Seth," she warned, "Because if this works, you'll have to be your grandfather's best friend forever."
"Absolutely, no problem, and . . . hey, say what? Grandpa?" Seth sputtered.
Sandy's expression mirrored Seth's astonishment. "Honey, what are you talking about?"
Kirsten stood up and smoothed out her pants. "Seth, go wash up and get changed. Your father and I need to talk, and then we're going to have a serious discussion with Ryan."
"Mom," Seth wheedled, "Come on—"
She raised her eyebrows in mock-threat. "Out, Seth. Now. Before I unleash the wrath of Eowyn on you. And don't think I can't do it. I read The Lord of the Rings too, you know."
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Summer flew out her front door, a cell phone pressed to her ear. Oblivious to her surroundings, she skidded to a stop inches from Lindsay, who stumbled out of her way.
"Linds! Sorry!" Summer apologized breathlessly. "I didn't see you. Wow . . . really close call. Oops, wait, speaking of call—"
Lindsay blinked, stunned, as Summer flipped her hair back, and spoke into the phone impatiently. "I'm on my way, Cohen! . . . On my porch okay? Heading for my car . . . I know where it is . . . Okay, I am not talking to you anymore! Not. Talking, Cohen. This is me, not talking now!" She snapped her phone shut, dropped it into her purse, and turned to Lindsay. "So Linds, what's up?" she asked airily.
"Don't you remember? You invited me over," Lindsay stammered. Blushing, she lowered her hand, suddenly aware that it was still raised, ready to knock. "But if something came up . . ."
"Shit, I am so sorry, Lindsay!" Summer exclaimed. She extended her hand dramatically. "Go ahead—slap it. Just slap it. I can't believe I forgot you were coming. God, I am like the worst friend ever."
Lindsay retreated, shaking her head. "Um, Summer? I'm not going to hit you. Besides, it's not a big deal."
"It so totally is," Summer argued. "Girlfriends are just as important as boyfr—as boys. I mean, I do not stand up a friend because some guy calls. Cohen can just manage without me for a change."
"Summer, no, don't change your plans. I mean, Seth's expecting you, right?"
Summer rolled her eyes. "I'm like Cohen's personal 911 service. He's got a shopping emergency, so of course he needs my help." She linked her arm through Lindsay's, propelling her toward the car. "Tell you what, Linds, why don't you come with?"
"I don't know," Lindsay demurred as Summer unlocked the doors. "I mean, maybe you and Seth would like some time alone."
Summer froze, halfway into the driver's seat. "Me? Want time alone with Cohen? I mean, ew!" she protested. "Why would you say that? You must have, like, serious sunstroke or something. Okay, come on, Lindsay. The car is air-conditioned. Maybe it will unfry your brain."
Smiling furtively at Summer's show of indignation, Lindsay slid into the passenger seat. "It's just that lately you seem really involved with Seth," she explained. "I mean, you helped me organize the party—"
"That was for Chino," Summer claimed, pulling out of the driveway. "Well, Cohen too, I suppose. But just because I was getting, like, terminally bored, watching him mope around."
"Then this morning you went with me to see Sandy. That was for Seth."
Summer flounced in her seat. "I just wanted to see Sandy's office, all right?"
"Okay," Lindsay said doubtfully. "But just now you forgot I was coming over . . . "
"Because Cohen kept babbling at me, and my brain shut down in self-defense!"
"And you're going shopping with him. . ."
"Just because he's, like, totally helpless, and I suppose sort of a friend, in a weird Cohen-y way, and I'm . . . I'm . . . I'm just a really nice person that's all!"
"Yeah, you are, Summer. But . . ." Lindsay's voice trailed off quizzically.
"But what?" Summer cut into another lane, honking her horn at the driver she passed. "God!" she muttered. "Some people cannot drive . . . That guy couldn't have been doing more than, like, the speed limit. Anyway, 'but' what, Linds? And remember, I'm driving here. Don't say anything that's gonna make me throw up."
Lindsay inclined her head apologetically. "Well, it just seems like maybe . . . you and Seth are . . . getting, you know, close again," she suggested. "Of course, I know you're still going out with Zach . . ."
"Actually . . ." Summer took a deep breath. "I'm not."
"You're not?"
"Not anymore." Summer smoothed her hair self-consciously. "Listen, Linds, Zach called last night, and we talked, and . . . we realized that, well, we like each other as friends. Just friends. So . . . it's over." She shrugged. "No tears, no trauma. It's not like I have to buy new shoes to console myself or anything."
"Oh," Lindsay breathed. She glanced at Summer, puzzled. "Why didn't you tell me when I saw you this morning?"
Summer grimaced wryly. "Because, well, I didn't want you to think that my breaking up with Zach had anything to do with Cohen."
"Right." Lindsay nodded sagely. "Because . . . it doesn't."
"Absolutely not," Summer insisted, with a determined bob of her head. "I mean, it doesn't much. Well, hardly at all . . . Look, Linds, Cohen is still an ass, all right? Just because he's been acting less assy than usual lately doesn't mean I want to get back together or anything."
"Uh-huh," Lindsay murmured. Hastily, she covered her mouth and turned to look out the window, but a small chuckle escaped anyway.
"Lindsay Gardner!" Summer scowled fiercely. "Are you laughing at me? You better not be laughing at me!"
Lindsay collapsed into a fit of giggles. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "Summer, really, I'm not laughing at you. Well, I guess I am, but honestly, I think it's great. I mean, I feel bad for Zach, but you and Seth . . ."
"Oh, go ahead and laugh," Summer sighed. "Me and Cohen . . . we are sort of a cosmic joke. I can't believe I may be about to give him another chance. God, I really do deserve a new pair of shoes! Hmm," she mused, "Maybe after we finish Cohen's shopping . . ."
Lindsay settled back in her seat, still smiling. "Sure," she agreed. "So where are we going anyway? And why does Seth need you this time?"
Summer grinned smugly. "For my expertise. Cohen is so absolutely clueless about this kind of shopping. We are going," she announced, "to a sporting goods store."
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"Ryan?" Sandy knocked, then ducked his head inside Ryan's door. "Are you busy right now, kid?"
"No. Just reading," Ryan answered. He put his book aside and sat up straight, bracing himself for the talk he knew had to be coming.
"Great. So could you come to my office with me for a minute?"
Despite Sandy's casual tone, Ryan tensed, wondering what kind of lecture required a special setting. It had to be something major—or maybe something legal. Maybe the guy from the clinic had called. Maybe he wanted to sue.
Shit, Ryan thought, what if that was it, and his stupid temper was going to cost the Cohens more money?
Anxiously, he grabbed his crutch and started down the hall, gritting his teeth.
"Hey, Ryan. Relax," Sandy urged, noticing a muscle jumping in the boy's jaw. "We're not walking the green mile here. There are just a few things we need to go over, together." He put a reassuring hand on Ryan's back and steered him into the office.
Ryan nodded tersely, unconvinced. He was about to sit down when Kirsten entered the room, carrying a tray with ice tea. Automatically, he moved to help her, but then he flinched and pulled back.
"Kirsten," he began. He took a deep breath, shifting awkwardly on his crutch. "About before . . . I don't know what to say. I'm just . . . I'm really sorry that I upset you."
"Oh, sweetie." Kirsten set down the tray. She came over and tilted Ryan's face so she could kiss his cheek. "I'm sorry too."
He gave a guarded smile. "Then it's okay?" he asked warily. "I mean, we're okay?"
"We're fine," Kirsten said. "Seth explained a few things to us."
"Seth . . . explained?" Ryan echoed. His gaze flitted from Kirsten over to Sandy. "What did Seth tell you exactly? And why are we . . . here?"
Sandy pulled a chair in front of his desk and beckoned for Ryan to sit. "Because here, kid, is where we keep all of our important papers. And there are some we'd like to go over with you."
"Okay." There were a hundred questions in Ryan's voice. He took the glass Kirsten handed him and wrapped his hands around it, grateful to have something to hold on to.
Sandy removed some papers from a portfolio and started to turn them around so that Ryan could read them.
"Wait, sweetheart," Kirsten objected. She perched on the edge of the desk, covering the papers with her hand. "First, Ryan, we need to make something clear," she said firmly. "Sandy and I respect you. We respect your independence and your sense of responsibility. Those are wonderful qualities, and we really hope some of them rub off on Seth. So we're not trying to undermine that at all--"
Ryan tightened his grip on his glass. "He told you what I said about college, didn't he?"
"Yes, kid, he did," Sandy confirmed. "The question is, why didn't you tell us that you were so worried about it?"
"Because . . ." Ryan faltered, remembering his conversation with Lindsay. "Because I wanted to handle it myself," he admitted.
"You don't have to do that, though, Ryan," Kirsten objected. "You've got us, remember?"
Ryan closed his eyes for a moment before he nodded. "I know. It's just . . . I never want to take advantage of you. Or take you for granted. You guys are so generous. I don't even think you know just how . . . good . . . you are." He shrugged ruefully. "Man, I can never explain what I mean. Where's Seth when you need him?"
"No, Ryan, I think we understand," Kirsten said. "So can we just do this? Sandy and I . . . well, we've done some things, made some decisions, and we want to explain them to you. Then you can tell us how you feel about them. And if they truly bother you . . . well, we'll try to work out a compromise."
Sandy grinned and took Kirsten's hand. "Try, being the operative word here, kid. Because I'll warn you right now, the final decision is ours. We're still the adults in this room."
"Okay," Ryan agreed, a little hoarsely.
"Good." Sandy took a deep breath and slid the papers out from under Kirsten's hand, moving them closer to Ryan. "So, this is information about your trust fund."
Ryan had started to reach for the pages, but he jerked back, startled. "My what?"
"Your trust fund," Kirsten explained. "One part is designated for college, and you can access that when you enroll. But you won't be able to touch the rest until you're twenty-two, Ryan. And don't even think about buying a private jet or anything like that, because it's not that much money. It's just kind of . . . a buffer . . . to help when you start your career."
Ryan bit his lip, touching the cover sheet cautiously. "I don't get it," he confessed. "This . . . why would you do this?"
"Because we did it for Seth," Sandy answered simply. "And you're our son too."
Ryan caught his breath, unsure what to say. Numbly, he scanned the papers. "Wait . . . this date." He glanced up, startled. "You deposited money in here the same month I began living with you."
Kirsten nodded. "We set up the trust right after we became your legal guardians."
"But . . . why?" Ryan asked. "I mean, you didn't even know me really."
"There was a lot we didn't know about you," Sandy clarified. He grinned, adding playfully, "That's probably still true, because you, kid? Play things pretty damn close to the vest. But we do know you, Ryan. Otherwise, we never would have asked you to join our family."
"And this is only money," Kirsten pointed out gently. "It's just a way for us to invest in your future."
Ryan swallowed hard. "Yeah, but, an investment . . . when you do that, you expect some sort of return, right? It's not money you just throw away."
"Oh, don't worry about that," Sandy replied, raising his eyebrows. "We definitely expect a return."
"Good. Yeah, great." Ryan sighed with relief. "Because I can't take this if I don't give it back. Only, it'll take a long time . . . "
"Not that kind of return, kid. Kirsten and I aren't interested in having you repay any of the money."
"Then what?" Ryan asked helplessly.
Kirsten covered his hand with hers. "We get to come to your commencement, sweetie. And we get to sit in the seats reserved for your family, and take at least four dozen pictures."
"And cheer like idiots when your name is announced," Sandy continued.
"Well, Sandy and Seth will do that. I won't embarrass you, Ryan," Kirsten promised. "I'll just clap proudly."
"And we get to elbow the people around us and point and say, 'See him? The good-looking one over there staring at his feet? That's our son.'"
Kirsten's hand tightened on Ryan's. "So, sweetie. Now you know what we want. It's your turn. Do you have any questions? Anything you want to say?"
Overwhelmed, Ryan gazed from Sandy to Kirsten. He blinked rapidly, shaking his head. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice husky and uncertain. He coughed, and tried again. "Thank you. This is . . . you are . . . amazing."
"That's it?" Sandy laughed. "No protests? No argument? How hard did that guy at the clinic hit you, kid?"
"Don't you make fun of him, Sanford Cohen," Kirsten warned.
Ryan smiled at them gratefully. "I really . . . I love you guys. And . . ." He raised his chin. "I'll accept this, as long as I can contribute too."
"Ah, see, honey," Sandy teased. "I knew there would be a condition."
Kirsten swatted her husband as she took a square envelope out of a folder. "Behave yourself, Sandy," she scolded. "And Ryan, we thought you might feel that way. Now, this is just an option. You don't have to do it if you don't want to, but, well . . . " Nervously, Kirsten placed the envelope in Ryan's hands. "It's an invitation to dinner with my father. Ryan, he'd like you to do some work for the Newport Group."
TBC