Collision Course 24

Kirsten balanced a tray laden with coffee and assorted breakfast food outside Seth's bedroom door. After her third knock he finally peered out, blinking in bleary-eyed confusion at the food.

"Room service, Mom?" he yawned. "It's this, like, a trick, or something?" His eyes widened and he scanned the hallway suspiciously. "Am I being punked?"

"You look like a punk," Kirsten teased, rumpling her son's unkempt hair. "And no. I just felt like feeding my guys this morning, that's all." Seth squinted at the tray, sniffing it audibly and she warned, "Don't be cute, mister. I didn't cook anything."

"Ah," Seth dimpled and kissed Kirsten on the cheek. "Well then it's safe. And, you know, can't help the cute. It's genetic. But thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome. I think."

Laughing to herself, Kirsten returned to the kitchen and filled a tray for Ryan. She paused outside his room, preparing to knock, when she heard a muffled cry inside and a heavy thud. Immediately she dropped everything she was carrying, stepping over the debris as she fumbled with the doorknob.

"Ryan? What happened? What's wrong?"

Ryan peered up from the floor where he was wrestling his crutch from under the bed. "Nothing," he replied with a sheepish half-smile. "I just dropped the damn thing. And then I accidentally kicked it—well, maybe not so accidentally. I really, really hate this crutch. Don't think it likes me much either."

"But you're all right?" Kirsten demanded breathlessly. "You're not hurt?"

"I'm fine." Ryan's embarrassed expression changed to concern. "But you're shaking, Kirsten. Here, sit down." He hopped over and took Kirsten's arm gently, leading her to the bed. "You want me to call Sandy? Are you sick?"

Kirsten shook her head. She clutched Ryan's hand, her fingers digging into his flesh so that he winced and tried to loosen her grip.

"Kirsten, you're really scaring me."

"I'm sorry," she gasped, catching her breath while Ryan watched anxiously. Then she managed a tremulous smile, gesturing toward the spilled contents of the breakfast tray. "Look at the mess I made . . . Twice in one week. No one would ever believe I took deportment classes. It's just that when I heard that sound, the crash--" She shuddered and Ryan slipped a supportive arm around her shoulders.

"It wasn't a crash, Kirsten." Ryan hesitated and asked slowly, "Is that what it sounded like to you?"

Kirsten nodded. "It was just so sudden. And loud . . ."

"Hey." Seth poked his head in the door and then ambled all the way into the room, juggling an orange and an apple. "Look what I found trying to make a bold escape down the hallway. I'm not missing a good food fight in here, am I?" His tone grew more subdued when he registered Kirsten's obvious agitation. "What's going on?"

Shaking his head slightly, Ryan raised his eyes to meet Seth's. "Your mom dropped the tray when she heard my crutch fall. The noise startled her, I guess."

"Yeah?" Seth sat down on the other side of Kirsten, letting the fruit roll onto the bed so that he could pat her shoulder. "Is that it, Mom? You okay?"

"Of course," Kirsten claimed, attempting to relax. "Boys, you're sweet to be worried, but really, I'm fine. Just a little on edge."

Seth frowned. "You weren't when you came to my room," he recalled. "You were all June Cleaver there."

"Well, June Cleaver got clumsy. She just hasn't had her coffee yet."

Ryan rubbed Kirsten's arm as he started to get up. "Seth, why don't you stay with your mom? I'll clean that stuff up."

"No!" she ordered, clutching at him. "Ryan, I'll do it."

Sitting back down, Ryan shrugged a helpless appeal to Seth who nodded and waved at the overturned tray.

"Yeah, Mom, let's just wait on that, okay?" he suggested. "See, I think you're more than a little on edge. I think you're a lot on edge. Or maybe, I don't know, off the edge completely. Like, over the side and hanging on to a tree limb to keep from falling, the way cartoon characters do." Sliding off bed, Seth knelt in front of Kirsten and folded his hands over hers, which still held tightly to one of Ryan's. His voice softened. "Are you still upset about the clinic, Mom? Because Ryan and I are really sorry we acted like idiots there."

"Oh, sweetie, no, that's not it, honestly. It was just the crash . . . and then it sounded like you were hurt, Ryan . . ."

Ryan glanced at Seth, whose expression of uneasy confusion reflected his own. "I'm fine," he insisted, shifting closer to Kirsten. "I was just being stupid, yelling at my crutch. Look, I thought you . . . things . . . were better. If this is still about the accident . . ."

Kirsten's eyes flooded with sudden tears. "I should have been watching the road," she moaned. "I never should have looked away. If I'd just been paying attention--"

"Kirsten, don't," Ryan pleaded. "It wasn't your fault. You've got to stop doing this to yourself. Seth, you were there. Tell her."

"Yeah, I was there," Seth recalled somberly. "And I've gotta say, Mom, it was a little bit your fault."

"Seth!" Ryan jerked upright, shocked, and he felt Kirsten stiffen under his arm.

"No, man, seriously. You don't like lying? Well, then, let's tell the truth," Seth urged. "It was a little bit Mom's fault because, yeah, she should have had her eyes on the road."

His eyes flashed a challenge to Ryan who conceded unwillingly, "Okay. Maybe. But Kirsten, honestly, it was more my fault. I was riding too fast, and not looking where I was going."

Seth nodded. "That's true, dude. And really. . . " he swallowed hard, "the whole thing was my fault too. A lot actually, because I shouldn't have let you leave when you were so upset, and the whole thing wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been a selfish ass anyway. So maybe, Mom, if you spread the blame around to everybody who deserves some, it won't be so hard to handle. What do you think?" Seth ducked his head to peer earnestly into his mother's eyes and then looked over at Ryan. "Do I make any sense?"

"Hardly ever," Ryan replied with a ragged smile. "But this time, yeah, I think you do."

"Ha! See that, Mom?" Seth jostled her arm in appeal. "Even Ryan believes you should listen to me."

"This time," Ryan clarified with a half-hearted humor. "I'm not saying she should make it a habit."

"Right. It's a once-in-a-lifetime experience." Seth grinned, trying to prompt an answering smile from his mother. When Kirsten just bit her lip silently, he tapped Ryan's arm and mouthed, "Tag in, bro."

Ryan nodded. "Seth's right, Kirsten. We all fu—messed up. So how about it?" he prompted. "If you can't stop feeling guilty, why don't you share the blame with us? Some to Seth, some to me, a little left over for you . . .?"

Seth unfolded himself and sat next to Kirsten again. "Just remember, Mom," he advised in a loud stage whisper, "give most of it to Ryan. He's got the muscles to handle it. Me, really not so much for the heavy lifting."

Kirsten caught her breath, her gaze traveling anxiously between the boys. When Seth wiggled his eyebrows and Ryan rolled his eyes, the tension in her body finally dissolved.

"You two," she breathed, with a shaky smile. "I don't stand a chance when you join forces, do I?"

Seth shimmied his shoulders. "Nope," he agreed blithely. "That's because we're irresistible."

"One of us is anyway," Ryan amended, completely deadpan. "And the other one tries really, really hard."

"Hey!" Seth protested. "That is just . . . wait a minute. Okay, dude, the way you said that, I'm not sure . . . Should I be offended or flattered?"

Kirsten laughed fondly and squeezed both their hands. "So we're all in this together?"

"Absolutely," Ryan replied. "So we've divided up the blame. Now all we need to do is get back on the horse--"

Seth interrupted with a shrill whinnying whistle. "Wait a minute! What horse? The only one around here is Captain Oats, and we would seriously crush him, dude."

Ryan groaned. "It's a metaphor, Seth."

Seth dimpled. "It's a cliché, Ryan."

"Yeah, right, whatever," Ryan conceded, rolling his eyes. "The point is to get past all this. So I'll get back on my bike--" Kirsten flashed a stern frown, and he added hastily, "as soon as the doctor says it's okay, I mean. And Kirsten, you'll get back behind the wheel."

"I don't know." Kirsten shrugged apologetically. "I realize that I should, but . . . It's just so hard."

"Okay, then how about this?" Seth suggested. "You take as much time to, you know, get over the accident as Ryan does. But when he gets the okay to ride his bike, you try driving again."

Ryan nodded his agreement. "That sounds reasonable, doesn't it, Kirsten?" He added slyly, "Of course, we don't want to put pressure on you. Because I have it on good authority: you shouldn't rush the rehab."

"Smartass!" Kirsten laughed. "Just for that, I'll do it. You get on your bike, I'll get in the driver's seat."

Seth rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. "Okay. Now we have a plan. I love a good plan. Ryan gets back on the bike, Mom gets back behind the wheel, I . . . what do I do?"

Kirsten looked helplessly at both boys. "I don't know. Ryan, what does Seth do?"

"Seth," Ryan said solemnly, "gets far, far away from other people's answering machines. And stays away."

He glared at Seth, who looked abashed, but then one side of Ryan's mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. Seth dimpled, relieved. "I can do that, dude," he promised. "I can totally do that."

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Caleb's office door opened without warning, and he swiveled from his computer, clearly annoyed. "Sanford," he pronounced grimly as Sandy strolled in. "This is . . . unexpected."

Sandy grinned and poured himself a cup of coffee before sprawling into a chair. "I think the expression is supposed to be 'this is an unexpected pleasure'."

"That remains to be seen, doesn't it?" Caleb retorted icily. "Exactly how did you get past my secretary, by the way? She knows that I don't see anyone unannounced."

"Afraid you've got your own sweet disposition to blame for that," Sandy drawled. He loosened his tie, making himself comfortable. "I just reminded her that your door is always open for family. That's true, isn't it, Dad?" He stirred his coffee, letting the ironic echo of the last word linger in the air.

Irritated, Caleb shut down his monitor and pushed back from his desk. "Do you have a point, Sanford, or did you just come here to bait me? Because I know the concept may be foreign to you, but I do have a business to run."

"Now, see," Sandy mused. "That is the Caleb Nichol I know and . . . well, the one that I know. This one on the other hand?" He opened his briefcase and removed Ryan's dinner invitation, tossing it on Caleb's desk. "I don't believe we've ever met. Mind explaining this to me, Cal?"

Caleb flicked the envelope back to Sandy dismissively. "What exactly do you find confusing, Sanford?" he sneered. "I thought the wording was self-explanatory. Besides, Kiki could fill in the details for you. She and I discussed this venture at length, and I let her decide whether or not to enlist Ryan's participation."

"She told me that," Sandy admitted. "I just want to be sure that you and Kirsten understand the project the same way. She thinks you hope the youth center will rehabilitate the Newport Group's image—make the company seem involved with the community and interested in something besides profits."

"And that's true," Caleb confirmed. He laced his fingers together, glancing pointedly at his watch in the process.

Sandy smiled wryly. "Right. Time is money," he observed. "Don't worry, Cal, I'll be brief. I understand your motivation for doing the project. That's business—self-serving, a little misleading, but hey, I don't mind. Not when we wind up with a youth center. But here's what worries me: your desire to involve Ryan in the deal."

"What's wrong with that?" Caleb demanded. "Kiki thinks it's a great idea."

"Of course she does. That's because Kirsten believes that you honestly want to improve your relationship with our boys. She thinks she finally convinced you to accept Ryan as a part of your family."

Tapping a knuckle against his mouth, Caleb studied Sandy's expression. "But you don't agree," he concluded.

"I'm a lawyer, Cal. You want me to believe you? Show me the evidence."

Caleb raised his eyebrows and gestured toward the invitation. "There it is, Sanford. Call it evidence, or an olive branch. Call it a white flag, if you like. Whether you choose to believe it or not, I want to get to know the real Ryan, and this project gives me an opportunity to do just that." His lips quirked sardonically. "I hardly think I can go the bonding-over-baseball-games route at my age."

"Soccer."

"Pardon me?"

"Ryan plays soccer."

"Fine. Soccer." Caleb shrugged. "Does it really matter?"

Sandy retrieved the invitation and returned it to his briefcase. "It does if you want to get to know him," he said shrewdly. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. "Things are good at home right now, Cal—better than they have been in weeks. My family is finding its way back together. And now the prospect that you might actually accept Ryan? You have no idea what that means to your daughter. I suspect that Ryan has some misgivings, but he won't admit them—at least not to Kirsten or me. He would do anything for her, Cal. And since he knows she wants peace between the two of you, he's accepting your invitation."

Caleb nodded, just once. "I'm glad to hear it."

"I'm sure you are. And I really hope Kirsten is right about your motives." Sandy stood up, returning his coffee cup to the tray next to Caleb's desk. "But in case she's not, remember our little conversation at your party, Cal. I won't tolerate you hurting my family," he warned. "Not in any way. Just keep that in mind. Oh—and see about getting some better coffee in your office. This? Really is not very good."

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"It's open," Ryan called, when he heard someone tap at his door.

The knock sounded again, a little louder and more erratic.

"Seth, just come in. I never memorized your Super-Secret Seth Spy knock, so you're not being stealth. Plus, we're not eight, remember?"

No one answered or entered, but when he glanced over, Ryan saw a flutter of white as someone slipped a note under the door. Suspicious, he picked up the paper between his thumb and index finger, holding it away from his body as he opened it.

"Come to the pool house," the message read cryptically. To Ryan's surprise, the handwriting belonged to Lindsay. "The pool house," he murmured, smiling to himself. "Yeah, why not?" He ran his fingers through his hair, straightened the shirt over his wifebeater, and headed out, wondering hopefully whether Lindsay had gotten hungry for her edible finger-paints.

As Ryan crossed the patio, though, his footsteps gradually slowed, and his eager anticipation began to dissipate. If Lindsay was waiting for him, he realized, she wasn't alone. The pool house door stood ajar, and low-pitched voices drifted out. Ducking to one side, Ryan paused, listening, and feeling uncomfortably like an eavesdropping Seth.

"I don't know, Cohen," Summer was complaining. "Is this the best you can do? It's not realistic. It should be a whole lot dorkier."

"Dorkier?" Seth protested. "This is not supposed to be dorky, thank you very much. This is classic Seth Cohen. Anyway, why should I listen to you? You have no taste, you know that, Summer?"

"I guess I can't argue with that. After all, I did go out with you," Summer retorted.

"Yeah, only see, that was the exception that proves the rule," Seth declared smugly. "And give me back that marker, woman. That's permanent, and you're going to ruin all my fine work—"

Lindsay's fierce whisper cut them off. "Seth, hurry up and finish!" she hissed. "He'll be here any minute!"

Ryan sighed; apparently edible finger-paints weren't in his immediate future. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his crutch and used it to push the door completely open, although he remained a safe distance outside.

"Dude!" Seth cried, waving expansively. "Great, you're here. Well, I mean, obviously you know that you're here. Except yeah, really not here here, since you're standing all the way out there. Adalente, buddy. Wilkommen! Entrez. Come on in."

Squinting suspiciously, Ryan took a single step closer. "Yeah, I don't know about that," he demurred.

"Ryan! Get in here right now," Lindsay urged. She took his hand, and gently pulled him inside, angling him to his left at the same time.

"Surprise!" Seth caroled.

"Surprise," Summer echoed. "And for the record, Chino, this was all Cohen's idea."

Seth bobbed his head in excitement. "Thank you, Summer. I appreciate credit where credit is due. So, what do you think, Ryan? You like it?" He proudly indicated a punching bag set up in a corner of the room. It was topped with black yarn curls, and on it Seth had drawn a caricature of himself, smiling cheekily and wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed, "Hit me. I'm talking." "Okay, so, not my best work, I know, but I didn't have much time. And certain people here, who shall remain nameless, but not seasonless, kept giving me unwanted advice."

"Hey!" Summer protested. "You asked for my advice, Cohen!"

"On which one I should buy, not on the design," Seth argued. He posed next to the bag, duplicating its toothy grin. "I call it 'Surrogate Seth.' Sir Seth for short and also because, hey, I've always wanted to be a knight. What do you say, Ryan? Is it me?"

"It would have looked more like Cohen with steel wool hair, right Chino? That yarn is too soft and manageable."

Seth patted his own head defensively. "Do not mock the Jewfro, Summer . . . Come on, Ryan. Say something."

Still holding Lindsay's hand, Ryan circled the bag critically, eyes raking it up and down, a small smile playing surreptitiously around his lips. "Oh yeah," he agreed. "It's you, Seth. Definitely." He jabbed the cartoon's jaw, letting the follow-through swing toward Seth who flinched and hopped away.

"Okay, so here's the thing, Ryan. Punch the bag, not the person," Seth instructed. "See, that's the whole point. Sir Seth here may look mild-mannered, but he is Uruk-hai tough. And best of all, no arms, so he'll never punch back."

"Huh," Summer scoffed. "That wasn't a punch! That was a barely a poke. Aren't you going to hit it, Chino?" She bounced on her toes, feinting left and right, fists cocked. "I mean, hit it hard. Think of everything Seth has ever done to piss you off and just, boom, let him have it!"

Seth hugged the punching bag protectively. "Don't worry, I won't let her hurt you," he whispered. "Listen, Summer, I don't think Ryan needs a motivational seminar here. And also, really, don't say piss."

"Pfft," Summer snorted, with a back-handed wave. "Come on, Chino. We've got gloves—well, for you one glove, I guess. Show us how you can throw down. Because if you don't, I will. And I know Lindsay wants a shot at Surrogate Seth too."

Lindsay's eyes gleamed. "Yeah," she admitted, smiling with predatory anticipation. "I kind of do. This will be fun."

"Um . . . okay, ladies, this much enthusiasm? I gotta say, really not so flattering," Seth observed, wincing empathetically as both girls nudged the punching bag.

"Aw, Cohen," Summer teased, revving up for an uppercut. "This should be a dream come true for you. You've finally got a body women can't keep their hands off of."

Seth caught her arm in mid-swing. "Ryan, stop them," he pleaded.

Ryan nodded. "Don't worry dude, I've got it . . . Ladies, wait your turn," he growled. "My bag. My orc-baiting, answer-machine erasing, private conversation-blabbing, quasi-brother, best friend. I get first punch."

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Sandy sat on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, flipping through TV channels when a hand reached from behind him and removed the remote. Then lips nuzzled his ear, as Kirsten whispered, "Can't you think of anything better to do with your time, Mr. Cohen?"

"Something better than Dancing with the Stars?" Sandy asked innocently, pulling her hand to his mouth and kissing her palm. "I don't know about that."

"We could practice our own version of the tango," Kirsten suggested. "My Yogalates class left me feeling very . . . limber."

As if to prove it, she rolled over the back of the couch and wedging herself beside Sandy.

"Ah," he drawled, pulling her close. "So you enjoyed yourself at the spa?"

Kirsten laughed softly. "Actually yes." She picked up Sandy's hand, playing with his fingers. "It felt good to do something . . . well, normal, again. I didn't even mind riding with Julie. It's strange, you know, sweetheart? She's become almost a real friend."

"Almost?"

"Well, she still is Julie. And God help me, my mother-in-law." Kirsten gave a wry shudder. ""So I have to take everything she says with enough salt to raise my blood pressure . . . Oh, and speaking of blood pressure, Sandy, how did it go with my father today?"

Sandy shrugged. "All right, I suppose. . ." he began, before catching himself. "Wait a minute, Kirsten. I never told you I was going to see Caleb."

Kirsten shook her head with fond exasperation. "You didn't have to, Sandy. When I explained that he wanted to invite Ryan to help with the youth center, I could tell that you had all kinds of doubts. So I assumed that the first chance you got, you'd confront him about it."

"Confront?" Sandy echoed defensively. "I wouldn't describe our conversation that way." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Of course, your father might. But, honey, can you blame me for being suspicious? This is Caleb Nichol we're talking about."

"Sandy!" Kirsten reproved. Then she sighed ruefully and admitted, "Actually, no. I love my father, but I don't blame you. So what do you think now that you've had your . . . conversation. Is dad sincere about wanting to get to know Ryan?"

Sandy's brows furrowed. "Honestly?" he mused. "I think he is telling the truth. Just maybe not the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

Kirsten tightened her fingers around Sandy's anxiously. "So you think I shouldn't have given Ryan Dad's invitation? Should we tell him not to go?"

"I think," Sandy said slowly, "that nobody needs to make Ryan's decision for him. He already said yes." Kirsten's eyes widened in surprised alarm, and Sandy squeezed her hand soothingly. "Sweetheart, don't worry. Ryan's a smart kid, and frankly, your father underestimates him. Let's not to do the same thing."

"But I just wanted him to consider it. If he doesn't really want to do it . . . if he only accepted as a favor to me, or out of some sense of obligation . . ." Kirsten argued uneasily.

"Obligation is Ryan's middle name," Sandy observed with a rueful grin. "That's not going to change overnight. We'll just let him know that if Caleb insults him or makes him uncomfortable, he can come home and forget the whole thing. No harm, no foul."

Kirsten nodded and dropped her head onto Sandy's shoulder. "No harm," she murmured. "God, I hope not."

"No more worrying, honey. How about. . .?" Sandy leaned down and began to hum in Kirsten's ear.

"Sanford Cohen! What are you doing?"

"Providing the music for our special tango," Sandy explained. "Let's see just how limber you really are."

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Seth flopped comfortably on the bed in the pool house, watching as Ryan jabbed the punching bag a final time and began to towel off. "Man," he breathed, sighing with apparent exhaustion, "I don't mind telling you, bro, that? Was one major workout."

Skeptical blue eyes peered above the white terry cloth. "You didn't do anything, Seth," Ryan said, finger-combing his disheveled hair.

"Didn't do anything?" Seth protested self-righteously. "Who held the bag for you, Ryan? Who walked the girls to their car? Who brought you that nice, icy bottle of water, and even unscrewed the cap? Wait! Was that . . . yes it was. Me."

"Ah, right," Ryan drawled, raising one eyebrow. "Yeah, that was some hard-core exertion. No wonder you're tired."

"Damn straight," Seth agreed. He scooted to the edge of the bed and sat up. "Seriously, Ryan, you feel any better? I mean, did Sir Seth help you get some things out of your system? 'Cause I just thought maybe . . ." He rapped his knuckles against his own jaw. "You could use a non-breakable outlet, you know?"

Ryan blew into his fist and then shook out his hand. "I know," he admitted. "Surrogate Seth is terrific, man. Thanks." Grinning impishly, Ryan flung his sweaty towel over Seth's head.

"Dude!" Seth yelped. "This is thanks? In the immortal words of Summer Roberts . . . ew!" He wrestled the towel off his face, then raced over the mirror, frantically patting his hair back into place.

Ryan drained his water bottle and wiped his mouth before he tossed the towel into the hamper. He sat down, easing his injured leg onto the ottoman. "Speaking of Summer," he said casually, "any new developments, Seth? I mean, since she kissed you the other night?"

Seth stopped repositioning his curls. He pivoted away from the mirror, his expression incredulous. "You're asking?"

Ryan lifted one shoulder. "I'm asking."

"So you won't mind me talking about Summer?" Ryan glared and Seth backpedaled slightly. "Right, yeah, no, obviously you won't mind since you brought up the subject. Well then, as a matter of fact, yes, there is breaking news. Summer and Zach . . . are you ready, Ryan? Because this is huge. Okay, maybe not so much huge for you, but potentially Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloon ginormous for me . . ."

"Seth."

"Right. So. Summer and Zack broke up."

Ryan leaned forward, his eyes widening. "They did?"

"They did," Seth confirmed. "Summer mentioned it while she was styling Sir Seth's hair. She just kind of dropped it, all offhand, into the conversation. She and Zach aren't going to date anymore. They've decided they'd rather just be friends."

Ryan cocked his head. "Interesting," he observed.

Seth plopped onto the top step and hugged his knees. "Now see," he grinned, "I've totally missed that, dude. That Ryan Atwood cut-to-the-chase insight . . . No, I mean it," he insisted, when Ryan rolled his eyes ironically. "It really is interesting. You think so too, right?" Ryan darted another admonishing glare, prompting Seth to add hastily, "And again, yes you do, because you already said so. Asked and answered, in Sandy Cohen legal-speak, which means move on counselor, you're wasting the court's time."

He paused for breath and Ryan's mouth quirked. "It sounds hopeful, Seth."

"Hopeful. Fuck, yes, that's what it is. It's hopeful, Ryan. I am chockfull of hope. Yeah, so, right, then what do you think I should do next?" Seth bounced eagerly, eyes alight with ideas. "Do you think I should--?"

Ryan raised a commanding hand. "No."

"No?" Seth parroted, confused. "No what, bro? I didn't tell you what I was planning."

"It was going to be some grand gesture, right? Maybe a hot air balloon ride over a beach where you spelled out 'I love you' in seashells? Or hiring a plane to fly a banner that says, 'Summer please take me back'?"

Seth's mouth opened, snapped closed and opened again. "I wasn't . . . Well, yeah, maybe, but not . . . okay, I was," he stammered. "You know, those are really good ideas, Ryan."

"They're terrible ideas, Seth."

"Exactly. That's what I meant. Terrible ideas. Awful. Four thousand degrees of bad. Because what I really should do is . . ." Seth waited, beckoning with both hands.

"Take it slow," Ryan advised. "Let Summer know you want her back—in case she's the only person in Newport who didn't get the memo—and then just . . . find out how she feels. What she wants to do."

Seth rose and started to pace thoughtfully. "How she feels," he mused. "What she wants. You know, you should grow a beard, Ryan. You are very wise."

"Glad you finally noticed," Ryan smirked. "Okay, if that's settled, I'm going to get something to eat."

Before he could push himself up, Seth urged him back with a hand on his shoulder. "Wait, Ryan. Can I ask a question?"

Ryan glanced at his watch. "You're on golden time here, dude."

"And I don't have the slightest idea what that means. But anyway . . . how do you feel about my grandfather's invitation? I know you accepted, but really . . . why the hell, man?"

Startled, Ryan narrowed his eyes. "You don't want to talk about Summer anymore?"

"Yeah, well, always," Seth admitted. "But come on, buddy, don't you think we spent enough time on me? I mean, I know I'm fascinating, but you have totally got to learn to talk about other subjects." He smiled at Ryan's bewilderment before continuing gravely, "Anyway, this business about dinner at the Haunted House . . . I don't know, Ryan. You really want to go?"

"No," Ryan confessed. "Not really. But I'm not going just for dinner. Seth. It's for the youth center. And, well, your mom is really excited about it."

"Yeah, but see, that's not a good reason to get involved, Ryan. Seriously, it's not. Not if you don't want to do it." Ryan cocked his head wryly, and Seth gave an embarrassed grin. "Okay, yeah, I know. I may have, on occasion—on, like, every occasion--tried to talk you into things you didn't want to do. But I have learned, my friend. No more. And Mom will totally understand if you decide to bail . . ."

Ryan recalled the shabby playgrounds of his childhood, the ill-equipped rec center that he and Trey had rejected in favor of neighborhood bars, the street corners where he had hung out, always on guard, but unwilling to go home. "It's okay, Seth. I want to do it," he said. Then he added honestly, "And also, kind of, I don't. It's just . . . If it meant working with anybody else, I'd think it was a great idea."

"Ah, but it means working Lex Luthor himself. Catwoman too, probably," Seth predicted, shuddering. "Even with your superpowers, dude, they can be a very dangerous team."

Ryan rubbed his brace absently. "You don't trust your grandfather, Seth?"

"I did not say that, dude," Seth objected, palms raised in denial. "I trust him to do many things. Make money. Annoy my dad. Insult my manly physique . . . mostly by saying it's not manly. Or a physique. I even trust him to do the right thing for the wrong reasons. It's just . . . I can't figure out why he's suddenly hanging out a 'Welcome, Ryan,' sign. So . . . shit, I don't know. That's why I thought, maybe . . . Ryan, do you want me to come with?"

"What? To dinner on Friday? You can't, Seth. You've got the comic book trade show."

Seth studied the toes of his shoes. "I could skip it," he offered. "If you want me around as, I don't know, back-up . . . It's no big deal, Ryan."

"I thought it was," Ryan argued. "Aren't you scheduled to present your ideas to some publishers?"

"Yeah," Seth confirmed with feigned nonchalance. "But hey, Ryan, what are the odds they'd be interested anyway?" He swallowed hard and repeated weakly, "It's no big deal."

Ryan looked at Seth for a long moment before he spoke, his voice quietly respectful. "You don't have to come with me, Seth. But the fact that you offered—that is a big deal. Thank you."