Sitting silently on the edge of the ottoman, Seth rocked forward and back, gripping the knees of his creased black dress pants. Each time he moved, his cufflinks, the ones his grandfather had given him belatedly for his Bar Mitzvah, blinked like stern, disbelieving eyes.
"Twenty-four carat gold with an onyx inlay. Engraved with your initials," Caleb had noted with satisfaction. "Serious jewelry, Seth. These cufflinks are designed for a man, someone who recognizes significant occasions and who knows his place in the world." He had frowned, squinting skeptically, as though Seth couldn't be trusted to know when to wear them, or why.
He could though.
The cufflinks felt like relics. Solid and sharp-edged, they were hard to fasten, equally hard to remove, and they gouged his wrist bones. Seth had worn them only once, for his grandfather's funeral. Putting them on today had been a reflex, just another automatic response, like buttoning his shirt or brushing his teeth.
Or breathing.
Like talking to Ryan always used to be: natural and necessary.
Only now Seth didn't even know how to start. For five minutes he had sat mute, watching Ryan's methodical movements as he packed, how he selected only the oldest and most worn of his clothes, the way he rolled socks and t-shirts so that he wasted no space in his duffel bag. At last Seth saw him pick up a final pair of jeans, fold them in fourths, slip them inside, smooth the faded fabric, and quickly, deliberately, pull the zipper shut.
The noise ripped the fragile quiet in the poolhouse, leaving it in shreds.
Wincing, Seth licked his dry lips. There was no longer any point trying to find the right words. They didn't exist. "You know, buddy," he ventured, fumbling for confidence, "if you want my advice . . ."
Ryan's gaze darted over, a dim replica of his old "spare me" laser-glare. Seeing it flicker, wan, perfunctory, Seth felt something begin to slip out of his grasp.
"Yeah, okay, you don't, but Ryan--" Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on his coffee mug, rubbing it between his palms: Aladdin trying to summon a genie, already making his wish. He swallowed and continued, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. "You shouldn't go."
"Seth," Ryan sighed.
Seth waited, hating the sound of his name, the way it seemed to close like a door, like one more in the long series of doors that had been shutting lately. It trapped them in another of those silences, the kind that felt dangerous, full of strange, sleeping things that shouldn't be disturbed.
Ryan seemed to sense their presence too. He stiffened and his mouth moved as if he might speak again, but at last he simply shrugged. His thumbnail scraped the ridged strap of his bag as he hefted it, testing its weight. For a moment he stood, eyes downcast, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Then he sat heavily on the top step. He began to put on his boots, pulling the laces tight, double-knotting them in place.
Unable to stand any of it—the quiet, the questions, the sight of Ryan in sweatshirt and battered jeans, readying himself to leave—Seth shook his head urgently. "At least you shouldn't go now," he amended. "Just wait, I don't know, a week, okay? Three days even. I mean, come on, what's three days, Ryan? It's not even four, right?" He ground his foot into the floor, once, twice, three times, counting. In the glossy black surface of his dress shoe, he could make out his reflection, faint and distorted, drowning in darkness. Shuddering, Seth gulped air, and looked up.
Ryan already seemed very far away, a figure in forced perspective receding toward the vanishing point.
Distant, hard to distinguish. And nearly gone.
Everything in the poolhouse appeared untouched. The surface of the counter shone, empty and wiped clean; all the storage baskets were aligned on the shelves, the stool had been pushed neatly under the drafting table. On the bed the sheets were stretched, immaculate and wrinkle-free, folded in a precise line under the pillows, all four corners crisply tucked in.
It was like a display, Seth thought, nothing real, nowhere that Ryan—that anyone—actually ever lived. The words model home flashed through his mind, mocking him.
It had been his idea—what he had thought was a brilliant idea—to take Ryan there that first time, so long ago. In so many ways, that was the place where everything had begun.
And, perhaps, where everything had ended too.
Reflexively, Seth pushed himself out of the chair, crossed the room and slumped onto the bed. His careless weight creased the covers, rumpling them even more as he scooted toward Ryan. One hand closed into a fist and his knuckles kneaded the nearest pillow.
"See, buddy, here's the thing," Seth said, as if they were having a conversation. "If you just wait a few days—hell, even one--we could do it, what Dad suggested. You know, all drive to New Mexico together. Make it a family road trip." Ryan inhaled audibly, a thin, tattered, sound. Pausing, Seth peered at his averted face before he plunged on. "I Googled Albuquerque last night, and maybe it wouldn't be my first choice for a stop on the pancake tour of North America, but it would be interesting. Yeah, okay, not so much the rattlesnake museum, because I mean, come on. But Mom would love the native art and there are some hippie communes nearby so Dad could indulge his inner flower child. And before you say anything about Summer, I bet she would come with us too, because--"
"Seth, don't."
"No, just listen. There's this road called the Turquoise Trail and well, think about it. Turquoise, Ryan. You know what that means? Jewelry. Shopping. Two of Summer's favorite things . . . Seriously, a road trip could be good for all of us . . ."
The air shifted, cooling, as Ryan stood up and Seth's voice trailed off. "Just don't go, man," he concluded miserably. "Not now. Not by yourself."
"I've got to, Seth." Ryan raked both hands through his hair, laced his fingers behind his neck, and forced his head up. He looked directly at Seth, his eyes the mottled blue of bruises, of broken veins. "If I stay here--"
"What?" Seth demanded. He sat up straight, his face glazed with anger. "If you stay here, what? It's gonna be hell? Shit, Ryan, it's gonna be hell no matter where you go. At least here you have people who love you." Flushing, he recoiled, although Ryan didn't react, scarcely even seemed to hear. "I'm sorry," Seth mumbled, his throat thick with mingled contrition and appeal. "I mean, I know your mom loves you too. It's just . . .you think leaving is going to make it easier to deal with everything?"
"Not easier," Ryan replied softly. "Safer, maybe."
"What does that mean, safer? For who?" Seth's voice rose in alarm. "Ryan, what happened to Marissa . . . it wasn't your fault. You know that, don't you? So why is it safer if you leave?"
Ryan didn't answer. Instead, he grasped Seth's forearm and hauled him, unresisting, to his feet. Leaning forward, Ryan adjusted Seth's carelessly knotted tie until it was centered, taut and even. His gaze fixed on his own fingers as he spoke. "Did I ever tell you, that first weekend I was here? When we were getting ready for the fashion show? I'd never worn a tie before and I couldn't figure out what to do with the damn thing. Your dad taught me. He came out and fixed it for me, talking about how it's such a mystery . . . And it really is, you know? Even now."
Unsure what Ryan meant, Seth simply bobbed his head, expecting something more, something else. But that was it.
Ryan was done.
His expression veiled again, he retreated a step. "Summer wants you to pick her up early, right?" he prompted. "You should get going now."
"But . . ." Helplessly, Seth plucked at his cuffs, ran his hand down the tie Ryan had already smoothed. "I don't even know . . . what am I supposed to tell her? She expects you to be there. For us all to be . . . together today."
Ryan's lips crimped and his gaze skidded sideways, guilty, seeking somewhere to hide. "Tell her I love her," he whispered finally. "And that I'm sorry."
Seth swiped a hand over his eyes. He didn't make any move to leave. Ryan placed a hand on his back and gently, inexorably steered him toward the door.
"Don't keep her waiting, man," he urged. "She needs you."
"No. I won't. I . . . You'll call, won't you, Ryan? And if you change your mind, just come back. Any time . . ."
"Yeah," Ryan breathed. His lips curved into a small, wistful smile. "Don't worry. I know where you live."
"Where you live, bro. This is your home too."
Swallowing hard, Ryan held out his hand. Seth looked at it, numb. Then, his face crumbling, he lurched forward and wrapped Ryan in an impulsive embrace. Just as he had the first time they said goodbye, Ryan stood for a moment, rigid and unresponsive, before he hugged Seth back.
Almost simultaneously, he steered him toward the door, opened it, and eased him through.
Outside, sunlight blazed down, stunning and merciless. Seth blinked, trapped in its glare as, behind him, the poolhouse latch caught with an audible click.
Kirsten sat in front of her vanity mirror, absently twisting her rings, staring at nothing. From the doorway, Sandy watched her, his own face desolate. Vainly, he tried to recollect how she had looked in the kitchen that night sinking to the floor in his arms, but the image wouldn't come clear. She had been laughing, he knew, her head thrown back, her hair disheveled, her eyes sparkling with abandon.
He remembered her throaty chuckle when he slipped a hand underneath her blouse.
"Sanford Cohen! What are you thinking?" she had protested, even as she arched, purring, into his touch. "Here? Now? What if the boys come home?"
"Oh, I don't think we have to worry about that. We should have the place to ourselves for hours. Seth is with Summer, and who knows how long it will take Ryan to say goodbye to Marissa?"
Say goodbye to Marissa.
The memory of those words seared. Sandy flinched, recalling how innocent they had seemed, how carelessly he had punctuated them with thrusts of his tongue between Kirsten's breasts.
"Mmm, well, in that case . . . " she had drawled, licking her lips and yanking down the zipper of his pants. "Here and now is perfect. And we do have some whipped cream left over from dessert, don't we?" Growling wickedly, she had nipped Sandy's shoulder and reached behind him for the refrigerator door.
His Kirsten, wanton, playful, alive with desire and sheer happiness. Her entire being had shone vivid and light.
Then the phone rang. And everything changed.
Now, lost in the blue of their bedroom, she seemed dim, a charcoal drawing, all shadows and smudged, unfinished lines.
Wordlessly, Sandy moved to stand behind her. His reflection met hers in the mirror and she quivered, startled. A faint sound escaped her, pain in one stifled gasp.
"Is it time already?" she whispered.
Sandy dipped his head. He pressed a hand to her cheek and Kirsten turned her face into it, kissing his palm, and resting there for a long moment.
"How are we supposed to do this, Sandy?" Hushed and hesitant, she picked through words like shards of broken glass. "Marissa . . . she was too young. I keep seeing her at graduation, the way she smiled, how happy she looked, how ready she seemed for . . . everything. It doesn't seem possible that she's really gone. And Julie and Jimmy . . . Oh, God, how can they stand to bury their child . . .? I can't even face saying goodbye to ours."
"I know," Sandy murmured. "I know."
"I feel so ashamed, because it's not the same thing, it's not even close. But it scares me, Sandy—Ryan leaving like this. It feels like forever, like we're losing him too." Kirsten glanced up, her eyes lost and imploring. "If only he weren't eighteen. At least then we could make him stay . . ."
Sandy kissed Kirsten's hair, running his thumb gently along her cheek. "No, honey. We couldn't."
"Sometimes . . ." Kirsten whispered, and stopped.
"What?"
"Sometimes, I'm so grateful that Ryan was with her—that Marissa had someone so she didn't . . . die . . . alone." Kirsten swallowed. Turning toward the window, she gazed past Sandy to some hazy spot beyond the horizon. Her breath hitched, and he wondered what she saw. "But sometimes," she choked, "I can't help it. I wish . . ." Unable to finish, she crimped her lips, stifling the final words.
"That it hadn't been Ryan," Sandy concluded.
Kirsten clutched his hand. "Yes!" she hissed fiercely. "I hate it—hate it—that he has to live with those memories. Ryan has already been through so much. How much more is he supposed to bear?" She shuddered, her voice splintering. "There are moments when . . . oh God, Sandy. I even hate Marissa for putting him through this. And then I hate myself--"
"Honey, don't--"
"But how can I blame Marissa? It wasn't her fault. And I did love her, Sandy. I do."
Sandy squeezed one hand over his eyes, vainly trying to erase his own pain. "Of course you do, Kirsten. So do I. But Ryan's our kid, and seeing what this has done to him . . ." He faltered. "I know how you feel. You just wish--"
It was no use. He couldn't find any words. Instead Sandy folded both arms around his wife, holding her close in the hollow silence.
At last, reluctantly, he stirred.
"Sweetheart," he said. "We have to go."
Kirsten inhaled sharply. She hesitated, gripping the edge of her dresser. At last she pushed herself to her feet. Sandy touched his forehead to hers and she sagged against his shoulder. Easing a gentle hand under her arm, he led her to their bedroom door. He was about to turn the knob when Kirsten wrenched herself away.
"Wait!" she ordered, her voice shaking.
Abruptly, she toed off her pumps, pulled on a terry-cloth robe and cinched it around her black sheath. Yanking out her jet earrings, she thrust them into a pocket as she stepped into a pair of slippers.
"Kirsten?"
"I am not wearing funeral clothes while I say goodbye to Ryan," she explained. "I won't do that."
Her mouth tightened in challenge, but Sandy simply nodded, a gesture like a benediction. He shrugged off his own jacket and discarded his tie.
"Okay," he agreed quietly. "Okay. Let's go."
Before they even got to the kitchen, the aroma greeted them. Sandy sniffed, brows furrowed in surprise.
"Coffee?" he asked. "Do you suppose that Ryan--?"
"No. I made it to take out to him." Seth's voice, flat and unexpected, greeted his parents from the French doors. Trudging inside, he deposited a cup, still almost full, on the counter, and took out his keys. They flashed icy-silver in the morning light. "Summer wanted me to come over early, so I guess I should go." He shrugged helplessly, swallowing hard. "I couldn't change his mind," he admitted.
With a small, stifled moan, Kirsten drew her son close, settling his head against her shoulder, the same spot where years ago he had slept so often, warm and content and secure in her arms.
"I tried," he whispered.
"Oh, sweetie. I know."
"You guys will talk to him, right?"
"Of course we will," Sandy promised. He kneaded the back of Seth's neck until his son looked up, lifting eyes dark as pebbles in a forest stream. "But Seth, Dawn is Ryan's mother. We can't make him feel guilty for wanting to be with her."
Seth stiffened, pulling away. "That's not what he wants."
"We know. But he can't have what he wants," Kirsten said softly. "He can't bring Marissa back. Sweetie, if Ryan needs distance right now, we have to let him go." Running a hand down Seth's sleeve, she reached for a wan smile that her lips couldn't claim. "We have to support him, no matter what."
"Right. No matter what," Seth echoed dully. His fist closed around his keys, letting their jagged edges bite his flesh like tiny, hungry teeth. "I've got to go. Summer is waiting for me."
"We'll see you at the service, son." Sandy patted Seth's back, then wrapped an arm around Kirsten and drew them both into a protective embrace. For a moment they stood, a knot of shared sorrow, until, grudgingly, Seth ducked away. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen.
In the lonely silence left by his departure, his parents could hear the front door open and close again.
"Let's go, honey," Sandy urged. He straightened his shoulders, summoning every reserve of his strength, and tightened his grip around her waist.
Kirsten nodded mutely, but as they passed the refrigerator she raised her hand.
"For Ryan," she explained, stopping to remove an overstuffed lunch bag. "For the flight." Sandy's eyes narrowed quizzically. A series of emotions washed across his face—tenderness, amusement, fathomless regret—and Kirsten added defensively, "I know it's silly, since it's such a short trip. But I made a lunch for him the last time he went to see Dawn—his mother. I just . . . wanted something to be the same."
"It's not silly at all. And I'm sure Ryan will appreciate it, honey." Almost formally, Sandy opened the French doors. "Shall we?" he asked.
It was hard, crossing the patio.
The walk took only seconds, yet the space still resounded with a hundred echoes—the grill sputtering, chairs scraping up to the table, laughter, music, water splashing, voices spilling over each other, teasing, calling, lifting in argument or hushed with secrets—so many reminders of family.
They shimmered in the air, and then they were gone.
At the door of the poolhouse, Sandy hesitated for a moment. Bracing himself, he filled his lungs as Kirsten waited, a light breeze brushing her jasmine-scented hair. Finally, he knocked. He didn't wait for Ryan's faint "It's not locked. Come on in," before pushing the door open.
"How are you doing, kid?" he asked as he ushered Kirsten inside.
Ryan didn't seem to hear. He stood with his back to them, staring out a window, the cord of its half-raised blind wrapped around his hand. One arm stretched along the frame, supporting his slumping body, pillowing his head.
"It's amazing, this view," he murmured.
Kirsten took a single step forward, caught her breath and stumbled back, her fingers fluttering at her throat. She pressed close to Sandy. He rubbed her shoulder, his palm moving in slow, even circles, his eyes never leaving Ryan.
"It is that," he agreed. "And it's even better outside."
Without turning, Ryan nodded. "I know," he admitted. Rapt, he watched sunlight dance across the distant waves, shimmer on the still perfection of the infinity pool. "That first morning I woke up here, when I walked outside . . . It was like the whole world was spread out, shining . . ." His voice drifted from wonder like a glider's inevitable return to earth. "I thought it couldn't be real."
Abruptly, he released the cord, letting the blind fall. One end caught, the slats snagging against each other with a fretful clatter. Ryan smoothed them, easing each one back into position. When he turned, his eyes were downcast, his lips sucked in at the corners. A tremor crossed his face before he looked up.
"You're not ready," he blurted, startled. His breath quickened as he registered Kirsten's robe, the open neck of Sandy's shirt. "The . . . service . . . for Marissa--"
"Don't worry, kid. We won't be late." Sandy paused, weighing the risks, before he asked, "You sure you don't want to come? We can always get you on a later flight."
Unconsciously, Ryan locked his arms across his midriff. With nothing else to hold, he gripped his own elbows, his nails digging into his skin. "No," he answered hoarsely. "I don't belong there. Not with her family."
"Oh, sweetie, of course you do."
"No," Ryan repeated, taking a step backwards. "It's better for Julie and Kaitlin—for everybody—if I don't go."
Kirsten glanced at Sandy. He shook his head in defeat or warning. "All right," she sighed. "If you're sure . . ." Still clinging to Sandy's wrist, she approached Ryan, holding out the bag. "It's just a sandwich, some fruit and cookies. In case you get hungry," she explained with a thin, diffident smile.
"Thanks." Ryan ducked his head, almost sketching a bow. "Thank you." As he reached for the bag, his fingers grazed Kirsten's. She held on, forcing him to meet her eyes.
"You know that you can come back any time." Ryan nodded, his gaze plummeting back to the floor, and Kirsten touched his cheek. "Any time," she repeated, deliberately spacing the words, allowing each one its own weight and import. "We'll be here." Her voice wavered, dissolved. Suddenly liquid, it slid into entreaty. "We'll be waiting."
Sandy draped one arm around Ryan's neck, the other around Kirsten's waist. Just as he had done in the kitchen with Seth, he drew the three of them together, their foreheads touching in a gesture that felt like a prayer, like a promise. "I told you once, kid, just because you're leaving doesn't mean we're letting you go," he said. "That's still true. It doesn't matter that you're eighteen. It doesn't matter that you have another family. What matters that we love you and this will always be your home. You got that?"
Ryan took a shaky breath. "Got it," he whispered. "Thanks. Sandy, Kirsten . . . I know you think this is wrong."
"We don't--" Sandy claimed, but Ryan ignored the protest.
"Missing the funeral. Leaving. Everything . . . I just . . . I'm sorry."
The word lingered, expanded, seeping through the room until it seemed to become the air itself.
Kirsten stepped back. Gently, she lifted Ryan's chin, her eyes holding his, blue into blue like water into sky, her hands cupping his face so that he couldn't hide, couldn't even look away. "Don't be sorry," she said simply. "Just come back to us."
Ryan nodded. He tilted his head, his gaze as intent as if he were memorizing the moment. Instinctively, Sandy and Kirsten held still, offering him silent support, an indelible image of their strength and love.
"I will," Ryan promised.
His words broke the spell. With no more to say, all three of them moved toward the open door. When they reached it, Sandy clasped Ryan's neck, his fingers kneading a goodbye. "You have a safe trip, kid," he murmured. "Both ways."
Kirsten kissed Ryan's cheek, and then wrapped her arms around him, shifting until she could feel him nestled in that sacred spot, the same one where she had cradled Seth. Her unspoken wish sighed into his ear.
"Don't worry," Ryan whispered, as if in answer. "It's just for a while."
Kirsten's fingers threaded through his hair, ruffling strands only to smooth them again. "We're counting on that," she replied. "But I'm still going to worry. It's a mother's job."
She took a deep breath. Releasing Ryan slowly, unwillingly, she sank into Sandy's waiting embrace. Together, they trudged back across the patio, turning once to wave when they reached the French doors.
Ryan watched, lips parted, one hand suspended in an empty farewell, until they both disappeared. Then, his face blank, he stepped back inside the poolhouse. He scanned the room—the orderly shelves and desk, the bed neatly remade after Seth had left, the swept floor, vacant counter and desk, all evidence of his life carefully stowed away or removed.
Except for two final items.
Face down, concealed under his folded sweatshirt, they remained, undeniable: the Chrismukkah card where he first saw himself as part of the Cohen family, and a photograph of Marissa, laughing, snuggled against his chest. Almost, the back of that picture hurt more than the front. On one side, there she was, beautiful, alive and safe in his arms, but on the other, she had written the note. Even through layers of gray fabric, Ryan could see it, the buoyant confidence of her message, scrawled in turquoise ink and underlined twice.
"I love your smile, Ryan. I love you, more than I can say. Forever, Marissa."
Forever.
Marissa.
Gingerly, almost in slow motion, Ryan lifted his sweatshirt. He put it on, shivering slightly as he tugged the zipper up. His eyes closed as he inhaled and exhaled, three deep, measured breaths. Then he opened his eyes and turned the photographs over. Moving with the tortured caution of a patient checking his own burns, he touched each one, pressing his thumb against the glossy surface, watching as the whorls of his fingerprint gradually, inevitably, disappeared.
The images blurred under his stinging gaze.
Ryan's mouth compressed and he swallowed hard.
With sudden decision, he picked up both pictures, slid them inside an otherwise empty drawer and pushed it shut. Grabbing his duffel bag, he positioned it between his feet, next to the lunch Kirsten had prepared. He patted his back pocket, felt the folded note safely tucked inside, and nodded tersely.
Satisfied that everything was in place, Ryan took a deep breath. Then he sat down to wait until everyone had gone.
Sandy opened the door of the Cohen house silently, stepping aside to allow his wife and son to enter first. He loosened his tie as he watched them come in, Kirsten plucking the neckline of her wilted dress, aimlessly lifting strands of her damp hair, Seth striding toward the stairs, shoulders rigid beneath the grim black of his jacket.
"Sweetie--" Kirsten called.
Seth paused, halfway up to the landing. He glanced back, his eyes opaque, shook his head and continued climbing. His steps were swift and purposeful, but they faltered just as he reached the top. As though something vital inside him had fractured, he slumped against the wall, sliding down until he was crouched on the floor, his face buried in his hands.
Instinctively, Kirsten started up after him. Sandy caught her wrist, stopping her.
"Give him a few minutes," he urged, low. "He spent all day being strong for Summer. I don't think he wants to face anyone now."
He didn't add, "except Ryan," but Kirsten heard the words anyway.
"I just want to do something, Sandy," she murmured. At a loss, she twisted her rings, staring at Seth's huddled form. She started to suggest "I'll make some hot chocolate," but the words congealed on her tongue. It wasn't magic, that drink, didn't cure anything, couldn't restore her son's shattered faith in the future, or help them reclaim their lost family.
It hadn't eased Ryan's pain even a little bit.
Still, Kirsten found herself drifting toward the kitchen. Tea, she thought, or maybe soup. Although what did it matter? No one would eat or drink anything.
The phone rang, rending through her despair.
"I'll get it," she offered.
"Kirsten, you're exhausted. Just let the machine pick up."
"No, I want to," she insisted. "It might be Ryan."
Sandy's brow creased, but he didn't argue. "Okay," he agreed, dropping a quick kiss on her forehead. "I'm going to get changed."
Kirsten watched him trudge wearily down the hall, then snatched up the phone. "Hello?" she prompted. "Ryan?"
There was an garbled sound, like someone snorting or sobbing, before the line hummed with a murky silence.
"Hello?" she repeated. "Cohen residence. Is someone there?"
"Krishen?"
"Excuse me?"
"Krishen? You gotta tell him I'm sorry, 'kay?"
Kirsten frowned into the receiver. "I'm sorry. You must have the wrong number--"
"'Kay? Please? Can you do that for me? Huh?"
The voice was sloppy and sodden, importunate. Halfway to hanging up, Kirsten felt herself freeze. "Dawn?" she asked, dread running icy fingers along her spine. "Dawn, is that you?" Closing her eyes, she listened intently, filtering the slushy words until they made sense.
"One gift—I give Ry one gift since, since he was a baby practically, and he almost dies in it. And his girlfriend, that sweet Marissa—God, she was so pretty. It's like a, a really, really sick joke, you know? Only not funny . . . You shoulda seen his face, Kirsten. When Ry saw the car—he was like a little kid, all, all lit up inside, so damn excited . . . I got to be his mom for one lousy minute and I nearly kill him . . ."
"Oh my God," Kirsten breathed. She gripped the phone, enunciating precisely. "Dawn, listen to me. Are you alone? You need to call your sponsor. All right? Talk to your sponsor, get him to come over right now, and then you can call me back."
Anger flared across the line. "Fuck that. I'm callin' you now! What, you don' wanna talk to me? Well, fine. But I, I don' need any, any sponsor shit. Okay? Fuckin' joke, that AA." Kirsten winced, but she didn't have time to respond before Dawn's fury burned itself out. "You love Ry, right?" she whimpered plaintively. "I mean, even though he's really my kid, maybe you at leas' love him a lil', lil' bit?"
"Dawn, of course we love Ryan--"
"'Cause I know he's eight, eighteen now, so you don't gotta do nothin' for him anymore but . . . Ry, he needs somebody, y'know? Krishen if you an' San'y throw him out--"
"Dawn, we would never do that. I promise you. Ryan chose to leave. We want him here with us, but we couldn't force him to stay. Listen to me. Dawn?" Desperately, Kirsten summoned her clipped, business voice. In the distance, she heard Seth yelling for her and Sandy, but she ignored his voice and the sound of his footsteps racing down the stairs. "This is important," she insisted. "You have to sober up, do you hear? You have to do that for Ryan. He's on his way to you now. He needs you--"
There was a muddy sound, mirthless laughter and disbelief sloshing together. "What the hell? Whaddya mean, Ry's comin' to me? No he's, no he's not." Dawn's voice gurgled around a sob. "My baby hasn't come to me since he was jus' . . . lil'. Not since he was a lil, lil boy. 'Cept to, to invite me to his graduation. Why the fuck did he do that anyway?"
"Ryan is coming, Dawn. He's on a plane now. And you can't let him find you like this. You can't do that to him."
"Goddamn it!" Dawn snapped. "Stop! Jus' . . . stop! Don' you lie to me! Jus' 'cause you don' want Ry around anymore. Shoulda never called—Lyin' bitch!"
Kirsten flinched at the crash of Dawn's phone slamming down, the sudden, angry buzz of the dial tone.
"Sandy!" she cried, whirling around and rushing into her bedroom. Dazed with panic, she scarcely noticed Seth standing by the dresser. "Sandy, we have to stop Ryan—contact his plane, or have somebody meet him at the airport. I don't know, something! But we can't let him go to Dawn. She's drunk—worse than drunk, I think. He can't be with her, not when she's like that--"
"He won't be," Sandy interjected flatly.
"What?" Kirsten gasped. For the first time, she registered Seth's rigid form, the defeated slump of Sandy's shoulders, the sheet of paper he gripped in a white-knuckled hand. "What do you mean? Where's Ryan? Didn't he leave after all?"
Sandy crumpled the edge of the note and slowly, painfully lifted his head. When he spoke, his voice matched his eyes: gray and hollow. "He left," he replied. "He just didn't go to Dawn."
TBC