"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

"So what does all this make?" Summer said as she watched Atwood dive into the stack of blue plastic supermarket sacks. He started arranging food products in interesting piles: cans on one side, produce on the other, oils and spices in the middle.

"I thought I'd make a basic salsa and some quesadillas," Atwood said. "It's pretty easy, and most people will eat it."

Summer picked up a bright lime. She squished it a little then rolled it around her counter with her palm as Atwood assessed the quality of the tomatoes she had bought. He bounced one in his hand, weighing it, then rubbed his thumb over the skin. He picked up the pack of tortillas she had bought and turned it over to read the expiration date.

He wrinkled his nose. She wrinkled her brow. Something was off here.

"Atwood," she said suspiciously, "have you turned into a foodie?"

He looked at her in astonishment, caught in midsniff.

"A what-ie?"

"A foodie," Summer said. "You know, someone who's all into exotic foods and making sure everything is just exactly fresh and in season? Someone who actually cares what kind of tortillas I bought? Someone like Seth?"

Plastic smacked the counter as Atwood dropped the tortilla package guiltily.

"No, no," he said. "These are fine. I just could have gotten you a better deal at Chicho's."

"What's that?"

"Um. It's … um … this place I work," Atwood said. "On the weekends. In Chino."

"Are you still cooking?"

"Um. Sort of," Atwood said distractedly as he dropped cilantro in a stainless steel bowl with holes in it and ran water over it in the sink. Someone had given her the bowl as a wedding present. She had thought it was an ugly art piece. "Paper towels?"

Summer handed him the plain white roll from the cabinet. She watched in fascination as he patted the cilantro dry. Atwood always knew what to do with things, real things, life things. His hands moved the cilantro to the chopping board and selected a knife. His hands weren't big, but they were capable. Capable of cooking or cleaning or creating a frenzy in her body.

Except for occasionally walking out on her, he was the perfect man.

He diced the cilantro into a small mound of shreds and moved it to a corner of the cutting board. He rinsed a tomato and started turning it into small squares.

"What's that cut?" Summer said idly.

"It's a dice," Atwood said. He didn't look up. "I like your hair."

"My hair?"

"It's shorter. And it has red stuff in it."

Summer wanted to dance around the kitchen. She settled for squiggling her plum bisque toes in her new flip-flops. Atwood had noticed her hair. He was looking at her, in between all the times when he wasn't looking at her.

"Highlights," she said calmly.

He didn't say anything else about her hair, so she didn't say anything else about it, either. Who said she didn't know when to keep her mouth shut? Seth, that's who. Summer couldn't wait to tell him exactly how wrong he had been.

She also couldn't wait for the next romantic pronouncement Atwood might say.

"Do you have a bowl?" he said.

OK, so she wasn't going to get a testimony of undying affection. She rooted around in a cabinet.

"I think Zach put them up here," she said, fossicking past the stemware and dinner plates.

"How long has Seth been dating boys?" Ryan said.

"Um, I don't know. A couple of years, maybe," Summer said, thinking about it as she closed the pine cabinet door and opened the next one. "And I don't think it's boys, plural. I think it's just Luke. Because, let's see, they got together … hmmm. It would have been after Anna left. Then Seth went into rehab. Sometime after he got out and started working at the Bait Shop and started banging that punk chick."

"Rehab?"

"It's going pretty well," Summer said. "I think he just started drinking because he hated working for his grandfather so much. I don't think it was a real addiction. I mean, sure, he'll tell you it's been 497 days and three hours and 26 minutes since his last drink, or something stupid like that, but I think he's just doing it for attention. You know Seth. Plus he gets to go to meetings and talk."

Summer turned around with a clear glass bowl in her hands.

"Is this big enough?" she said. "I have no idea what Zach left and what he took with him in the divorce."

Atwood's eyes hadn't left her.

"Is he really OK?" Atwood said intently, examining her face for truth. He had put down his knife and his tomato.

"Ryan, Seth's fine," Summer said gently. She suddenly remembered that he had a family member – maybe his mom? – who had been in rehab that hadn't worked. She set the bowl down beside the cutting board and touched his hand. "You'll see when he gets here. It's like nothing ever happened. We just don't make drinks for him."

Atwood didn't move. Then he slid his hand from beneath hers and reached for another tomato.

"This bowl will work," he said, looking down.

Summer watched him scoop up tomato pieces and drop them in the bowl. He added the cilantro shreds and started rolling the lime on the counter.

"What are you doing now?" she said.

"You get more juice out of the lime if you roll it first," he said. "Do you have a juicer?"

Summer stared at him. Was he crazy? He looked up and read that answer on her face.

"Never mind," he said, picking up the knife and slicing the lime. Citrus smell filled the kitchen as he squeezed half of the lime between his fingers. His strong, capable fingers. She watched his forearms tense as he squeezed the second half. The forearms led to a blue golf shirt tucked in khaki pants. A nice brown belt, slightly worn but well cared for, showed off his slender waist, and brown lace-up shoes matched the belt.

Everything was lower market – definitely not high end – but he looked surprisingly well-groomed and yummy, if not quite as scrumptious as he did in his dirty undershirts. Summer wondered who had been picking out his clothes for him. It had to be a woman.

She stifled the raging jealousy. Atwood was a handsome man. It was silly to think a woman hadn't snatched him up. Some slutty, trashy Chino ho with good taste in cheap clothes.

"I like your shirt," she said abruptly.

Atwood paused in his slicing of onion.

"I hoped you would," he said, chopping again. "It's like the clothes you picked out for me that one time. I think this needs another tomato."

The doorbell rang. Summer refrained from cursing at the timing.

"Seth," she said. "And Luke. You sure you're cool with this?"

"I'm good," Atwood said.

"Yes, you are," she said sincerely, then left him to stew over that while she flip-flopped across her hardwood floors to answer the door.

"Hey," Seth said, giving her a peck on the cheek as he toted in a paper bag. His whiskers scratched a little.
"Did you shave today?" Summer said with a frown.

"No, he sat on his lazy ass in bed and watched the entire seventh season of 'Buffy' while pointing out every single character assassination and continuity flaw," Luke said, entering with a second bag and a second peck on the cheek for her. "He also had to offer commentary on which of the Slayerettes was the hottest, complete with Boob Ratings that he got completely wrong. I still say the one on the bed with Xander was the hottest."

"It was only half of the seventh season. And am I not atoning?" Seth demanded. "Am I not toting and fetching like my ancestors at the pyramids?"

"Is that not a loaf of bread and nothing else in your sack, O Minion of the Egyptians?" Luke said, peeking over the top of Seth's burden.

"Well, yes, but I still had to carry it all the way up the driveway," Seth said. "And it's not just bread. It's a loaf of nirvana from the EatSmart Bakery."

"Hopeless," Summer pronounced. "Luke, what do you have?"

"Mixings for margs," he said triumphantly. "I know what goes with Mexican food, and it starts with 'T' and ends in 'keela.'"

"Terrif," Summer said dryly. "Why don't you boys hustle your sacks into the kitchen and meet the guest of honor."

"Company?" Seth said. "You didn't mention company, or I would have cleaned up a little more."

"He won't care," Summer said.

"I care," Luke said, giving Seth a noogie in the arm. "I don't want my boyfriend looking like a homeless bum when I'm meeting a new guy. I have appearances to maintain."

Summer examined Luke's appearance as Seth winced and ducked. Luke was wearing long, ragged blue shorts liberated from The Harbour School Athletics Department and a loud Hawaiian shirt. Hairy bare legs stretched between the shorts and some elderly sports sandals encrusted with decades-old grime.

"Less talking, more walking," Summer said, shaking her head while herding Seth and Luke toward the kitchen.

Atwood was still at the counter, chopping, when they walked in. He finished his tomato, rinsed his hands at the sink and turned around as he dried them on a towel. His eyes met Luke's first.

"Hello, Mr. Ward," Atwood said.

"Atwood," Luke said, happily. "How's my favorite student?"