"Seasons Change"
By Sister Rose
Rated R
The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.
Chapter 13
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The restaurant was crowded and smelled slightly of fish fried in oil.
But their table was in a private cubicle.
Summer smiled as the waitress escorted them past the curtains and invited them to be seated.
She watched Atwood look around nervously.
"Nice choice," she praised him. "Seth and I used to come here a lot."
"He said you liked it," Atwood said, looking down at the damask tablecloth. He twitched in his seat then made a manful effort to still himself.
"You look fine," Summer said. She leaned over to emphasize her point. "No one's going to throw you out. They want your money. They'll bring us food and they won't say anything about table manners."
Atwood looked up at her reassurance. He gave her a weak smile, one that said he appreciated her words but wasn't sure he believed them.
"Besides," Summer went on, "you're with me. I'd like to see them say anything rude. I haven't had a rage blackout in, like, a week."
Atwood gave her a real smile before he opened his menu and started frowning again. She hoped it was the unfamiliarity of the food and not the prices. She did her own scan of the restaurant's offerings and looked for the cheapest entrée. That would be her order.
"I'm thinking about the grilled chicken," she said. "What looks good to you?"
"I wonder how fresh the tilapia is," he said. "And how it's prepared. And whether this seasonal vegetable medley is steamed. And what do you think about this lobster croquette?"
OK. So Atwood was at home with the food. She kept forgetting four years had passed. She wasn't the only person who had changed in those four years.
"I think I hate lobster," she said. "It's like a red-faced medieval warrior, waiting for battle, but then it's dropped in a pot of death without even a fair fight. I think if you wanted lobster, you should have brought Seth. He's a champion lobster eater. He says it's a ninja thing."
"He thinks eating lobster is like being a ninja?"
"Seth was allowed way too much PlayStation as a child," Summer said. "When did you start eating lobster?"
"Well, I haven't really," Atwood confessed, putting his menu flat on the table. "I watched a lot of Food Network when I was taking care of Theresa's kid. There wasn't much violence or blood in it, at least not to anybody but the lobster, so I figured it wouldn't be too bad for her."
"Theresa has a daughter?"
"Yeah," he said, suddenly becoming engrossed in the back page of the menu.
Summer waited.
"And?" she prompted.
"And we watched the Food Network together," Atwood said, still looking at the menu and not her.
"You're a really lousy reporter, you know that?" Summer said. "I want to know how old she is, what her name is, how much pink she wears and everything else."
"She's 9," Atwood said, leaving off the answers to the other questions as the waitress arrived with heavy, sweating glasses of icy water with lemon wheels floating in them.
"The lady would like the grilled chicken," Atwood said. "I'll have the tilapia."
Summer stared at him. Taking charge. Being the man. Ordering like an old Newport hand. She found herself getting warmer.
"Anything to drink?" the waitress said.
"White wine," Atwood said.
"House brand," Summer interjected. She didn't want Atwood spending all his money on a bottle of wine he couldn't afford and might not like just to impress her, especially since she didn't particularly care for wine. "Two glasses."
"Anything else?" the waitress said.
"We're fine," Atwood said, handing her the two menus.
"You were quite forceful with the ordering," Summer said. "It's kind of sexy."
"I just remembered how people order at Chicho's and did that," Atwood said.
"What's Chicho's?" Summer said, "And do you even like white wine?"
"I know it's what you're supposed to have with fish and chicken," Atwood said.
Summer narrowed her eyes at him.
"You know, that thing you do where you only answer one of my questions?" she said. "Annoying."
"Sorry," Atwood said. But he didn't answer any of her pending questions, either.
Summer decided it wasn't worth having a fight at a nice restaurant. She could get the answers to her questions from Theresa, after all, and she had other plans for the evening. Plans that involved slipping her shoes off underneath the table. Plans that involved sliding her toes – tiger's blood colored tonight – up the inside of Atwood's dark brown pants. Plans that involved smiling as his eyes popped a little.
"Um, Summer," he said. "Not that I'm objecting, but is this really the right place?"
"What better place?" she said. "We can just talk about all the lovely things we could be doing if we weren't eating. We can plan ahead for the rest of the night – you know, what happens after we eat."
The waitress arrived just then, dropping off two wine glasses and a basket of bread and butter. Summer pulled her feet down and put them inside her shoes again. Atwood put his napkin over his lap, awkwardly. Summer smiled.
"To new adventures," she said, picking up her wineglass for a toast. Atwood picked his up, too.
"To new adventures," he said, obediently. They clinked their glasses, and Summer sipped.
"A delightful piquancy with a note of elderberry in the finish," she said after swallowing.
Atwood looked at her quizzically.
"No, not really," Summer said. "It tastes like white wine to me. Zach wanted me to develop a palate, but I never did. Do you like it?"
Atwood sipped again, testing.
"It's different," he said finally.
"It's OK to hate it," Summer said.
"Can I just drink the water?" Atwood said.
"I'll drink to that," Summer said, picking up her water glass and clearing her mouth with a big swallow.
She smoothed garlic butter over a slice of bread from the tiny loaf the waitress had left behind. She passed it to Atwood and buttered a slice for herself.
"Now where were we?" she said. She dropped her shoe and found Atwood's pant leg with her tiger's blood toes again. "I remember. To new experiences."
She lifted her bread in toast.
"I'll drink to that," said a voice behind her.
She spun around. Her feet slapped onto the floor and hastily sought her shoes again.
"Seth!"
"And me," Luke said.
"And Luke!" Summer said as required. It was nice to see them, but – honestly! – couldn't they have waited 10 more minutes? "What are you doing here?"
"Ryan said you two had a date tonight. I told him to bring you here," Seth said, gesturing first toward Atwood and then toward the surroundings. "Ergo, I knew where you were and could hunt you down."
"If you know we're having a date, you know we probably don't want you here," Summer said, smiling through clenched teeth. "You know, with the word DATE and all."
"Atwood doesn't mind, do you, Atwood?" Luke said, turning toward Atwood.
"No," Atwood said quietly. "Would you like some wine? We're not drinking it."
"Sure would," Seth said. "Unfortunately, that might lead yours truly down the Cohen family road, which leads to my problem and the reason I wanted to see you both tonight."
"Is it anything that couldn't wait?" Summer said, trying to be nice. And failing.
"No," Seth said.
"OK if we join you?"
"Why ask now?" Summer said.
"Please do," Atwood said at the same time.
She kicked him under the table and took satisfaction in his sudden jerk of pain.
Seth sat down next to her. She kicked him for good measure.
He gasped loudly.
"Oops," she said insincerely. "My foot must have slipped."
"Yeah, right," Seth said, sullenly rubbing his sore shin. "I didn't come to talk to you anyway. I need Ryan's advice."
"Me?"
"Yeah, it's sort of an emergency," Luke said. "In a Seth sort of way."
"Yeah," Seth agreed. "My dad wants to break my mom out of prison."
