I was going to wrap up this story, but since I don't have anything else in the works I'm going to follow the rabbit , fall down the hole and end up in Wonderland.
I'm shifting gears a little. Don't be afraid. I can drive a standard. We're going to coast in second for about 1900 words or so. If you need a manual for my mixing of metaphors, sorry, it doesn't exist.
Still don't own the OC or any matching accessories. Smc's matching panties, bras and socks not withstanding.
Let's all think pleasant thoughts, shall we?
Julie? This chapter is angst free. Just for you…
Oh and I borrowed a little from "The Gamble".
Chapter Eleven
Ryan angrily stalked out to the pool house, slamming the glass door behind him. He didn't notice the door bounce open, unable to shut properly, thanks to "Sandy the Tool Man, Cohen".
Fuck. He never should have gotten angry.
To lose what little control he'd regained.
Seth was just being Seth.
Calm down…Get your shit together…
He rifled through the wicker basket that held his extensive assortment of boxers.
Boxers that Kirsten bought him.
Boxers that didn't come three in a pack.
Boxers for every fucking day of the month.
Boxers because when his mom threw him out he had nothing.
Excessive amounts of underwear was Kirsten's way of telling him he wasn't going anywhere. He was here to stay.
He found his "emergency" pack of smokes and released it from it's ziploc'd prison, along with an old disposable lighter. Sliding his thumb over the wheel he was satisfied when the spark gave way to a flame.
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"Fuckfuckfuck" Seth screamed silently to himself. "I'm such an ass clown. Not quite sure why I'm an ass clown… The hair? The nose? Shut up Cohen… Think…."
He flopped down on his bed and reached for Captain Oats. The plastic horse always listened. Never had much to say though. Kind of like a certain blond brother.
"So… How do I talk to him without making it about me? I'm trying to be a good brother…I know I'm a little self absorbed… a lot self absorbed, but I'm still trying to figure out this brother thing…It's Mom and Dad's fault for keeping me an only child. For 16 years it was all about me. The 'rent's world revolved around me… Well, sort of, in that workaholic, former hippie, child-centered parenting sort of way. Not exactly what Dr. Spock wrote about…
Thinkthinkthinkthinkthinkthink!
Seth accentuated each syllable by smacking the horse into his forehead. He lowered the anatomically incorrect stallion and rubbed the now sore spot.
"Okay… Creative visualization time… I'm Ryan…" Helooked down at his brawn challenged body. "Not helping… Let's try it with my eyes closed… I'm Ryan. A man of few words. I live with Sandy and Kirsten Cohen and their devastatingly good looking son, Seth. My mom dumped me, my dad's in jail, my brother's dead and the story of my life is now being read in washrooms everywhere…Shit…I'd probably want to hide out somewhere too."
Seth paced his room wearing his imaginary, well fitting 'beater.
"Eu-freaking-rika…I'm so smart it's scary. This brother thing isn't that hard…"
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5:05 PM
Kirsten loaded the bags in the back of the Range Rover.
Retail therapy.
A Barnes and Noble shopping bag filled with best-sellers she'd now have time to read. A selection of PS2 games.
Splinter Cell Chaos Theory.
A little hand to hand combat with a computer generated opponent that looked remarkably like her father might go a long way to channeling some of her anger.
One of the bags fell over. She quickly shoved the assortment of boxers and socks back in before closing the SUV door. Exiting the parking lot, Kirsten quickly pulled into a favourite Thai restaurant. Minutes later as she waited for the take out order she mused that she now had the time to learn how to cook.
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Sandy leaned back in his chair, his fingers massaging his temples in an effort to stave his growing headache. He had spent the last hour and a half locked in his office, making arrangements for a memorial service for Trey. He had thought of including Ryan in some of the decisions, but ultimately decided that no 17 year old should have to plan a funeral for his brother.
He had half heartedly tried to arrange for a 2 hour furlough for Roger Atwood, relieved when it had been denied.
Less drama to deal with.
A call to the private investigator hired to find Dawn.
Another brick wall. When she walked out of Ryan's life for the third time, she had decided to make it permanent.
A small miracle to be grateful for.
Pulling himself up, he wandered into the kitchen, hating the heavy silence in the house. It was after 5. There should be the sounds of video games, Seth's non-stop verbal musings, Ryan's dry-humoured comebacks…
The incessant blinking of the phone caught his attention. He scrolled through the messages, erasing the ones from the press. He caught part of one of the messages asking for confirmation that Kirsten Cohen had indeed resigned from the Newport Group. He listened again before deleting it.
Quitting the Newport Group? Other than Kirsten going stir-crazy within a day and a half, it wouldn't be a bad thing.
Maybe now she'd open the gallery she'd always dreamed of.
Before her mother got sick.
Before Caleb brought her into the company.
Before they got sucked into the Newport state of mind.
He wished she was home.
Damn, he was so tired.
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Ryan leaned against the stucco wall of the pool house. He shook a cigarette out of the battered package and lit it, inhaling deeply. Instead of the calming effect the nicotine usually had, the smoke aggravated his irritated lungs . Exhaling quickly, he endured the deep painful coughing spasm.
Really, really bad idea.
Finally catching his breath, he ground out his cigarette and closed his eyes, steadying his intake of oxygen.
A forced calm.
Minutes later, he felt himself relax.
Slow, deep breaths.
Feeling a slight breeze on his face, he let the tension wash away from him, slipping away.
Ryan quickly scrounged around the kitchen looking for something to eat. He abandoned the search when he caught a glimpse of the clock. He grabbed his battered runners and his frayed back pack, quietly closing the door behind him, grateful that his mom's bedroom door stayed shut. Stuffing his feet into his shoes, he winced at the tight fit. Hopefully there'd be something in the lost and found box at school he could borrow.
He crossed the road in front of his house, trying to ignore the hunger that chewed at his stomach. Maybe there'd be something decent at school. He thought about the form for the free lunch program he'd copied his mom's signature on. She was too busy or too drunk to sign them. He remembered the look his teacher gave him as she looked over the paper.
Forgery was not a talent.
He was almost as bad at it as he was lying.
Mrs. Walters just gave him a sad smile and said it was fine.
It was a smile he grew to hate.
The one fraught with sympathy and understanding.
No one understood.
Not really.
The sound of shouting snapped him back to reality. Crazy Mr. Cheekymice was yelling at his lawnmower again. Ryan wished he'd stayed on his side of the street. He was hoping that the old man wouldn't notice him.
"Stupid parte merda io dov prend voi desposito! Vosto madre essere un trattore e vostro padre esser un analizz vibratore!" (1)
Ryan was halfway past the house when the man spotted him.
"Perche voi rid? Voi pens io scimmia faccia?" (2)
Ryan stopped, shocked that the old man spoke to him.
"S-s-s-orry Mr. Chicamicci…"
He had no idea what he was apologizing for. It just seemed like a good idea.
Ryan ran.
Afraid that Mr. Cheekymice was going to grab him and feed him to his rats.
At least that's what he'd heard would happen. Who would keep rats as pets anyway? He heard them enough at night, scratching the walls, running between siding and the drywall.
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Seth sat down a few feet from Ryan, careful not to make a sound. Experience gained from camp. Capture the flag at Camp Tuckaho was his one moment of athletic glory and he was determined to fall back on the memory as often as he could. He placed a bottle of juice with reaching distance for Ryan and then settled back, listening to the silence.
Apprehension crept up Ryan's spine as he heard the footsteps.
Seth.
He mentally prepared himself for the verbal barrage that he knew would follow.
He waited for his quiet world to be interrupted.
Nothing.
After a couple of minutes he opened one eye. Seth had taken up position about 5 feet from him.
Just sitting.
Not moving.
Closing his eye again he took a deep breath and floated again.
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It had taken every particle of self control Seth could call upon to keep his eyes and mouth shut when he felt Ryan looking at him. He had bit so hard on the inside of his lip he'd drawn blood.
Chock full of quiet. Chock full of quiet. Chock full of quiet. Chock full of quiet.
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Ryan took his time walking home, eating the buttered bread he'd saved from lunch. He turned the corner to his street, nervous at what he'd find waiting for him at home. Hopefully mom was still at work. Passing by Mr. Chicamicci's house he noticed the lawnmower still sitting on the lawn, this time with parts scattered around. Curiosity got the better of him as he crouched down and surveyed the carnage. He was so engrossed in the mechanical puzzle he didn't hear the man approach.
"Che cosa voi?" (3)
Ryan jumped back, landing hard on his butt. He quickly scrambled to his feet. He wanted to run but his backpack was on the other side of the lawnmower. He tried to dodge around the man.
"Non and. Io non danneggi voi…" (4)
The hell with his pack. Ryan ran out into the road, not hearing the screech of rubber on the pavement.
Not feeling the impact.
Finally not being afraid of the dark.
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As Kirsten unpacked the take out containers from the Chiang Mai Restaurant, Sandy came up from behind and wrapped his arms around her.
Holding her.
She was his anchor and he was her compass. Without each other he'd find himself adrift in every cause like his mother was, searching for fulfillment and she'd be lost in her father's corporate greed.
"Hope you got some dumplings…" He whispered in her ear.
"And some Tom Yon soup for Seth, Pad Thai for Ryan… And I… quit my job."
Sandy held Kirsten a little tighter.
"Ryan is getting pretty good with chop sticks."
"Sandy? Did you hear me?"
Sandy kissed her neck.
"Soup for Seth, Pad Thai for Ryan and you quit. You know this not going to the office housewife thing…. It's really…."
"Disturbing?"
"Hot… It's disturbingly hot…"
"Remember that when I start renovating."
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Note:
Okay, Italian is not my first language. Fuck. Sometimes I wonder if English is. Here are the rough translations for numbers 1-4
Stupid piece of shit. I should take you to the dump. Your mother was a tractor and your father was a broken down vibrator!
Why are you laughing? You think I have a monkey face?
What are you doing?
Don't go. I won't hurt you…
