"No, Seth. Absolutely not."
"But Mom . . ." Plastering on his most winsome 'Please, Mommy?' face, Seth grasped the back of his mother's seat and propped his chin on his knuckles. "We're supposed to be doing things as a family tonight."
Kirsten swiveled around. "No," she repeated, brushing his hands away. "There is no reason why you should go into that club. Your father can get Ryan by himself. You will stay right here in the car with me."
For a few minutes, Seth was stymied. He sulked through one traffic light and two more intersections. Then his eyes glimmered with invention. Discarding his patented wheedle-approach, he assumed an expression of sage gravity. "Yeah, but see, you're not considering the educational value of this experience, Mom."
"Seth, the subject is closed."
"No, but wait," he insisted. "Seriously, me going with dad would be like taking a field trip. Supervised and everything. Think of the sociology paper that I could write: 'Strippers: Oppressed and Exploited, or Taking Back the Night?'"
His lips crimping with suppressed amusement, Sandy darted a fleeting glance over his shoulder. "That's not a sociology paper. That's an episode of Maury Povich. Besides which, I don't seem to recall sociology on your class schedule, son."
"Well, no, not right now," Seth conceded. His disingenuous smile flashed between his parents. "But I'll probably take a course in college, and this way I can have one project already done. With primary sources, even. Hmm . . . Okay, I don't suppose we'll be inside long enough for me to interview any strippers tonight, but I bet Aunt Hailey can hook me up with a few of her coworkers--"
"Seth Ezekiel!"
"Oops, sorry, Mom." Abashed, Seth shook his head, cringing. "'Hook up'? Yeah, so not the right phrase. And ex-coworkers would be more accurate too. I mean . . . it would, wouldn't it? What exactly is Aunt Hailey doing these days anyway?"
Kirsten didn't reply, but at the sight of her icy profile slowly turning in his direction Seth huddled against the door, as far out of reach as possible.
"You're just digging the hole deeper there, son," Sandy chuckled.
"Don't encourage him, Sandy," Kirsten snapped. "This is not funny."
From his corner, Seth inched a hand into the air, requesting permission to speak. "Um, actually, Mom? It kind of is." His mother opened her mouth to object, but he barreled on, forestalling her. "Hey, I admit, I was worried when Ryan didn't show up for dinner and we had no clue where he was. Well, first angry, then worried. But now? Finding out that the estimable Mr. Atwood has embraced his inner Kid Chino--well, embraced something anyway—I've got to say, I am enjoying this turn of events. And the prospect of watching Ryan try to explain what he's been doing?" Sighing with happy anticipation, Seth leaned back and grinned. "Now that will be entertainment. We don't even need King Kong tonight."
Exasperated, Kirsten turned to Sandy for reinforcement. He shrugged, his eyebrows climbing.
"Don't tell me you agree with him, Sandy!"
"Sweetheart, come on," he coaxed. "I'm not saying that Seth is right. And I'm certainly not saying that Ryan won't have to answer for this little escapade. But frankly, it's preferable to most of the things that might have made him miss dinner. At least if he's at the strip club, it means that he's all right."
"Yeah," Seth sighed. With his index finger, he sketched a well-endowed woman on the back of the passenger seat. "By now, I'm guessing probably more than all right."
Oblivious to her son's comment, Kirsten frowned into the thickening dusk outside. "I don't know," she murmured. "This bothers me, Sandy. It isn't like Ryan to be so irresponsible and . . . well, thoughtless."
Seth leaned forward eagerly. "Now, see, I felt that way too," he declared before his father had a chance to reply. "But I've been thinking about it and you know? I realized that hanging out at a strip club is really part of the Ryan Atwood persona. He's just been repressing that side of himself. The dude's actually . . . well, he's actually a lot like Ben Franklin."
Sandy whipped around to stare at Seth before he turned his attention back to the road. "Benjamin Franklin?" he echoed incredulously.
"What? You don't see it? Well, no, you wouldn't see it, exactly, since Ryan and Old Ben? Not obvious switched at birth candidates. I mean, no physical resemblance, and Ryan's not so much with the words, so they don't have that in common."
"So far, you're not making much of a case, son."
"No, but think about their similarities, guys: There's B.F., all humble beginnings and hardworking, really smart, conscientious, concerned about other people. Just like R.A. But also, ahhh, also—let us not forget Paris. Old Ben, he did love the ladies. Frequently, as it were. You know, as he once said, 'The used key is always bright.'" Seth beamed, impressed with his own insight. "I believe I've proved my case, thank you very much."
Kirsten's eyes narrowed. "And what exactly does that saying have to do with Ryan's conduct tonight?"
"Oh. Okay, contemporary translation, Mom: use it or lose it." Rapt in his own theory, Seth didn't notice his father's cautionary glance. Blithely, he continued, "I figure, considering his relationship with Marissa—which pretty much hasn't involved any relating for weeks—Ryan might be afraid his Chino skills will atrophy if he doesn't . . . he doesn't . . ." Abruptly aware of what he was implying, Seth scooted back against the door. "Um, does anybody else find it stuffy in here? Just me, then? Okay, well, I think I'll open a window and, you know, concentrate on breathing for a while."
"Good idea, son," Sandy observed dryly as he signaled a left turn.
With a withering glance back at Seth, Kirsten pulled her cell phone from her purse. "I'm calling the house," she announced. "Just in case Ryan is already home and waiting for us."
She was about to press the speed dial when Sandy's phone rang.
"Get it for me sweetheart," he urged, indicating his jacket pocket. "And if it's Ryan, tell the kid I can hardly wait to hear all about his evening."
Kirsten checked the display. Disappointed, she sighed wearily. "It's not Ryan. It's Matt."
Sandy groaned, his brows furrowing. "Would you put it on speaker, please?" As soon as Kirsten flipped the switch, he warned brusquely, "What is it, Matt? If this is about the proposal--"
"It's not. Look, Sandy, it bothered me—Ryan hanging around at the club, missing dinner when he knew you were expecting him--"
"Really?" Sandy retorted. "Imagine how we feel about it."
"I know. And I know this whole situation is my fault since I dragged Ryan there in the first place."
"And also the second place," Seth amended, softly enough so that Matt didn't hear.
"So I decided to call Len Russo. The manager. He's a—" Clearing his throat, Matt confessed with obvious reluctance, "Well, I suppose you could say that he's a friend of mine. I asked Len to check the place and let me know if Ryan was there."
In the brief pause as Matt took a breath, the word 'if' echoed, insistent and ominous.
"And?" Sandy prompted warily.
"He's not. The manager--"
"He's not?" Kirsten blurted. "But you said!" The shrill note of alarm in her voice drowned out whatever Matt was saying. "If our car is still in the parking lot--"
"Oh shit," Seth breathed. Instinctively, he inched as close to the front seat as his seat belt would allow.
His fingers strangling the steering wheel, Sandy pulled over and cut the engine. He swallowed hard before he spoke, compelling himself to remain calm. "Matt, did you ask the manager to check the parking lot? Is the car gone? Or wasn't it ours in the first place?"
"No, it's yours. And it's still there."
Kirsten's right hand flew to her mouth, stifling an inarticulate moan. With the other she reached for Sandy. Automatically lacing their fingers together, he forced words out between his teeth. "Then where the hell is Ryan?"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you. Listen Sandy, apparently some Neanderthal has been stalking one of the . . . um, the dancers . . . and tonight he assaulted her in the club parking lot. It happened just when Ryan was leaving. He saw what was going on, and he got the man off her--"
The Cohens' questions overlapped, urgent and almost incoherent. "Was Ryan hurt?" "Why weren't we called? Matt, is Ryan okay?"
"He's fine. Honestly. Just a little bruised from what I understand. Jerry—that's the bouncer—he heard the girl screaming and broke up the fight before it got too bad. Ryan is fine," Matt repeated soothingly. "And thanks to him, the girl is too."
"Damn," Seth muttered. He expelled a sigh of rueful admiration. "Kid Chino, back in action. And I wasn't even there to see it. Where's the justice, I ask you? I miss everything."
Sandy shot a silencing look at his son. "Okay, Matt, but I still don't understand this: if our car is in the parking lot and Ryan's okay, where is he right now?" His eyes narrowed, dark with sudden suspicion. "Were the cops called? Is he being questioned? Don't tell me the guy Ryan fought is accusing him of assault."
"No, nothing like that," Matt assured them. "It's just that, well, the girl was pretty traumatized by the whole thing. Len says it shook her so much that Ryan offered to drive her home. They took her car and he said he'd get his later. In fact, by now he's probably on his way back to pick it up."
"You're sure about this?" Sandy probed, at the same time that Kirsten prompted, "Then Ryan is really all right? He's just helping this girl get home safely?"
Matt's chuckle carried a warm note of reassurance. "Yep. Just proving that chivalry's not dead in Orange County. Look, Sandy, my guess is that in all the commotion, Ryan simply forgot to call home. But he's fine. You guys can stop worrying. Relax, reheat your dinner, enjoy the rest of the evening."
"Thanks for letting us know what's going on, Matt," Sandy said earnestly. "I . . . we . . . appreciate it."
"Yeah, well, I figured it was the least I could do. Goodnight, Sandy."
There was a second of reflective silence after Kirsten switched off the phone, fractured by Seth's whistle from the backseat. "So . . . this sucks," he observed.
Both of his parents turned around, baffled.
"I mean, I feel pretty stupid here," Seth explained. "It's so obvious. Why didn't the possibility occur to any of us? Ryan's late? Also incommunicado? Well duh, Kid Chino must be busy rescuing someone. Thanks for playing, folks, but Ben Stein gets to keep all his money tonight."
Kirsten's relieved smile wavered almost instantly. "I'm just grateful that Ryan's all right," she whispered. "For a moment, when Matt said the car was still there but Ryan wasn't, all I could think was that . . ." Shivering, she pressed closer to Sandy. Her voice faded and she closed her eyes, seeking to erase the picture her fear had conjured.
Sandy rubbed his wife's shoulder soothingly before leaning over to kiss her hair. "I know," he murmured. "There's nothing worse than believing that something has happened to one of your kids . . ." With mock ferocity, he frowned at Seth over Kirsten's head. "You back there! You get the same warning I'm going to deliver to your partner in crime. No disappearing acts, got it?"
Mirroring his father's playful scowl, Seth drew himself up indignantly. "Hey!" he retorted. "For your information Dad, I? Do not disappear. All right, true, there was that little misadventure two years ago when I set sail for Tahiti and somehow wound up in Portland, but you guys always . . . sort of . . . knew where I was. Besides, I was a mere child at the time. Impulsive. Reckless. Maybe just a wee bit self-centered. I'm much more mature now. Considerate. Rational. Prudent, you might even say . . ." Suddenly breathless, Seth sputtered to a halt. "Wait. And also whoa." His hands waving aimlessly, he blinked in confusion. "Why are we talking about my past sins anyway?"
Kirsten reached back to tousle her son's hair fondly. "We weren't, sweetie. That was just you, rambling. But it's all right. We understand. Your dad and I were scared too."
"Rambling, huh? Well, yeah, I guess maybe I was. But only because extreme shifts of emotion throw me off balance and my coping mechanism is to become really talkative . . ."
"As opposed to what exactly?" Sandy teased.
"Hey, so not funny, Dad. And for your information, fathers who mock their recently terrified sons deserve a wag of the finger, ala Stephen Colbert." Assuming a supercilious expression, Seth leaned forward to demonstrate. Then he released a huge puff of air and relaxed into his seat. "Okay then. Ryan's all right. That's good. Great actually. Except . . . I suppose this means our field trip to the strip club is cancelled tonight?"
Kirsten glared in response, although her eyes were dancing.
"Yeah, I figured," Seth sighed. "So . . . what do we do now? Go home and wait for the conquering hero to return? Because I've gotta say, I wouldn't mind having dinner soon. Even reheated. Suddenly, I'm starving."
"Considering what Matt said, there doesn't seem to be any reason for us to go to the club," Kirsten mused. "Sweetheart? What do you think?"
Sandy rubbed the bridge of his nose, considering. "I think you're right," he agreed. Checking the mirrors for oncoming traffic, he put the car into gear. "Frankly, I'd feel pretty awkward showing up there now. Ryan doesn't seem to need our help, and having all of us waiting when he comes back for the car? Well, that will just embarrass the kid. So . . . home it is."
TBC