I can't seem to stop updating this freakishly often. I hope you guys don't mind... Anyway, Ryan's little 'surprise' is in this chapter. Let's see if anyone guessed right.

Oh my, it's all just so dramatic... (even if my music, currently, is not).

Music: thank you very much, Mr. Roboto, for helping me escape just when I needed to

"Taylor."

I open my eyes to glaring sunlight and squint at Summer. She's sitting on the edge of my bed looking… well, not angry, per se, but a little annoyed. "Summer?" I turn and half sit up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. "What time is it?"

"Almost eleven," she shifts, leaning back on one arm and letting the other rest on her stomach. "But I wanted to talk to you before you came out of your room, and… well, I wanted to talk to you without Kaitlin."

Uh oh. That can't be good. "What's up?"

"Are you ok?"

"Uh… yeah?" I'm not sure what she's talking about, because now she's looking worried. She sighs loudly, but doesn't get angry, which really is weird. She must really be upset about something…

"Seriously." What? "What are we doing here?" She waves around her to motion at Vegas. "Are you in trouble? Like, money? Is that why you're here? I know this isn't about your dad at all, he's in San Diego, and I can't for the life of me think of anyone else you might know here. But I found this address in your purse," she throws the scrap of paper at me, completely unashamed of snooping through my stuff.

"Summer…" I sit up fully, because crap, how am I supposed to explain the whole Trey thing?

"If you're in trouble, I need you to tell me. Whatever it is, I can help. Or… or Ryan can help, or Sandy and Kirsten…"

"I'm not in trouble," I cut her off, because this could take a lot longer to get out if she's constantly interrupting me. "But I did come to see someone." I don't know how to tell her. What's the best way? Like, hey, Summer, remember that guy who your best friend shot back in high school? The one that tried to rape her? Yeah, I came to invite him to the wedding.

Ok, when I put it like that, this was really a bad idea.

"Look, Townsend," her eyes harden a bit, becoming less worried for me and more for Ryan, because she must think I'm cheating on him or something. Except why would I bring her and Kaitlin along if I were going to meet some ex-lover or something? "I'm pregnant, hot, hungry, and in absolutely no mood to deal with your shit, so tell me who the hell you came to see or I will cut you."

Alright, if she really wants to know.

"Trey."

There's a long pause, and then "Trey?" I nod, shifting away from her a little. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and begins rubbing her stomach soothingly. "Why?"

"Ok," I start, feeling the rant come up, but I can't stop it. "I know you were there for the… shooting thing back in high school, but when Ryan and I were making our guest list, we put him on it, because we thought it was only fair that if I was inviting my insane parents, and he was inviting Frank and Dawn, we should invite Trey too. Ryan didn't say anything about not wanting him there, so I made the invitation and Ryan put them out in the mail. Or, I thought he put them all out in the mail, but I think he must've thrown Trey's out, because Trey said he never got one. Anyway, a week later Ryan comes in and tells me his brother called to say he wasn't coming, and Summer, he looked so depressed, and he couldn't look me in the eye – although now I'm thinking that's because he felt guilty for lying to me, but at that time I thought he was upset that Trey wasn't coming – so I decided to come down here and convince him, only to find out that he was never invited in the first place…"

"Taylor." She cuts me off, and the worry's back on her face. "You invited him?" I nod, because I had. What was I supposed to do? I'd already told him that we thought he was invited. I couldn't just not invite him then. "Is that a good idea?"

Probably not.

"What?" I sigh into the phone, bringing my hand up to press my fingers to my forehead – trying to ward off a headache. "I'm at the San Francisco branch today, she knows that. We discussed it."

"Well, she says she has some last-minute revisions on the bathrooms or something like that," Mark whispers, almost like he's afraid, and I realize she must be there with him.

"Put her on the phone."

There's some slight rustling as the phone passes hands, and I hear her huff into the mouthpiece. "Where are you, Atwood?"

"San Francisco. We talked about this, I told you-"

"Uh huh," she interrupts, voice bored, "I looked at the floor plans for the upstairs bathrooms, and I hate them."

"It's a bathroom." I grit out. "Not much you can do with the layout."

"I was thinking about one of those giant bathtubs. You know, the ones you can fit more than one person in?" Ok, ew?

"There isn't enough room for a giant bath." I sit down at my desk and rest my head against the cold glass.

Taylor hates my office. She says it's too 'modern' – all glass and steel and black leather and geometric shapes. The first time she came to visit me – on my first day – she'd ranted about how offices should be filled with dark woods and deep colors and 'cushiony fabrics'. I'm pretty sure she would've attempted to redecorate if I hadn't pushed her out the door and taken her to lunch. Branson had asked me later why I'd taken her out of there so quickly. Apparently he thought I was afraid all the guys would hit on her. Which I would've been, had she been anyone else.

Because let's face it – I may be insecure when it comes to that bastard ex-husband of hers, but… the way she looks at me? Sometimes, at the most random times I catch her watching me, like I'm the only person in the world. It made me nervous as hell at first, and it still makes my heart skip a bit, but I've gotten used to it.

"Well then make room," Casetti's voice cuts coldly into my random thought tangent – which, by the way, I only started to do after I got together with Taylor.

"I'm not a wizard," I tell her, turning my head to speak into the phone while still keeping one temple against the cold desk. "I can't just make room. If you want, I can take out one of the closets in the master bedroom…" Is it sad that I don't even need to look at the floor plans? I've gone over them so many times, I know them by heart. I should be learning my vows. Or studying the Kama Sutra or something. Not that we haven't been through it already, but it wouldn't hurt to brush up for the honeymoon.

I don't plan on seeing much daylight those two weeks.

That's – of course – if I get to go.

"I need my closets. Find some other way." Then she hangs up, and I resist the urge to throw my cell phone at the wall, just so the bitch can't call me anymore.

Although, I'm thinking she'd track me down anyway. Show up at my fucking apartment or something.

I need a drink.

"Hi, remember me?"

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, because that's the way Summer greets him. It's cold and abrupt – almost rude – and she pushes her way past him into his apartment.

"Sorry," I mutter and follow her through, leaving a very confused Trey holding the door open.

"Um, you're dating Ryan's… brother, right?" I hear him stutter on the word brother, but he acknowledges it.

"Married," she flashes her left hand at him. "And knocked up." As if he couldn't see it for himself.

"I never would've guessed," he mutters, and I almost giggle – almost – until it hits me that that's what Ryan would've said. Jesus, this is getting creepy. It's not that they're completely the same, but… Seth may be his chosen brother, but there's no denying that Trey's his real one. It makes me a little nauseous, though. Because this is how Ryan could've ended up, you know? Not that Trey's doing that bad with his life, but he's definitely not as successful as Ryan, or as well-adjusted.

"I'm gonna pretend like I didn't hear that," Summer continues on, scanning his apartment appraisingly. "Now, why don't you try again to make a good impression on me?"

I watch Trey's eyes go to the floor as Summer turns to stare him down, but in the few seconds before his gaze lowered, I saw all the guilt and regret and… relief? It's like he wants to be confronted about everything.

"What d'you want me to say?" he murmurs. "That I'm sorry? That I'd do it all differently? That I'd be a perfect older brother and stay away from drugs and not carry around a gun and steal cars?" He lifts his gaze, finally determined, like he's accepted it all. Like he's going to take whatever comes next, because he deserves it. "Of course I would. I'd go back and do it all again, but I can't, so either you forgive me, or you don't." All three of us know he's not talking to Summer. "Although if I was a perfect older brother, Ryan wouldn't've gotten arrested."

Summer glares but doesn't say anything. Because Ryan getting adopted by the Cohens does not make up for Trey's spectacular mistakes. "Ok," she plants her hands on her hips, dark eyes narrowing as she takes him in. "Two things: one? Ryan never invited you to the wedding." Trey's head snaps towards me, and I wince. Thanks a bunch, Summer. "Two? You make any sort of trouble at this wedding, and I will kill you."

"Ryan didn't invite me?" He hasn't looked back at Summer, and I shrug.

"Sorry?" He gives me a look – sorry? – and I shrug again. "In my defense, Ryan didn't tell me he didn't invite you… Look, I'm sure he was just nervous about it, cause you guys haven't talked in a long time-"

"That's bullshit."

"Summer!" I scold, feeling my throat tighten, tears welling up in my eyes when Trey looks absolutely ruined.

"There's no need to sugarcoat this," she shoots back coldly, and I wonder when Summer Roberts: best friend of Holly Fischer and Marissa Cooper made her reappearance. "Look, Trey, I know people can change, whatever, but you screwed up last time, got it? You screwed up, and you've never given me any reason to believe I can trust you. Which is why Ryan didn't invite you. But you're invited now, so do with it what you will."

Trey doesn't fight back as Summer puts her hand to her stomach and walks to the door. She's done, and I'm not sure it was such a good idea to bring her here. Because instead of making me feel better about my little slip-up, she's made me feel worse. Either Trey doesn't come to the wedding and Ryan never finds out and I feel like shit, or Trey does come and Ryan feels like shit and I feel like shit. Either way I lose.

Either way, Ryan loses.

I follow Summer to the door as Trey stands with his head ducked down and it's such a Ryan thing to do, it makes me want to hug him. But Summer's made it very clear that we're leaving, and she doesn't exactly approve of him.

"Oh," she stops at the door and turns to him again. He looks up – half in dread, half in acceptance. "Do you have any pudding?"

"Atwood?"

I glance up from my desk as Branson comes into my office, and my heart skips about eighteen beats as I shove the papers under a book. He doesn't notice, just walks over to the windows and looks out.

I hate those windows. It's the one thing about this office I don't like – because, unlike Taylor, I have no problem with the whole minimalist look my office has going. But I hate the windows, because they're floor to ceiling, spanning the entire back wall.

Thirty-two stories off the ground.

And they're the one thing Taylor had liked about the place.

"Did you need something, sir?" He laughs at that – my first week on the job he insisted I call him Charles, but I can't quite manage that. So I call him sir. He always laughs, but he doesn't correct me. For some reason, I think he secretly likes being called sir. It makes him sound important. He likes sounding important.

"I just wanted to apologize for your client. Mrs. Casetti?"

"Ms.," I stress, rolling my eyes. He laughs louder at that – catching on. He seems to find it amusing that a lot of our female clients tend to hit on me. I'm not bragging or anything, but they do. I didn't notice it at first, until one of the other guys pointed it out. They told me to stop hogging all the easy targets. I told them they could have the women. Most of them were married and bored. "But why are you apologizing, sir?"

He smiles at me, turning from the window. "We didn't think she would be this bad. And don't think I didn't see the paid time off slip you put in." I look up at him, meeting his eyes, and shrug.

"I'm not gonna leave the project half done," I assure him. Even if it's the last thing I want to say. But I can't – no matter how much I want to go on the honeymoon, no matter how much I hate Casetti – I can't leave this project halfway through and jeopardize my career. Taylor will understand, right?

Right?

"I know you won't," he sighs, shaking his head and turning to stare out the window. "That's why I'm apologizing."

"I'm not sure I follow," I swivel in my chair slowly and focus my eyes on him, not the view.

"I had a lot of fun on my honeymoon," he says wistfully, smiling a bit. "But you're too… loyal to cut out on your job. I admire that – even if it's stupid."

"Sir?"

"You could take off. We have other architects."

"Ms. Casetti seems to have taken a liking to me," I hear my voice go dull, monotone.

"I see." He links his hands behind his back and stares out the window for a while, and I don't say anything else. Then he lowers his head, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before turning to me. "You're a stupid man, Ryan Atwood."

"I know."

He nods, smiling a little. "Well, as long as you realize it." He hesitates for a second before holding out his hand, and I shake it, a little confused. "You haven't made me regret hiring you, but don't make your fiancée regret marrying you. Get the job done." Then he nods one more time and leaves my office. Leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Which is never a good thing.

Especially because I know exactly what he was talking about. If the Casetti project extends past the time frame, I have to decide. Do I go on my honeymoon – placating my wife but risking my job – or do I stay on – keeping my job but risking my wife? My only option is to get the plans cemented in place in two weeks. Less, my smartass brain kicks in. Ten days.

I have ten days.

I swivel in my chair to face the window.

This is my game. It's like my own perverted version of chicken. I make myself stare out this window sometimes, just to see how long I can do it before my throat closes up and my heart freezes in my chest. It's my own personal torture device.

I grip the armrests and stare out.

"Where've you been?" I ask when Kaitlin walks in, throwing her purse on the couch.

Summer and I have been sitting in relative silence for the past hour, watching TV. It's weird. We've never had a fight – not a real one, at least – in the nearly seven years we've been friends. And we're not particularly fighting right now, but there's a definite tension in the air that I can't describe. It's like she's… disappointed in me. Like I should just know better.

But how can I? No one tells me anything. The whole Trey deal? Seth and Summer won't talk about it much, and Ryan turns into stone when I ask. How am I supposed to make sensible decisions when I don't have all the information? That's not fair to ask of me. It was the same deal when Frank showed up. I pushed – I know I did. I pushed too much, because I had no idea what Frank did to him when he was a kid. It was only later – when Frank admitted it to us himself – that I found out. If I'd known, I never would've made Ryan go see his father.

So right now, Summer's disappointed in me, and I'm disappointed in her. Because she's judging me – she's angry at me – even though she's never given me any reason to mistrust Trey the way she does. I can't read minds, you know.

"Gambling." Kaitlin pulls a wad of cash out of her purse with a grin, completely unaware of the thickness in the air. Although, maybe it's just me that feels it. "Anyone up for some taqitos?"

I lasted eighteen minutes, thirty-five seconds.

That's when my brain had started to shut down and I'd turned away from the windows. When it got working again, I pulled out the plans and stared down at them. I wanted to work on them – I did – but I couldn't, because I had to do my job. So I'd put those papers away and taken out Ms. Casetti's.

Thankfully, I'd only gotten a half hour into it when I was called to a site a few blocks away. The lead on the project was stuck in San Bernardino and couldn't sign off on a bunch of papers, so I made my way over there. To be honest, I'd been relieved to get away from my own stuff for a while. So now, after a dragging hour signing contract after contract – that I had to personally read, because I didn't know what the hell I was signing to – I'm done. And it's after five, so I get to go home.

I want to scream when my cell rings.

"Hey Atwood," Chris breathes, sounding really stressed. "I heard Branson sent you to my site?"

"Yeah, I'm just leaving now," I reassure him, walking out towards my car. "Everything looks good. We're on schedule to meet our target."

"Thank you," he gushes, and I kinda feel bad for the guy – he gets really overwhelmed.

"Thank you," I repeat, because hey – the guy got me out of my office. I hang up and reach my car, when a kid catches my eye.

I feel like something hit me, because the breath's actually knocked out of me when I turn to look at him fully – sitting on a wall next to a payphone, wearing a hoodie, bike propped up next to him, looking lost and alone, looking like no kid ever should.

And to be honest, if I'd been anyone else, I wouldn't have given him a second glance. But I know that look. It's the same one I used to have. It's the same one I still carry around with me, even if I hide it better now. All the sudden, air rushes into my lungs.

"Hey kid." He looks up at me, like he doesn't believe someone's talking to him. Like he doesn't believe someone sees him. "Need some help?"

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