Seth Cohen had been suffering an unusual melancholy since his epiphany outside the bodega, one that had made him subsequently alarmingly quiet. Ryan didn't know exactly what had happened, but it was serious. Seth came home and locked himself in his room with a case of beer, and without even muttering a 'hey buddy' in Ryan's direction. Ryan had seen Seth's moods sling-shot around enough in the last eleven years that they had legally been brothers that nothing much surprised him anymore—or worried him. But Ryan was worried now. Seth had been quiet for far too long—days, in fact. Ordinarily when Seth had a problem, he came to Ryan within the hour, particularly if it was lady-trouble. Though Seth hadn't had problems in the romance department for several years; not since…well, not for a while.

Ryan knew the source of Seth's anxiety; Summer's birthday was the anniversary of his arrival in Newport Beach, the day his own life had change irrevocably. He could never forget that date, and now, neither could Seth.

Ryan padded down the hallway towards Seth's bedroom.

"Seth."

Not a murmur came from within, though Ryan could hear the faint strains of 'The End of the Road.' Boys II Men had never meant good things around Casa de Cohen, though it certainly had been heard much less often at Apartemento de Cohen y Atwood. Upon returning to the States, his heart officially broken, a devastated Seth had forbidden the mention of Summer, and all things relating to Summer. Though he hadn't specifically said her name, Ryan understood that Seth's request encompassed Marissa Cooper. As Seth's brother, and his closest (okay, his only) friend, Ryan wanted to balance his respect for Seth's wishes with his respect for Marissa's feelings. So while he hadn't purposely avoided her, he hadn't gone out of his way to catch up with her, either.

Ryan knocked again. "Seth."

A low moan emerged from under the door. Ryan took that as his cue to enter. Seth was under a pile of covers, the wall unit blasting icy air throughout his bedroom.

"Jesus, Seth." Ryan crossed over to the air conditioner and flipped the switch. He hauled the duvet off the bed to reveal Seth, wearing only a pair of boxers and a bottle of wine, which was clenched in his right hand.

"Ryan, would you care to join me for a drink?" Seth slurred.

Ryan rubbed his forehead, beleaguered. He folded his arms across his chest. "Get out of that bed and stop being so melodramatic."

"Drama is..." Seth began dreamily. "Hey, Ry, remember those stupid commercials on TNT when they used to get those B and C list actors to define 'drama,' 'member? Drama is..." Seth hiccuped, then sighed. He took another swig from the bottle. "What does Whoopi Goldberg know about drama anyway?"

"She won an Oscar for Ghost," Ryan pointed out dryly.

"Ghost, Schmost. It still doesn't make up for Made In America or Sister Act. Or all of those interminable nights she hosted the Academy Awards..."

"Seth!"

Seth sobered up enough to lift his head from the pillow and reply angrily. "What, Ry? What?"

"Drinking yourself into a coma isn't going to bring her back."

Seth's head dropped back onto the pillow. He sighed. "Yeah, but it might make me feel better."

"I can guarantee it won't," Ryan retorted wryly.

"Life sucks," Seth groaned, reaching for his missing blanket. "It's freezing in here."

"Get up," Ryan commanded. That tone of voice sent chills down Seth's spine.

"Okay, okay," Seth relented, sitting up and swinging his legs around to the side of the bed, scratching his balls lazily. Ryan, satisfied that Seth was finally going to get out of bed, turned and headed for the door.

Over his shoulder, he said, "The guys are coming over to play cards."

Seth nodded, yawned, and then scratched his chest.

"I'm going to make a run to the liquor store for beer..."

"What else do we need?"

"Chips."

Seth screwed up his face. "Fuck. I have a headache."

"Don't bitch to me, you did it to yourself."

"Touché. I guess I'll go down to the corner," Seth reached for his shirt, pulling it over his head, tousling his messy hair even more. Practice Safe Lunch, Use a Condiment! it warned cheekily. Ryan snorted, and rolled his eyes.

"I left a ten on the kitchen counter. I'll be back in a half hour," Ryan adjusted his wrist cuff and left Seth searching his floor for a still-slightly-clean pair of jeans.

"Write it, Coop!" Summer demanded churlishly.

"Sum," Marissa protested weakly.

"Write it!"

Marissa knew that despite her protests, she would bend under the pressure. She'd never been able to deny Summer anything. "Summer, he's going to know that you didn't write this."

"How?" she asked, irritation evident.

"Our handwriting looks nothing alike!"

"Do you remember that time in the 9th grade when I bet you Dane Campbell wouldn't do a line off of my stomach and then he did and you had to do my algebra homework for three weeks?"

Marissa nodded, dumbly, then realizing Summer couldn't see her, she spoke up, clearing her throat. "Yeah."

Summer pushed the paper and pen back towards Marissa. "We fooled Mrs. Locke, we can certainly fool Seth Cohen."

"He's your boyfriend, Summer. Your fiancé. He'll totally know."

"He was my boyfriend, and he won't even notice. He's like, the most selfish person I know. He'll totally make this all about him. He won't even notice that it doesn't look exactly like my writing…Except for me."

"Huh now?" Marissa knit her brows.

Summer sighed. "I said Cohen was the most selfish person I know…except for me."

Marissa placed a hand on my friend's knee. "You're not selfish, Sum; you're just in shock. Why don't you just wait a little longer before you do anything drastic?"

"A few more days isn't going to change my mind, Coop. I might as well leave him before he finds out the truth and leaves me first."

"Give him some credit, Sum. He's totally crazy about you. You don't even know…"

"Write the goddamn letter." Summer's voice was cold. She was tired of having this same, fruitless, pointless argument. She would have her way, she always did.

Marissa threw up her hands. "Fine, fine." She took the pen gingerly between her thumb and forefinger. "Okay."

"Dear…Cohen."

Marissa frowned. She'd known Summer far too long to think that anything Summer had composed in her head would be compassionate or conciliatory. It was probably just brutal honesty; or rather, brutal not-honesty.

'Dear Seth,' Marissa wrote.

"I don't love you anymore."

Marissa's brow furrowed, her heart sinking. She sighed heavily before continuing to write.

'There comes a time in every woman's life when she has to make choices about her future.'

"I found another man, he satisfies me much more than you ever could."

'How do I know that you're the man for me, forever? I've met this nice guy in the neighborhood, and we've been spending time together. He's nice, and funny, and I think…'

"What's taking so damn long?" Summer asked impatiently.

"You try forging someone else's handwriting convincingly."

Summer huffed.

'…I might love him.'

"See ya."

"See ya?" Marissa asked, derisively. "We might as well sign it, 'smell ya later.'"

Summer sighed, put upon. "Fine...'Sincerely yours.'"

'I've loved you with all of my heart, Seth. Now I just have to see if you're the one for me. Please don't write, or call, or come by. I need to figure this out…'

"What are you writing now?"

"I'm telling him you don't want to see him, and not to bother coming by."

"Oh, that's good thinking."

Marissa rolled her eyes… 'on my own. I will come to you when—if—I am ready. I'm sure you will find someone who's not so selfish, and could love you much more than I ever could. Please forgive me. Sincerely, Summer.'

"Good," Summer smiled, but there was no joy in the expression. My address book is on the vanity. Go to the Post Office and overnight it to him."

"Yes, your highness," Marissa said under her breath as she took Summer's address book and purse off the vanity. "I'll be back in a few minutes!" she announced, before leaving the room.

It was a Thursday.


Anna came dragging through the door on Tuesday afternoon feeling like she'd been put through the ringer. Her father's meddling on her behalf at the auction house where she worked only four days a week now meant that she was the resident golden-boy—loved by her superiors and hated by her peers. They'd yet to do anything too malicious, but the gossip mill had been running all week that she was Senator Stern's youngest child, graduated from Yale by the skin of her teeth, and that she had enough venereal diseases to sterilize her for life.

The truth was, she was Senator Stern's only child, she'd graduated from Yale in the top five percent of her class and she'd had only two lovers in her entire life: a steady girlfriend throughout college, and now Kurt, an immigrant son of German-born parents who believed her to be God's gift to men. More specifically, to him.

She could sympathize with envy, or even with jealousy, she'd felt enough of it in her own short life to recognize it for what it was; what she could not tolerate, however, was cruelty. Anna realized early in life that there was value in bowing out gracefully, accepting inevitable defeat, and she didn't understand why others did not. Everyone she worked with knew that she had a contract with the auction house, and that she would likely be there for at least two years. Logically, there was no sense in badmouthing her, considering they would all be colleagues for quite some time. Moreover, they should have recognized the fact that if Anna was so well-loved, which she believed that she was, she could very well be their superior in short order. Ergo, it made absolutely no sense to gossip so viciously about her. Curiously enough to Anna, she found that many people rarely used stunning powers of logic during these circle-jerks of back-biting. As if it wouldn't ever get back to her…

Summer was looking cool and comfortable nestled in the corner of their smart leather sofa, her posture impeccable. Anna collapsed into the matching armchair next to her roommate and sighed heavily.

"Hard day at work, shnookums?" Summer teased.

"A cakewalk, pookie. You?"

Summer gestured around their empty apartment. "It's a rat race."

"Clearly," Anna remarked, sighing again.

Summer's nimble fingers continued to fly across the page, though she noticed the exasperated mood of her companion. She didn't comment, however; Anna would come to Summer with her problems when she was ready. She always did.

Anna jostled Summer's knee. "What'cha reading?"

"Flaubert," Summer responded, still concentrating intently.

"Madame Bovary again?"

"What can I say?" Summer shrugged. "It's a classic. Plus, it's metaphorical and stuff. I like it. I used to read it all the time to that incontinent guy back when I was a candy-striper," Summer stifled a sad sigh of her own. Anna had become a master at reading her friend, and she did not miss the momentary tragic expression that flitted across Summer's face.

"Enough moping!" Anna announced, standing and stretching. "Let's go to the park. We need fresh air…and an ice cream cone!"

"Let me get a hat, it's still hot out," Summer agreed easily, standing also. "I don't want to burn."

"Says the girl who used to consider tanning an art form," Anna teased.

Summer shrugged again, but a smile ghosted across her lips. "With no one to see it but you, it just sort of seems like a waste of time now."
"Hey, you're the only one stopping you on that account. Guys would be lining up around the block for you, if you'd let them. The girls, too," Anna laughed.

Summer gave her an amused look, and rolled her eyes. "Make your little jokes all you like," she turned up her cute little nose imperiously and Anna lurched forward impulsively and crushed her friend into a hug.

"Go get your hat, silly girl."

To Be Continued...