Seth didn't call. Five p.m. passed, then six p.m., then seven, seven-thirty, and eight p.m. He hadn't called all day. Summer didn't want to admit to being worried, but she was. Seth was a wallower, he enjoyed wallowing and the masochistic pleasure that it brought.

After about five minutes of weeping hysterically at the kitchen table that morning, Summer had pulled herself together and washed her face at the kitchen sink, scrubbing off the streaked make-up that she'd spent a ridiculous amount of time applying. Once when she was young—back when she could see—she joked to Marissa that she knew cosmetics so well that she could put her make-up on in the dark. It was like some sort of a cruel cosmic joke that God had taken her up on it.

She'd spent the entire morning hating herself for being such a jerk. Since the accident it had not been uncommon for her to go through periods of self-loathing, but this bout was particularly bad. In the past, there had always been a hazy undercurrent, an awareness that she didn't really hate herself, it just seemed like she should. She blamed God, her father, the world, anyone but herself for her condition; there had always been an underlying impression that there was still some good left inside of her.

That was all different now. She was evaluating her circumstances in a different light. And not just with Seth, though she wished it could be that simple. She'd taken advantage of Anna horribly, making Anna feel guilty about leaving Summe alone, even for an evening, even for a date with her boyfriend. She was making Anna feel guilty about wanting to marry Kurt; Kurt had always wanted Summer to be more independent, to stop relying on Anna for every little thing. Kurt would not marry Anna as long as Anna insisted on staying with Summer. And, knowing that, Summer had subconsciously gone out of her way to make the decision more difficult for Anna. The more Kurt ingratiated himself into their lives—the closer he got to Anna—the more Summer selfishly pulled Anna in towards her. Summer made Anna feel guilty for wanting a life of her own: a life where Kurt's needs, Anna's own needs, didn't take a backseat to Summer's capricious whims.

Summer had blamed her father for all but completely ignoring her since the accident, though to be fair, she'd done her best to push him away. He'd never been a great father, or role model, but as a child she'd been desperate for his attention. Even as a teenager, she'd acted as if he walked on water—hoping that her adulation would endear her to him in a way that it never had before. She'd been wrong, oh so very wrong. But even her father, her absent, selectively-overbearing father, didn't deserve the misery she'd put him through.

But the true root of her ignominy lay with Seth, and Seth alone. She had been acting like a child, jerking him around, acting the way she did in high school—like she was the town princess, and he should be so lucky. Playing him hot and cold. Now it was the other way around. He was handsome, he had a good job, he was doing what made him happy…and she, in the most ironic twist of fate, was the loser.

The dark heart of her shame was that she'd know all along she was stringing him along. It wasn't her intention to do so, but her indecisiveness had been decidedly destructive. She would be surprised if Seth spoke to her at all for the rest of the week.

Summer was tired of crying. She was tired of feeling sorry for herself, she was tired of the sorrow that Seth's presence dredged up, but most of all, she was tired of being constantly on her guard. She could make a conscious effort to just play it cool, to just let up, let loose.

At eight-thirty, Summer's itchy fingers finally got the better of her, and she decided to call Seth on his cell. She took one step towards the phone in the foyer when it dawned on her that she'd never gotten his cell number—she'd just never even thought to ask. She picked up the cordless handset. He worked at the Post; she would just call the reception desk and ask for him. But what if they asked what department he worked in? She didn't even know—she hadn't even bothered to ask. She hadn't bothered to ask what he did, or if he really liked it, or what he wanted to do next. Still unbearably selfish, aren't you, darling?

She called information and asked for a residence listing for Seth Cohen. There were 3 hits, but none of them anywhere close to their side of town. She was about to hang up in defeat when on a lark, she asked for listings for Atwood, Ryan. Only one listing in the entire city.

She waited to be connected.

"Ryan?" she blurted as soon as he picked up. "It's Summer. Is Seth there with you?"

"Haven't seen him," Ryan answered, curious. "Why?"

"Well, we had a fight this morning…"

"No kidding," he snarked.

"…a fight," Summer continued deliberately. "And he hasn't called, or come home, or anything." She hated that she was perilously close to tears. She wasn't going to do this, not again. Buck up, princess, you're not a baby.

Ryan took charge. "Okay, I'll call his cell phone. If he doesn't answer, I'll come and stay with you until he gets back."

"No, you don't have to do that," Summer began to protest.

"It's no trouble," he said shortly. "Stay put."

"Okay, thanks."

Ryan hung up without saying goodbye. Typical.

Exactly two minutes and sixteen seconds later—she knew because she counted—she heard fumbling behind the front door. If she hadn't been expecting him, she would have thought someone was trying to break in. If the neighbors didn't think she was crazy trailer-trash already, they sure would think so after listening to Seth's antics—lunacy—all day. They probably thought the tenants in 3B were holding a door-slamming contest.

Summer marched into the foyer and flung the door open to reveal a very intoxicated Seth Cohen, who was still trying unsuccessfully to get his house key into the lock. He grinned at her lecherously.

He reeked of gin and stale cigarette smoke.

"You're drunk!"

"And you are sober. I wonder which one of us is having more fun."

Summer cocked a hand onto a slim hip, and narrowed her eyes accusingly. "Well, it certainly isn't me," she declared, irate.

"Yes, I think we established that in the whole 'you're drunk!', 'well, you're sober' exchange," Seth mocked her mercilessly. He brushed past her towards the kitchen, barely grazing her, but grazing just where it mattered. Her nipples hardened immediately, she gasped in response. Seth pretended that he didn't notice. He stumbled into the kitchen and grabbed a corkscrew from the drawer where he knew it was kept. He thought about grabbing bread, a piece of fruit, something to help him sober up, but in the end, he just turned around and headed straight back towards the guest bedroom. Summer was still standing in the entry hall, though now facing the living room, speechless.

Seth didn't bother speaking to her, either. He made it down the hall and into his room, and he shut the door very deliberately, though without any force.

Back in the foyer, the phone in Summer's left hand rang, startling her. "I found him," she intoned before Ryan had even uttered 'hello.'

"Okay," he muttered, and then hung up.

Once in his room, Seth shrugged out of his button-down dress shirt and kicked off his shoes. It took him a few tries to unbuckle his belt, but he managed to remove it, before throwing it haphazardly towards the closet door.

He scratched his chest, and then decided to uncork his wine bottle.

Out in the hall, Summer debated with herself about forcing another confrontation.

A few seconds later, a pitiful guitar solo started up that she could hear through the door. After Kirsten Cohen had been shipped off to rehab the summer before their senior year of high school, Seth had fallen into a considerable depression. Like everything else in his life, his sadness needed a soundtrack, and so he made one, comprised of mostly old country and western songs. He called it the Sad Bastard mix, and he played it whenever he felt a little down and out. Summer remembered it well.

George Jones was the first song on the Sad Bastard mix, and Summer had heard "He Stopped Loving Her Today" enough in the year after Trey's death—Caleb Nichol's death—that she recognized it immediately. She closed her eyes.

She knocked, and then pushed the door open. Seth hiccupped in response. Summer heard the slosh of wine in the bottle as Seth brought it up to his lips and took a long swallow.

"You're drinking more?" her voice rose an octave.

"So?" Seth retorted belligerently. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yeah, and you're wasted," she fired back. "You might as well be gone."

"Is that what you want, Summer? You want me to leave?" Seth slurred, stepping forward, wanting to get into her face, wanting to fight dirty, for once.

"Not stinking drunk, I don't. You'd probably step off a curb in front of a car and get yourself killed."

"Yeah, and what would a heartless bitch like you care?"

Summer gasped, shocked. Instinctively, she brought her hand up to slap him. Her small palm stung across his cheek. He had a day's worth of stubble on his face, and her hand smarted afterwards. He smelled of sandalwood. Summer's knees grew a little weak.

Seth grabbed her wrist to prevent further violence against him. He was suddenly painfully, urgently aware of his bare chest, and her close proximity. This time, he didn't—couldn't—resist the urge. He drew her towards him and kissed her mouth as if he was a drowning man and she was his last breath of freedom, of life. Their lips and tongues clashed hotly. Summer clung to shoulders, almost desperately, returning his lust, meeting his tongue thrust for thrust. Her ardor burned through her skin, through her clothes, through the air around her; Seth felt it, too. His hands fell to the small of her back, and he pressed her closer, her breasts were flush against his chest, her nipples still erect, driving him half-mad with desire.

When they broke for air a minute later, panting, he pressed his forehead against hers. "You knew this was coming," he murmured, intimately. She shook her head, mute.

"That the longer we were here alone together, the more I would want to touch you," he gathered her body closer, into his arms. "…and hold you and kiss you."

She placed her hands against his warm skin of his collarbone and pushed away gently. "I don't want to fight anymore, Cohen."

"Me neither," he murmured, leaning forward to nuzzle her ear. She ducked slightly, avoiding him. He frowned.

"But I don't want this, either," she whispered. "Please don't try to…to force it. Let's just keep things simple, please?" Her lower lip trembled, but she wasn't going to cry. She was too strong for that. She stiffened her resolve.

Seth looked at her seriously for the first time since she'd barged in, and he sobered up slightly. For once, he could see her vulnerability, her fear. He reached a hand out to gently stroke her cheek, and she closed her eyes in response to his touch. It had been a hard lesson, but he'd learned long ago when to take Summer at her word. It didn't mean he couldn't continue to chip at her walls, but he had to take one victory at a time. He couldn't push too hard, or the whole house of cards would fall.

"Okay," he agreed, gruffly, "but no more games, Summer, I mean it."

"No more games," she nodded.

"And no more histrionics," he added.

She shook her head again.

"Promise me."

"I promise."

"Okay," he pulled her close again and laid a kiss on her forehead, then pushed her back again. "I won't kiss you again unless you ask me to."

"I won't. Ask," she promised again, giving him a little smile.

"Fair enough."

"Hey, An…" Kurt was cut short when he first caught sight of his beautiful girlfriend through her bedroom door, which was casually ajar. Her back was facing him, her head bent in concentration. The ceiling fan was whirling on high speed above her, though every room in the crotchety old mansion was ice cold and drafty, to boot. Her pink tights were pulled tight across her not-quite-knobby knees. He came in, a little hurt, feigning indifference. "Your mother was calling for you."

Anna nodded, but didn't speak. She didn't turn around, but she cocked her head over her shoulder just slightly. Kurt walked towards her, sat down on the end of the bed, several feet from where she was already seated. The heavy damask curtains were pulled, making the room as dark as night, though it was a little past noon and the hills behind Anna's grandfather's house were glittering with fresh snow. Kurt shivered.

"I'm starting to get a little jealous," he admitted, almost nonchalant. Their bed had been carefully made that morning by one of the maids, a little mint laid on each of their pillows. It blended into the light green of the cotton sheets, Kurt thought idly that they'd have to be careful, or they would sit on them later and not even know it.

Anna laughed, nervously, fingering the tiny threads on the edge of the worn quilt beneath her. "Why?"

"Well, that's the fifth time I've caught you with the phone in your hand, but not calling anyone…" He reached a hand out to brush her hair back from her ear, gently touching her dangling chandelier earring in the process. He hated her taste in jewelry; he found it vulgar, unnecessary. He preferred diamond studs, or a delicate strand of freshwater pearls. She found his taste in jewelry insipid, unimaginative.

"I know," she sighed.

"Summer?"

She nodded again, still silent.

"Why don't you just call?"

"Because if she's miserable there with Seth, I know that I would go back home."

"What's the bigger problem?"

"I'm worried about her," Anna replied, honestly, though it wasn't the whole truth.

"She's fine, I talked to her last night. She and Seth were out at the movies, she didn't sound the least bit miserable. And you talked to her the night they got back from the hospital, she wasn't seriously hurt in the fall."

"I know," she agreed, ducking her head.

"Then what? Are you worried that she's lying to you? That I'm lying to you?"

"I'm not worried about that," Anna wiped stray tears away with her closed fist. She rested it under her chin after a moment, propped her elbow up on her thigh.

"You're worried about leaving her for me," Kurt said.

Anna nodded, now unable to speak, more tears tickling the back of her throat.

"Why?"

After a minute, "I don't want her to be alone."

"You're not moving to a foreign country, you're not dying… We can live right down the block from her, if you like…you could check on her any time you wanted. We can live in the same building, even, for Christ's sake."

"Just not with her?" Anna asked, almost angrily. She turned to face him, finally.

Kurt sighed heavily, didn't answer for a moment. "Is that really what you'd want our married life to be like? Her, living with us, listening to everything we said and did, all of our little intimacies? You want our children to wonder why their mother can't leave her best friend?"

Anna didn't reply.

Kurt stood, began to leave. "Your mother was calling for you."

She nodded in response, wiped away fresh tears. "I'll be there in a minute," she said, choked.

"I'll let her know."

He left, closing to door almost to, so that it was casually ajar once more. Anna picked up the phone again, but didn't dial.

To be continued…

Sorry this chapter was so short, but a girl has to sleep...