7Summer's new car is a clunker, which Ryan had warned her about, but Summer has a habit of doing the exact opposite of what you tell her to do when it comes to practical things like cars and apartments and not getting arrested for organizing protests without a license. He's tried reverse psychology a few times, but she sees right through that, of course. She's surprisingly susceptible to bullshit when it's coming from a stranger, but when it's Ryan running his mouth - she's made of fucking Teflon.
"I swear they told me it was fine for another month," Summer says, not even waiting for him to get all the way out of his car. Her piece of shit Honda is halfway onto the grass of the median, the hood already propped open - though what she thought she was gonna do with it, Ryan doesn't know. "I had it checked last weekend - remember? The guy promised me that I could make until June to get it replaced - and it started up fine!"
"I keep telling you, it's your alternator," Ryan says, waving her back, off the actual road. "Stay back, would you? That's a blind corner."
Summer rolls her eyes, but does what he says. "He said I just needed a new battery."
"Did he check the alternator?"
"I mean," Summer says, throwing her hands out, "I kind of assumed he did, but what the hell do I know? Careful!" She stops him, before he touches the hood prop. "The thingy on top is broken, it'll slam shut on you if you're not careful."
"Jesus. This thing is a freakin' death trap," Ryan mutters, eyeing the hood warily as he leans over the engine. He huffs. "Look. Your alternator is this thing," he yanks Summer over by her sleeve, making her look. "It's a generator that charges the battery. If it's bad, then it will cause the battery to drain much faster than normal, which is why you already need a new one."
"It's been two years," Summer protests.
"Batteries are supposed to last longer than that," Ryan insists, rolling his eyes. He yanks them both out of the way of the hood, and carefully unhooks the prop - she's right, the thingy is broken - and lets the hood fall shut. "Plus, you said your lights flicker - that's not the battery, Summer."
"Well then why didn't the guy tell me that?" Summer demands.
"Maybe he was too busy staring at your assets," Ryan replies. Summer makes an offended noise, crossing her arms across her chest. "Hey, you're the one who tries to flirt her way into free car repairs. It's not like you couldn't just, oh I dunno, take me up on one of my millions of offers to help - "
"You would charge me," Summer says, her mouth pulling into a pout. Ryan shrugs, unrepentant. "This one seemed genuine. He told me he worked on one of Che's campaigns last year, and he seemed really excited about the electric car movement!"
Ryan looks pointedly at the dozens of bumper stickers plastered all over the back end of Summer's car. "I'm sure he did."
She huffs. "Are you going to give me a ride or not?"
"Of course." Summer shoots him a glare, and another huff, and stomps over to the passenger side door to grab her stuff. "Come on, don't be mad," Ryan says, grinning. "I brought you some lunch."
"What kind of lunch?" Summer asks, pulling her overflowing backpack out with a grunt. "I'm not eating any of your gross bar food, Ryan."
"Nah, I stopped by that taco truck by the park," Ryan says. Summer's scowl drops away instantly. "I was on my way already when you called. I got you carne asada."
"I love you," Summer says solemnly, and practically skips down the side of the road to his car.
"Hey!" Ryan calls after her. "You know we have to wait for a tow truck, right?"
"Duh," Summer calls back, already climbing into the cab of his truck. "Didn't you call already?"
Ryan sighs, grumbling to himself as he digs his cell phone out of his back pocket. Typical.
Summer's car has helpfully broken down on a fairly boring street, with little traffic to speak of - although they do get some strange looks from the skateboarders that pass by on the sidewalk opposite. Summer doesn't seem to notice - sitting cross-legged in the bed of Ryan's pickup, devouring her food like she hasn't eaten in months. Which is how she always eats - Ryan's almost used to it.
They've been friends for years, at this point, though Ryan can't say exactly when it became an intimate friendship - the kind that works its way under your skin, and digs in roots. Maybe it's because they've known each other so long - that easy familiarity that comes from watching someone grow up and date losers and fuck up royally over and over - but isn't that how it works with everything? Just opportunity and effort. That's all it is.
"Thanks again," Summer says, through a mouthful of steak. "I was gonna call you anyway, you know. Good timing."
Ryan's reclining back against the side of the bed, having already eaten. It's his day off, believe it or not - his front of house manager is running the floor tonight, and two of his best bartenders are on shift. He truly has nothing to worry about, for the rest of the day. "Oh yeah?"
"Coop called me." Summer sets her food aside, her face sobering. Ryan opens one eye, his shoulders tensing. "She's getting married."
Ryan bursts out laughing.
"Shut up! I'm serious," Summer protests, reaching over and shoving at his leg. She's smiling, though. "She really means it this time! I think."
"Implying she didn't mean it the other times?"
Summer shrugs, letting the question bounce off and away, like a pebble glancing off the side of a windshield. "You remember the girl from Christmas."
As if anyone could forget. Everything Marissa does becomes a spectacle, one way or another. Julie and Frank had done a cute takeout dinner thing - Christmas Eve with boxes and bags of In 'n Out and KFC, Starbucks hot chocolate in big cardboard carafes, and Dunkin' Donuts for dessert. Marissa had spent the entire evening on her phone, before speeding off in a powder blue Mazda with a girl who honked her horn so loud it woke the baby up. Julie spent the rest of the night in her room, while Kaitlin, Ryan, and Summer tried to cheer Frank up by kicking his ass at Monopoly.
"Cara?" he asks. "Or Kayla?"
"Carina," Summer says. "Cara was her roommate in Seattle."
"Right." Ryan tilts his head back towards the sun and wishes for a cigarette. "Well, I guess that's nice. She seemed nice. Sort of."
"She's gonna tell Julie and Frank today," Summer continues, crumpling up her now-empty paper plate, smashing it into a ball with the tin foil. "Jimmy already knows, I guess he's gonna pay for it. They wanna have the ceremony here in Newport."
"Great," Ryan mutters. "She can't use the bar."
"She's gonna ask to use the bar."
"Well she can ask and I'm gonna say no," Ryan says sourly, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose with a frustrated shake of his head.
Summer looks a little sympathetic, but she's smirking, so it can't be running all that deeply. "It's gonna look bad - you not wanting to help with your stepsister's wedding."
"She's also my ex," Ryan says. "And she was my ex before she was my stepsister, so I think that should be the definition we lead with."
"Nobody remembers that. All they remember now is how cute little Jamie Atwood was at the Annual Ocean Reef Charity Auction last year."
An exceedingly adorable six-year-old, Jamie had unfortunately been the hit of the party. He'd been the unofficial usher, and by the end of the night half of Newport Beach wanted to adopt him. Julie was not above leveraging that for donations, which Frank pretended to be mad about right up until he wanted extra breadsticks from the grandmother who ran the register at Sarpino's. The kid was like a walking, talking (well - more like running and rambling) master key.
"She still can't use the bar," Ryan says firmly. A reception...maybe. But Marissa will want it for a bachelorette party, or something similar. He shudders a little, just thinking about it.
Summer just shrugs. "Anyway, I wanted to warn you. Julie will probably get weird; I wanted you to have advance warning."
"I appreciate it." Ryan's relationship with his stepmother has evened out into an affectionately annoying friendship, but every once in awhile - mostly when Marissa visits - they fall back into old habits. "They probably won't even want me around for it. That last fiance hated me."
"That guy was a dick, though, he hated everybody," Summer says.
Marissa's had three fiances over the past six years (make that four, now), and none of them were exactly nice. The only one that Ryan could have lived with was the boyfriend from Hawaii - relatively down to earth, a career waiter and amateur boxer, probably could have been a friend if he hadn't been insanely jealous of Ryan and Marissa's history. But it seems like the girlfriends and boyfriends have only gotten more unbearable since then - Marissa seems to always find very specific characters to fall in love with: snobby models, trust fund club owners, Hollywood publicists, bisexual art critics. Ryan doesn't remember much about this one - Carina with the blue Mazda - but he's pretty sure it'll be another variation on the theme.
Not that Ryan has room to talk, with his parade of married and/or criminally-inclined girlfriends. Summer, on the other hand, never dates at all. The last time Ryan heard her mention the 'b' word was six years ago, when she and Che tried to make an actual go of it. After a melodramatic breakup involving some sort of drawn out argument about a girl at PETA with blue hair (Summer didn't share any of the sordid details), they settled into a very weird professional friendship, and Summer hasn't dated anyone seriously since.
For awhile Ryan thought she was hung up on him - Che or Seth, or maybe both. But now he's pretty sure she's just comfortable like this - single, supporting herself, adopting as many pets as she wants and not having to explain it to anybody. He's kind of proud of her, actually.
"Did she ask you to be a bridesmaid?"
"No," Summer says, sort of wistfully. "I mean, we talk maybe three or four times a year. I'm not exactly a maid of honor friend, anymore."
Ryan angles his knee to press it against her leg. She smiles sadly, picking at her nails, like she does when she's upset or anxious. Ryan frowns, squashing the urge to pull her hand away and make her stop.
"Anyway, I just thought I should warn you," Summer says. "She seemed really...chirpy, on the phone. She was talking about inviting a bunch of people, doing the whole thing. I think she's really, actually in love this time," she muses, tilting her head curiously. "Huh."
"Good for her," Ryan says genuinely. It's been long enough now that he really means it, this time. "And she can invite whoever she wants, I guess."
"Even the Cohens?" Summer asks, arching an eyebrow. "Seth Cohen, to be specific?"
"We're adults now, it's no big deal," Ryan says, the words sounding unconvincing even to his own ears. He sits up a little straighter. "Oh hey, I think I hear the tow."
"Uh huh," Summer says flatly. "You're a big grown something, alright."
He makes a face at her. "I'm serious - see?" He points at the tow truck, rounding the corner at the opposite end of the street.
"How magical! Just in time to allow you to avoid an actual conversation about this - again," Summer says, through gritted teeth.
"I'll take it up with my therapist," Ryan shoots back, nudging her again with his knee. Summer grumbles as she crawls out of the truck bed, scowling at him over her shoulder. "Thanks for warning me, though. Seriously."
Summer huffs. "As if I wouldn't?"
Ryan just smiles, pulling gently on the end of her ponytail as he brushes past. He knows he can count on her by now, of course. It's just that he tries not to take these things for granted.
Julie, Jamie and Frank live in a condo that Kait likes to call "the relative house." Relative, because depending on which former living situation you compare it to, it's either much nicer, or much crappier. Much better than the trailer, but a few steps down from the cushy mansions with infinity pools and a staff of cooks and gardeners.
One of the things they did, when they first got married, was institute an emergency rule - meaning that anyone could call a stepfamily meeting (pseudo-family, was Kait's name for it in the beginning), at any time, any length of notice, and attendance was mandatory. Julie made many heroic attempts to include Marissa in this at first, even when she was living in Maui with Jimmy, but despite the advent of Skype and Facetime, she still never showed up - not even when she was in town. At this point, Ryan thinks Julie's mostly given up, and counts herself lucky when Marissa bothers to show up for holidays.
But over the years, the emergency rule has turned into a sort of running joke - mostly on behalf of Kaitlin and Frank, who think it's absolutely hilarious to cry wolf once or twice a month. In the past six years, Ryan has attended emergency meetings for: hangnails, abrupt cancellations of TV shows, the tragic discontinuation of crispy M&Ms in the United States, and several dozen bad hair days. He thinks it's a rather touching testament to their commitment to making this work that everyone still shows up every time the group text activates, even though they all know they're going to end up talking about Frank's heartburn, or something.
It's for this reason that Kaitlin usually shows up with booze. They've been running a poker tournament over the past four or five emergencies, and Kait's go-to tactic is to get everybody else tipsy enough that she's got a chance at actually winning.
"Get ready to lose your pennies, bitches," Kaitlin says, a grocery wine-bag hanging from one shoulder. She stops short at the opening to the living room, her face falling at the scene before her. "Oh. Oh shit, don't tell me this is a real emergency."
"'Fraid so," Frank says, as Julie rises to her feet, her head already shaking. Ryan covers a laugh with a cough.
"No, not technically - relax, sweetie, it's nothing life or death," she says, shooting Ryan a dirty look, and rushing over to slide the bag off of Kait's shoulder. "It's good, actually! Well, we hope."
Kaitlin eyes her warily, taking the seat next to Jamie, who is blithely ignoring all of them in favor of his Wii U. "Oh, God, is Marissa getting married again?"
Ryan doesn't bother to cover his laugh this time. "How did you know?" Julie demands.
"Wild guess," Kait says, catching Ryan's eye and making a face. "The chef girl?"
"Wait, she's a chef?" Frank asks. He stops watching the game over Jamie's shoulder and looks up, his interest piqued. "I didn't know that."
"Oh, I told you that," Julie says. "She works at Cal Mare - that nice seafood place in Beverly Grove."
"Mom, you are literally the only person here who cares what snooty restaurant she works at," Kaitlin says, with a pronounced eye roll. "She told all of you first?! Before she told me?"
"No, she told Summer," Ryan says significantly.
"Oh," Kait says. She looks somewhat mollified. "So...you called an emergency to help you, what, plan the party?"
"No." Julie sits stiffly on the couch on the opposite side of Jamie, her chin angled up so high she's practically looking at the ceiling. "She doesn't want my help."
Kaitlin goes quiet, making eye contact with Ryan again. Her eyebrows shoot to the top of her forehead.
"They hired a wedding planner, so they've got it under control," Frank says soothingly, ever the diplomat. He reaches over Jamie's head and slides one palm against the back of Julie's shoulder. She relaxes, minutely - enough to lean back against the couch and smile down at Jamie, who's put his game down in response to the tension. "She called it to give you guys a heads up - well, to give you a heads up, Kait. Your dad's gonna be around quite a bit. We thought you'd like some advance warning."
This time, it's Kaitlin who goes rigid straight. "Great," she spits.
"He'll probably be pretty busy," Ryan says - an attempt at comfort. "You won't have to see him much if you don't want to."
Kaitlin just shakes her head. "Well, that's stupid - it's a small town, Ryan. What am I supposed to do - not leave the house for a month until he's gone?" She scoffs. "I run into three different people I know, minimum, every time I leave my apartment."
"Maybe that's because you still hang out at the same places you did when you were seventeen," Ryan says jokingly, nudging her shoulder. Kaitlin's answering smile is pretty weak - but at least it's there.
"I know it's going to be difficult, honey," Julie says gently. "But it's Marissa's wedding. We can't banish him from the town limits."
"I mean, you could try," Kaitlin says, sulkily. "If anyone could pull it off, it'd probably be you."
Julie smiles a little bashfully, clearly taking that as a compliment. "Well," she says, "it'd be wrong, is my point."
"Plus, I think this one might actually take," Frank says cheerfully. "She sounded downright giddy on the phone. More than giddy - maybe even tickled."
Jamie giggles. "Dad, that's not what that means."
"What are you talking about, of course that's what it means," Frank says, reaching out to tickle Jamie's rib cage. He collapses into more giggles, wiggling away to hide in Julie's lap. "What are they teaching you at school anyway? Words can have more than one meaning, you know. Jeez."
"It's another word for happy, baby," Julie says, pulling Jamie sideways into her lap. She throws a mock glare at Frank. "Don't even think about it."
Frank retreats, holding up his hands. "Wouldn't dream of it, honey."
"Here's a secret about Frankie, little bro," Kaitlin says, leaning over onto her elbows to grin at Jamie. The little boy peeks out from beneath Julie's arm, still grinning. "He talks like he's from the 1930s sometimes. Nobody uses 'tickled' anymore to mean anything but…" she stretches the word out playfully, then darts one hand out and grabs Jamie's foot. She barely even makes contact before he yanks it away, breathless with laughter.
"No, no!" Jamie says, curling up into a ball against Julie, who rolls her eyes, long suffering.
"If anyone comes near me while this child is leaning against my stomach, I'm going to murder you," she threatens at-large. Kaitlin just laughs, scooting back into her seat.
"He's deadly with those elbows," Ryan says, grinning. He leans forward, holding out one hand. "C'mere, kiddo. Give your mom a break."
Jamie rolls off Julie's lap without preamble - elbowing her in the process, of course. She groans out loud, making Kaitlin and Frank laugh again, as Jamie scrambles over into Ryan's lap instead, doing his best to cause as many bruises on his way up as possible.
Ryan grins and bears it, folding the gangly kid into something vaguely resembling a comfortable position. Jamie rewards him by lurching back against his chest, knocking the back of his head against Ryan's chin. He used to do the same thing when he was a baby - these sudden, violent lunges, sometimes tipping himself right out of somebody's arms and onto the floor. It's a miracle the kid made it through his toddler years without a concussion.
"You're almost too big for this, you know," Ryan says, rubbing his jaw with a wince. Jamie just shrugs, hitching his legs up on the side of the chair. "Frankie, look at this kid. He's all legs. Something's wrong with him."
"We should put a brick on his head at night, see if that stops the growing," Frank says.
"That's stupid," Jamie announces. He's almost horizontal, his feet up on the side of the chair and his head tipped backwards, surveying the room upside down. "Mom, can I show Ryan my new game now?"
"In a minute," Julie says, smiling fondly. "When we're done talking."
"You're not done?" Jamie says, and sighs, loud and long-suffering.
Kaitlin snorts. "Right there with ya, Jamie." She looks longingly at the wine, abandoned on the coffee table. "Can we still play poker?"
"In a minute," Julie repeats, smiling beatifically and making her voice mockingly baby-ish. "When we're done talking."
Kaitlin rolls her eyes again.
"We had an idea about how to make it easier, that's all," Frank says, suppressed laughter making his voice tight. "Since Marissa and Jimmy will be around quite a bit, we'll have to get used to it - at least for awhile. So your mom and I thought - maybe we could have them over for dinner?" He holds up a hand, cutting off Kaitlin's automatic protest. "To rip off the band-aid, Kait! We're going to have to do it eventually - we might as well get it out of the way as soon as we can, so we can start pretending we all like each other."
"And think of it this way," Julie says brightly, "Marissa can bring Carina, and we can all get to know her a little. She's going to be your sister-in-law, after all." She moves a little closer to Frank on the couch - the two of them clearly a united front, having planned this out beforehand. "I know it'll be awkward - I know. But it doesn't have to be! The first step towards fixing it is just to...deal with it." Julie ends her little speech with a shrug, sounding shockingly laid back.
"Do I have to come?" Ryan asks.
"Yes," Julie says firmly, her smile not even wavering.
"Do I have to come?" Jamie repeats, still upside down.
"Yes," comes the reply, this time from both Frank and Julie at the same time.
"Do I - " starts Kaitlin, but is cut off by a pillow sent flying at her face by Frank. She sputters indignantly.
"We're all coming," Julie says firmly, clasping her hands. Like she's shaking on her own deal, with herself. "I'll get catering from Del Vecchio's, we'll set up the table in the backyard. We'll light some candles, drink some wine, and spend some quality time together as a family, and you're all gonna shut up about it, starting now." She smiles. "Capiche?"
After a halfhearted chorus of okays and fines from the assembled, Julie looks satisfied, shooting a grin over at Frank. "Good," he says, smiling back hopefully. "It'll be good - you'll see."
"Every time someone says that," Ryan points out, grunting as Jamie digs his shoulder blades into his chest, "somebody else gets pushed into a pool at the party."
"Well it's a good thing we're too poor for pools now," Julie says cheerfully. "So, Kait. You said something about poker?"
Ryan likes hanging out with Jamie. He reminds Ryan painfully of Marissa sometimes - he's got that same wide face, and his hair is closer to Marissa's golden blonde than the Atwood dishwater - but he's an earnest kid, with a lot of energy, and he looks up to Ryan immensely, for reasons beyond his comprehension. Being an older brother is actually a lot easier than he'd thought it be, back when Julie and Frank first declared that they were both hitched and knocked up, all in the same weekend.
Mostly, he just lets Jamie talk, and even when Ryan doesn't always follow the ins and outs, he still acts like he's interested and listening. For this, Jamie adores him. Sometimes, it really is that easy.
After tipsy poker (Jamie's drink of choice being hot chocolate - as effective on him as the wine was on everyone else) and a few dozen rounds of Slapjack, Jamie conks out right there in Ryan's lap, snoring loudly with his head wedged beneath Ryan's arm and the arm of the chair. It takes Ryan and Frank both to extract him from the pretzel he's wound himself into, and Ryan carries him up to his bedroom, trying not to laugh too loudly at the ridiculous snoring noises he makes the entire way.
"Jesus," Frank says, following him down the hallway, close to tears himself. "It's like a cartoon."
As if on cue, Jamie makes a loud snort in his sleep, so loud and violent that he follows it up with a comical choking noise. Then he settles back down against Ryan's shoulder, still dead asleep. Ryan has to pause, leaning against the wall, laughing so hard he almost drops the poor kid.
They manage to get him into the bed eventually, where Jamie immediately curls himself around his stuffed raccoon and - of course - stops snoring.
"It's like he knows when he's got an audience," Ryan says, resting for a second at the foot of the little bed. He's not sure Frank was kidding about the brick - seems like every time Ryan visits, Jamie is at least half an inch taller. Julie definitely can't pick him up anymore, and even Ryan has trouble nowadays, especially after two glasses of wine.
Frank runs an affectionate hand over Jamie's head, pulling the lightest sheet up over his shoulders. The room is a bit warmer than the rest of the house, since it's the highest bedroom - but Jamie's always ran cold, anyway. "You're telling me." He claps Ryan on the shoulder. "Come on. Let's hit the attic - give the girls some time to talk."
Ryan nods, following Frank silently out of the room. As they pass the stairs, sure enough - they hear the low tones of Julie's voice, saying something soothing and motherly that Ryan doesn't try to listen to too closely. Frank shakes his head as they climb the stairs up to the attic, waiting to comment until the door is shut behind them.
"Hell of a guy, that Jimmy Cooper," he says with disgust. He wouldn't say something like that around anyone but Ryan. "I knew she was more upset than she let on."
"She'll be okay," Ryan says confidently. Kaitlin is always okay - the healthiest out of all of them, if he's being honest. Her relationship with Jimmy is a bitter, complicated thing, but Marissa and Julie's isn't much better. Sometimes, he wonders if this is just what happens, when people get divorced: you split up your kids, too. It was the same way with Frank and Dawn, once upon a time. "You got something to drink up here, old man?"
"Hold your horses," Frank grumbles. The attic is, technically speaking, Frank's gun room, but in practice it's become more like a second, adults-only living room. Apart from the BB rifles and ancient shotguns locked up on the walls, it could pass as a teenager's clubhouse - mini fridge of booze, cheap rug, bean bag chairs, the whole nine yards. Ryan's never seen Julie up here, but the record player and her carefully organized crates of vinyls are evidence of her presence. And in the corner is Kaitlin's old guitar - still used, from time to time, when the mood strikes.
Ryan leans back into the musty, familiar futon and cracks open the beer Frank hands him. Maybe one day, he'll have an attic like this - full of his family's odds and ends. The thought isn't as terrifying as it used to be.
"So," he says, after a moment, "you doing okay with all this?"
"I'm really not hung up on Marissa, you know," Ryan says.
"I know, I know," Frank says, dragging a lawn chair over and ease himself into. By silent agreement, neither of them ever sit in the bean bag chairs. "But still."
Ryan is quiet for a moment, giving the question the attention it's due. "It'll be harder on them," he says finally. "Summer was kind of upset, I could tell."
"They had sort of a falling out last summer, didn't they?"
"More like a fading out," Ryan says. Summer won't admit it out loud, but she'd taken it hard - the long, mundane drift of her friendship with Marissa. That seemed to Ryan to be almost worse than his own awkward, abrupt end, or the way Kaitlin and Marissa would go years without speaking and then snap back into being sisters again, closer than twins, without any preamble or build up. "I think they were actually closer, when Marissa was in Seattle. They talked a lot more, that's for sure. She was expecting it to be the same when Marissa moved back to LA."
Frank shakes his head. "That girl," he says, letting the end of the sentence trail off. He'd never dare to say it out loud, but Frank disapproves of pretty much everything Marissa does - mostly because of its effect on Julie. When Ryan and Marissa had broken up for good - right around the time Julie and Frank were sneaking around, falling in love right beneath everyone's noses - he actually came close to saying it, but always stopped himself at that last second, biting the words back, like he knew how much he didn't have the right. "You think we should invite her? To the dinner thing? She might make it go more smoothly."
"She won't come," Ryan says, with conviction. Summer flat out refuses to attend family stuff with the Atwood-Coopers, for reasons she's never been willing to explain. "It's a nice thought, though."
"Sure," Frank says, eyeing Ryan weirdly. "You know…"
"What?"
Frank seems to think better of whatever he was about to say. "Nothing."
"Oh come on. What?"
"Nothing," Frank repeats, with a small laugh, pushing back in his chair. The window's propped open, to let some of the night breeze in, but it's still a bit muggy up here, and Frank's forehead is shiny with sweat. Ryan's sure he doesn't look much better. "I was just gonna ask about the Cohens, is all. You know they'll be invited."
Ryan sighs. "It's a long trip from Berkeley, just for a wedding of someone they're not all that close with anymore."
"They'll come," Frank says quietly. "They'll come to see you, and you know it."
Ryan scowls down at the ground, unwilling to let himself react beyond that. "Dad."
"Fine." Frank laughs again, easily. It's not a mocking sound, though. More like a gentle teasing. Ryan's muscles unwind a little, despite himself. "Like we said, son. You're gonna have to deal with it eventually."
"Well, this particular cut, I'm gonna take the band-aid off slowly, thanks," Ryan says wryly.
"Fair enough," says Frank. He glances out the window, not having taken more than one or two sips of his drink. Ryan can tell, just by looking at him, that he's not done with his list of tricky conversation topics. And sure enough: "your brother used to fart in his sleep."
Ryan almost chokes. "What?"
"Oh yeah. You don't remember? Used to stink up the whole room. We had air fresheners in every corner of the house."
"No," Ryan says slowly, lowering his beer can to the ground. "I guess he grew out of that, by the time I was old enough to remember."
"I guess," Frank says, sounding wistful. He makes eye contact with Ryan, his jaw set. "You been to see him lately?"
Ryan stiffens. "You know I haven't."
"I'm going this weekend," Frank says. He holds up one hand, as if sensing the tension rising in Ryan's shoulders. "I'm not saying anything, one way or another. I'm just saying, I'm going, and you can ride along with me, if you want."
"Jesus, Dad," Ryan says, on an uneasy exhale. "You can't text this shit to me like a normal person? You gotta look me in the eye while you're saying it like some kind of...emotionally healthy weirdo?"
"It's the therapy," Frank jokes weakly. "Gives you all these bad habits."
Ryan taps his fingers against the side of his knee restlessly. Outside the window, he can hear the back door open and closing, and the soft sound of footsteps on the cement patio. Kait dipping out for a smoke, probably.
They probably planned this in advance too, the psychos. Mom downstairs, Dad upstairs. Sitting down the kids, making them talk about their fucking feelings. Divide and conquer.
"I haven't been since," Ryan says, his throat closing up before he can finish the sentence. "Okay. Yeah. Okay."
"You don't have to," Frank says, looking like he regrets this as much as Ryan does. "I was just offering. I don't mean to push."
"Marissa's coming back to town," Ryan says, taking a deep breath. "The Cohens. Seth will probably show up at some point to dig up all the ugly shit, too. Maybe Theresa will swing by with Daniel and Eddie, just to round it all out, make it a complete set." He laughs, without humor. "None of that will seem as terrifying if I do this first, right? Is that the idea?"
"Sort of," Frank says quietly. He fusses with his sleeve cuffs, avoids Ryan's eyes. "Mostly I just...thought it'd be nice to go together."
Ryan shakes his head, helpless in the face of that. Evil geniuses, both of them. They really are made for each other.
"Anything else you wanna talk about?" Ryan asks dryly. "Mom? Prison? The inevitability of death?"
"Nah, I'm good," Frank says, a little wobbily. But he grins in the next second, playful as always. "How's the glamorous life of a bar-owner?"
"Great," Ryan says flatly. "Last weekend I had to call an ambulance because a twenty-two year old OD'd in my bathroom."
"Well, at least she was of age," Frank says.
The original owner of The Bait Shop was an investment banker from Los Angeles who was arrested in early 2006 for possession of an unregistered firearm, among a few other things left out of the papers. After his arrest, he sold most of his properties in order to pay legal fees (and, as came out later, a one-way ticket to an undisclosed, non-extradition country), and it languished on the dismal real estate market for a few years, its chances tanked even more by the earthquake damage it suffered in early 2007. Then in 2009, a block of luxury condos was built on the same street, and the neighborhood was rezoned, effectively killing the chance of ever turning the building into a working music venue again. Still, it was remarketed as a potential restaurant or office, and it had a few bids here and there - once even from the Newport Group - but the struggling tourism market and the eternally skyrocketing living expenses were hard deterrents. Ultimately, it sat empty and fell into semi-disrepair until May of 2011, when it was finally purchased for about a quarter of its original asking price.
And that was how Ryan Atwood came to own Newport's seediest (by comparison) bar.
Ryan doesn't sleep with employees, which is a hard line he's never wavered from. He's only been tempted once, by a woman he hired on as a bartender, back in the first year. Her name was Isobel but everyone called her Iz, and she had beautiful, long black hair, all the way down to her waist. She'd wear shorts to work sometimes, and when she pulled her hair out of its braid, it would cover her entire back, and make her look like she wasn't wearing anything at all.
She also flirted with Ryan shamelessly, laughing at his increasingly strained rejections, right up until she no showed for two shifts in a row and he had to fire her. Two weeks later, he found out that she'd actually been hired on at the Crab Shack as one of their bar managers, and had taken the easy way out of two weeks' notice. Ditching him for the competition - Ryan took it a little personally. To this day, he's forbidden everyone he knows from eating there - although he's sure Summer sneaks over from time to time. She loves their lobster rolls too much to ever give them up completely, even for him.
Since then, his staff has been thankfully unremarkable - personally speaking, anyway. His current floor manager is a chirpy blonde named Leah, and Ryan likes her a lot - but he wouldn't say they're friends, by any stretch of the definition. She's way too cheerful for him.
"Hey boss!" His point exactly. "Did you have a good day off?"
Ryan grimaces in lieu of actually responding, pulling his sunglasses off and tossing them on the desk.
"Yikes." Leah leans against the edge of his desk, frowning sympathetically. "Well, tonight should be easy, at least. Here's the updated P&L you wanted." She hands him a file folder of meticulously-organized paperwork. Ryan flips it open, skimming the numbers quickly. "And, let's see - that Brian kid called out again, he said he's still got the flu, but who even knows. I left messages for everybody who's available but nobody's called me back yet, so we might have to shut down the balcony early - I've only got one barback, and Elijah's already going to double up tonight to help with tables."
"It's Thursday," Ryan says with a shrug. "Just don't open it at all. Keep everybody on the floor - we shouldn't be too busy." He sinks down into his chair with a tired sigh. "What else?"
"Uh, called the cops twice last night," Leah says, flipping open the little planner she uses to take notes. "Some guy was making racist jokes, another customer complained, and when Elijah asked him to leave he got physical. I emailed you a copy of that police report. And the second one was just that homeless guy again, the one who exposed himself to Maritza and Abby? I called as soon as I saw him, but he bolted before the cops got here. One of them left a card, though." She hands over a business card for the Orange County Sheriff's Office, which Ryan immediately puts with his collection of all the other cop business cards he's been handed. "No other trouble, other than the usual small stuff. We ran out of limes again, but Maritza's gonna pick up more on her way in."
"What the hell is going on with that?" Ryan asks. "We're still ordering the same amount as we always have. Is there a new fad, or something?"
Leah shrugs. "I asked around, but none of the bartenders have noticed a sudden demand for a particular drink or anything. Maybe it's the weather?" she guesses. "Oh - and someone keeps prank calling the main phone line."
Ryan looks up from the P&L, one eyebrow raised. "Prank calling?"
Leah makes a face. "Yeah, you know, like calling and then hanging up, as soon as we pick up? All weekend, like - at least a dozen times." She looks back down at her pad. "I think it was...yeah, it was Adam that told me about it. He's the one who usually gets the phone."
Ryan rubs the bridge of his nose. He rarely drinks enough to be hungover, so when he does - it hits hard. He's already exhausted, and it's not even five yet. "Okay. Make sure everyone knows what our friendly neighborhood pervert looks like, I want the cops called the second someone spots him. If we want him trespassed, the cops have to actually catch him in the building." He sighs. "And if you hear from Brian, tell him to call me. Time for a conversation."
"Good luck with that," Leah says, with a resigned frown. "We need at least three more people, minimum. Did you hear back from any of those applications you called?"
"Not yet," Ryan says ruefully. Turnover is one of his biggest headaches - he tries to find reliable people, and he's gotten lucky over the last year or so, with people like Leah and Elijah and Maritza - career types like Ryan, who know what they're doing and give a shit. But for positions like the barbacks, the front door people, the table waiters...all Ryan can manage are college kids on their summer vacations, and even that is if he's lucky. "If you know anybody…"
"Right." Leah nods, jotting something down on her pad. "I'll ask around. You know - maybe we should try the Facebook ad again. That's how we found Abby, after all."
"Too expensive," Ryan says, shaking his head. He shuffles the report back into its folder, setting it aside to obsess over later.
"We'll figure it out," Leah says, reassuringly confident. Ryan quirks a smile at her. "Okay, I'm gonna go check on the kitchen. You hungry? They made extra of the special tonight for us."
"Hot wings again?" Ryan asks. Leah grins and nods. A small chunk of her hair is caught in the loop of her eyebrow ring, and she brushes it away mindlessly as Ryan watches. "No thanks. Save them for everyone else."
"Okay," Leah replies with a friendly, professional smile. "Anything else."
"Yeah." Ryan hesitates, just long enough to catch Leah's attention. She raises her eyebrows, curious. "If you get that prank call again...tell them I'm not here."
Leah blinks at him for a second. "Okay," she says again, slower this time. "You think you know who it is?"
"Pretty sure." Ryan shakes his head. "Just say something like, 'Ryan's off for the night.' He'll get spooked and stop, I promise."
"Sure thing, boss. I'll let Adam know." Leah tilts her head at him. "Anything we should be worried about?"
Ryan snorts. "Nah."
"Alright then." Leah drops the subject like it had never been raised. "I'll see you out there, then. Don't forget - tonight's the change order."
"Yeah, yeah," Ryan grumbles, opening his laptop. He only forgot once, for God's sake.
The night flows quickly and easily, especially after one of their part-timers calls them back and agrees to cover the missing shift. Ryan bounces around and helps where he's needed, the hours slipping by before he notices them even arriving. This is why he likes doing what he does - if you're doing it right, you never run out of things to do. You sink into every shift right up to your shoulders, and before you know it you're home, still buzzing with accomplishment. It may not be saving the world, but he's good at it, and he's making money. He can't ask for more than that.
He doesn't usually dwell on the old memories this building carries - the repairs and the remodels in the years since it was The Bait Shop do enough, normally. But tonight he finds himself remembering things he hasn't thought about in awhile - the anniversary party they threw for Sandy and Kirsten. The time he and Marissa had sex in one of the handicapped restrooms, holding the door shut with their hands, stopping every few minutes to laugh at themselves. That awkward double date he and Seth went on, with Alex Kelly and Lindsay...God, Lindsay. He hasn't thought about her in years.
It's not enough to distract him, but it is enough to make him swing by Summer's, on his way home. Ever since she went freelance, she's embraced the night owl life, same as he has - he knows she'll be up.
Summer's place is actually her dad's place, technically - she lives there rent-free while he goes on cruises and vacations, enjoying his retirement the way only a rich plastic surgeon can. In return, she does the dirty work of upkeep on a gigantic house with a cascading array of structural problems - water damage in the kitchen, an unusable pool that's been sitting empty since the earthquake, leaky roofs, mice in the garage. It's not the same house Summer grew up in - that one was damaged beyond repair in the earthquake - but it's close enough in size and location that it might as well be. Summer once joked that she grew up in a lifesize Barbie dream house, and Ryan couldn't find the words to disagree.
"Somehow, I knew I'd end up seeing you tonight," Summer says, swinging open the door with some difficulty. It's one of those ridiculous, trendy pivot doors, that make you feel like you're opening the entire wall - but Summer's is even heavier than most. It makes her look like a little kid, whenever she tries to open it, but she hisses and spits at anyone who tries to help her. "And oh, look - gross bar food. How sweet."
"We had extra," Ryan says, offering her the bag.
"It's not hot wings again, is it?" Summer asks, wrinkling her nose.
Ryan flaps a hand at her until she moves out of his way, stepping over the threshold and pushing the door shut, before she can do it first. "No comment."
Summer rolls her eyes, but she's gonna eat it anyway, and they both know it. "You don't have to bring me food every time you see me, you know. It's like you think that's all I do - just eat and yell at people on the internet."
"Isn't that the bulk of what you do though?" Ryan asks skeptically. "I mean, if we're being honest?"
"Shut up," Summer says, hiding a smile. "Come on. I'm watching Top Chef."
Most of the first floor of the house is currently unusable, due to some ongoing carpeting issues that causes Summer to go into rage blackout mode whenever they're mentioned, so she leads him up to the second floor, which is really where she lives. One of the bedrooms is currently a makeshift living room, with a Goodwill couch and her dad's gigantic flatscreen, resting on the floor against the wall. Her dogs leap up and bound over as they enter the room, drawn by Ryan's presence - and the chicken too, probably.
"Down. Down!" Summer frowns sternly, and all three dogs immediately retreat, instantly calmer. Ryan grins; he never gets tired of seeing this. "One at a time, kids. Let's not trample my friends this early in the morning."
"Is it early for you? Because I thought you were on a late night like me," Ryan says. He holds his hands out in invitation, and all three dogs come sniffing over - Summer hasn't gotten hang of the 'one at a time' order yet, clearly. His favorite, a half-blind bulldog named Cleo, edges up against his legs and flops down on his feet, rubbing her chunky face against Ryan's ankles. He laughs, bending down to rub her stomach, as the other two - a yellow lab named Peter Pan and JoJo, the three-legged Beagle - edge around him, jumping over each other and sniffing every piece of him they can get their hands on.
"Down, Peter Pan!" Summer snags the lab's collar, and he instantly retreats. JoJo quickly follows suit, while Cleo just sneezes, still belly up at Ryan's feet. "Sheesh, I said one at a time."
"I don't mind," Ryan says, and nudges Cleo off his feet. As he moves over to the couch, all four of them follow - a mismatched parade of dog, dog, girl, dog. "I probably smell pretty interesting." He takes his jacket off, discarding it on the arm of the couch, and sure enough, JoJo and Peter Pan instantly forget about Ryan's presence altogether.
Summer budges up next to him on the couch, dropping the chicken on his lap momentarily as she scoops Cleo up on the cushion between them. "No, I went to bed at like, two, woke up about an hour ago. I've got that Skype interview at three-thirty AM, remember - I told you about that, right?"
"Oh, the people in Ireland?"
"Right." Summer digs into her chicken, not even bothering to warm it up. Ryan watches with amazed fascination at her appetite, as he always does. "No," she says, holding it out of Cleo's reach. "Ryan, control your girlfriend."
Ryan pulls the bulldog over into his own lap, where she instantly flops down, content to be petted. The other two dogs settle watchfully at their feet, clearly waiting for Summer to grant mercy. Summer ignores them. "It's for what job - remind me again - "
"Website coordinator," Summer supplies. "The NGO in Belfast." Now that Ryan's paying attention, she does look like she's fresh from a shower - and more well-rested than she usually looks, on these late nights when he stops by. "It's remote, though - thank God. I wouldn't survive a week in Ireland."
"Too gloomy for you?" Ryan teases.
"Too cold," Summer says with a exaggerated shiver. "I was only at Brown for like, half a year, but even that was enough."
Ryan just smiles, sinking back into her couch, which is of course, the most comfortable Goodwill couch in the world. Leave it to Summer to find the gem at the thrift shop. On the TV, a pockmarked man in a white chef's jacket is frozen in pause, caught mid-motion chopping garlic. "I can go home, if you need to get ready," Ryan says, but he's already getting sleepy. There's nothing else like this particular combination of dog, dog, girl, dog to help him to relax.
"That's okay," Summer says, mouth full of chicken. "You wanna talk or something?"
Ryan shrugs. He had, when driving over here. Now, though, what he really wants to do is lay his head on her knee and go to sleep. "I think Seth's been calling the bar."
Summer drops her chicken wing back into the bag, her face alert. "Really?"
"Yeah, like calling and hanging up." Ryan doesn't know how he's so sure, just that he is. "And I'm going to see Trey with my Dad this weekend."
"Jesus, okay," Summer says, shaking her head a little. She pushes the chicken away - wrapping it up so the dogs won't get into it. JoJo and Peter Pan's heads both move in tandem as they follow the movement of her hands with their eyes. "One thing at a time. Did you actually talk to Seth?"
"No, but I'm pretty sure it's him." Ryan rubs Cleo's forehead, listening to her rumble in contentment. "When was the last time you talked to him?"
Summer bites her lip. "Um," she says, "he Facebooked me, maybe, six months ago? He wanted your phone number and I told him no." She looks guilty. "I would've told you, but you were in the middle of that ridiculous thing with your slutty bank robber girlfriend, and I just - "
"She wasn't a bank robber," Ryan interrupts. "She was a tax fraud...er. Tax fraudist? Much less sexy."
"Whatever," Summer says, waving her hand. "Anyway, I didn't actually talk to him, it was just on Messenger. And I just told him no and that was it." She shrugs. "Before that, it was probably...you know. The last time you talked to him."
Ryan's chest gets tight, thinking about it. Standing in the open doorway of the Cohens' house, yelling at the top of their lungs at each other. All the neighbors must have heard it. It was the talk of the town for weeks, probably.
"Marissa probably invited him," Ryan says, with resignation. "That's why he's trying to get ahold of me."
"Sounds like Coop," Summer says, shaking her head. "She probably talked herself into thinking it was a totally normal, not bitchy thing to do, too."
"Christ," Ryan mutters, pushing his head back against the cushions. On the screen, the pockmarked chef has disappeared, defaulting back to the Netflix menu. Are they still watching? "They're not even in town yet, and already look at us."
Summer laughs. "We grew up here too," she says, scooting a little closer, so she can pet Cleo too. "We're not immune to the drama gene either. Didn't think I needed to remind you, Don Juan DeAtwood."
Ryan pinches her leg, making her yelp. Cleo lifts her head at the commotion, sneezes again, then flops right back down again.
"Frank and Julie want to rip off the band-aid," Ryan says. He grins at her, rubbing the spot on her leg and pouting at him. "Quit it - I didn't pinch you that hard."
"Did too," Summer says, settling down at his side again. "Which band-aid? There's like, at least half a dozen in play here."
Ryan snorts. "Any of 'em. All of 'em." He sighs, relaxing back into the cushions. Cleo on his lap, Summer at his shoulder, her damp hair brushing against his chin as she leans down to kiss Cleo's forehead. His eyes droop. "I haven't been to see him, you know. Since the funeral. Not even once."
Summer leans her forehead against his shoulder softly, and doesn't say anything. The TV screen silently goes dark.
"I should go," he mumbles, after a long minute. "You've got an interview."
"Shut up, you idiot," Summer says quietly, kissing the side of his temple. "Just get some rest. I'll wake you up in time to catch the morning news."
Ryan grunts back at her, letting his eyes fall closed. The last thing he hears before he falls asleep is Summer hissing something at the dogs, and the loud crackling of the paper takeout bag. And he dreams, as he always has, every night for the past six years, about Trey.
His brother was not a good person, which was something that Ryan knew very early on. Even when they were kids, Trey had a layer of rot beneath his smile, and when they were younger he was worse at hiding it. He was a bully - liked to tease Ryan's friends, which is why Ryan never kept any around for very long. He'd kick dogs and laugh. He yelled at their mother until she cried, over and over and over, until she started avoiding him like a battered wife, fear etched across her face whenever she'd hear his heavy footsteps, pounding their way up the front porch.
Ryan wishes he could remember the good things as vividly too, because there were some. He liked strawberries. He bought Ryan books, sometimes - or stole them, whatever - and always seemed pleased when Ryan read them. He had a nice girlfriend once named Amanda, who used to come over and bake cookies with them. Trey standing in the kitchen, grinning, eating cookie dough. That's the memory he wants to plaster over everything else - instead of the smashed in curve of his skull, the twisted wreck of the car. Marissa's face, as she finally told him everything, stammering out the truth in fits and starts. Kevin Volchok, dead-eyed in the hospital, telling him it was a mistake, an accident. He hadn't meant to kill him. Just scare him. That's it.
He doesn't blame Marissa for lying, or Seth for helping her do it. He doesn't even blame Volchok, because he'd probably have done the same thing, if they'd told Ryan what had happened, instead of lying about it. What else do you do, when the girl you love comes to you and says, this guy tried to rape me. How else do you react? Volchok didn't have the added baggage of growing up with Trey, sixteen years of memories to drag him down and pull his punches. For him, it was simple. Somebody hurt Marissa, so that somebody had some hurt coming.
Ryan was spared that particular question. Spared by Seth and Marissa, who loved him, and tried to protect him, and took the only option that made sense to them at the time. And he'll never forgive them for it. Not for as long as he lives.
Because this is the thing: it was the part after that he doesn't understand. How they let Ryan keep on loving his brother the same way, welcoming him into his life, getting in deeper and deeper with a person it turned out, he didn't know at all. All those months, Ryan thought he had a brother again, and the whole time - it was just a kindness. A gesture of pity from the two people he trusted more than anyone else. Trey went to his grave thinking he'd gotten away with it, and Ryan - eighteen years old, cocky with confidence in his new, safe, beautiful life - was utterly unprepared, not just for the grief, but for the truth that came out after - the shift that happens, when you discover something terrible about someone you loved, someone you held in your arms as he died. That's what he blames them for: they made him vulnerable. Exposed all his nerves, and then sat there and watched as they got slashed to bloody pieces.
The Cohens sent him to therapy, and Marissa moved to Maui, and Ryan just got angrier and angrier and angrier, until that was the only thing he could feel anymore. And it wasn't Seth's fault - not really, not in the real world outside of Ryan's fucked up head - but he just couldn't keep the anger in, and it all just went to shit. Just bloody, bitter shit.
Ryan hasn't talked to Seth in almost six years, and it's been almost three since he saw Sandy and Kirsten. Most days he doesn't think about them, but that's because thinking about them makes him feel so guilty he can't even breathe, so he tries not to do it that often.
Marissa, on the other hand...who even knows. He sees her all the time - they're family now, even if she prefers to ignore it. He's not in love with her, hasn't been in almost a decade - but seeing her is still like poking an open wound. There's phantom pain, and phantom love, too. He hopes she finds it eventually - the happiness she was always chasing, from the day he met her - whether it's with this fiance, or another one, or something completely different - something that hasn't even occurred to her yet. Ryan wants that for her, but that's about all he can do. Anything beyond that is just too much.
