If Seth could take anything back about That Night -- the night their lives had changed forever -- it wouldn't be that he told Ryan about Trey's attack on Marissa, it wouldn't even be that he had called Marissa to stop him, but forgot to tell her to bring Jimmy or Julie along.

It would be that he had arrived at the apartment moments too late, that he and Summer had stopped -- at a red light, a stop sign, a crosswalk -- for one minute too long, lingered just enough that he had utterly missed the most horrible, awful, significant moment of all of their lives by mere seconds.

He had been parking Summer's car, crookedly, in the driveway, when they heard the noise, and all of those years of videogames and movies his mother swore would rot his brain and parties with Corona thugs still didn't matter in the slightest, because when he heard it, he still thought, 'I wonder who's setting off fireworks?'

When they had burst through the door of the apartment, Marissa was sobbing in a heap by the door, the gun still in her lap. The air was heavy with the burnt smell of cordite and the metallic tang of blood, and Trey was staggering to his feet, swaying, clutching at the corner of the couch. He paused for a moment, his face almost unrecognizable, covered in blood and bruises, and looked down at the floor where Ryan lay, his arm at an odd angle.

It had taken Seth a minute longer than Summer to realize that the dark pool under Ryan was blood. And that he wasn't moving, but Trey was, and that Marissa, whose screaming was so loud that Seth had stopped registering is as anything but white noise, was sitting with a -- literally -- smoking gun in her hands.

"Coop -- Coop! What did you do?" Summer had demanded, kneeling beside her best friend and trying to calm her hysteria, even as she was searching in her tiny purse for her cell phone.

Later, Seth would remember that and think that, of all of them, Summer was the only one who had a chance in hell of making it our of this whole thing in one piece. No matter what, Summer never lost her head, or her mind, or her ability to voluntarily control the movement of her body, all of which Seth had felt at that particular moment.

"He was killing him! He was going to kill him," Marissa was sobbing, and Seth remembered, quite clearly, thinking that she couldn't have meant Ryan, because Ryan was lying on the floor with his arm tilted at a funny angle, and Trey was staring down at him, bemused.

"Cohen! Go check on Ryan. Make sure he's . . . " He had actually heard her pause, he remembered that clearly, too -- it was funny the way that his mind processed some things -- and he remembered thinking, 'She was going to say alive, but she can't, because that will upset Marissa.'

He hadn't actually thought, at the time, that she hadn't dared say it because it might, in fact, turn out to be true. He hadn't believed that was possible at all. Of course Ryan would be fine. Ryan was always fine -- he was the Timex watch of Newport -- took a licking and kept on ticking -- but Marissa was sobbing and Summer was glaring at him even as she had dialed 9-1-1 with shaking fingers.

Trey had leaned down towards Ryan, and that had broken Seth's strange paralysis. He had elbowed the older boy out of the way, and he had staggered before he joined Seth on the other side of Ryan's head. The two of them were kneeling in a growing pool of blood -- Seth had had to throw away all the clothes that he'd worn That Night -- and Trey had frantically tried to get Seth's attention. Seth had been trying, desperately, to remember where you felt for a pulse -- the wrist, the throat, the arm -- no that was for blood pressure -- when Trey had finally knocked his hands away, pulling Ryan to him in a half-sitting position and running his hands over his brother's damp t-shirt, looking for, Seth realized later, a bullet hole.

Later, in the hospital -- after the Ryan had been taken to surgery and Marissa had been given a sedative and they had sat, waiting anxiously, he and Jimmy Cooper bookending the girls like a Julie-Marissa-Summer sandwich on the couch in the lounge as Sandy paced back and forth, his face drawn and pale, looking more lost than Seth had ever remembered seeing -- Marissa explained that Trey had tried to kill Ryan, that he'd been choking him, about to bash him in the face with an old-fashioned telephone. She'd tried to stop him, and he'd knocked her down, she'd picked up the gun -- no she didn't know where the gun had come from -- and fired, but Ryan had found a surge of strength, had bucked and rolled at precisely the wrong moment, and the bullet meant for Trey had torn through the meaty part of his left shoulder.

Later, the exhausted surgeon and the exhausted parents -- not his mother, of course, because she'd left for rehab just that afternoon, and they were supposed to have gone to see a shark movie and forget how terrible it was to have an alcoholic mother or two, but instead, oh yeah, nothing like seeing your almost-brother lying in a pool of his own blood for a little perspective -- talking in low voices because they thought that Seth and Summer had joined Marissa in sleep -- as if they would ever sleep again -- that the wound had been through-and-through, high and wide, the best kind. Apparently, Marissa wasn't a very good shot, had missed his vital organs and his arteries and all the important things near the heart and lungs.

All that -- in retrospect -- had made what Trey had done in the apartment make sense, the way he'd patted Ryan down, front and back, the way he'd snapped at Seth to get towels, or t-shirts, something to hold against the wound.

In the end, he had abandoned trying to get Seth's help and staggered to his feet again, had found what he was looking for -- had found a half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan's, too, and had poured it into the wound -- and Ryan had finally reacted, jerking and screaming, and Seth had finally reacted, too, grabbing at Trey's hands and yelling, until the older Atwood -- the other Atwood -- had slapped him into submission.

Seth had stared at him in shock, his ears ringing, but Trey didn't seem to care, didn't seem to notice that Marissa was still screaming and that Summer was still hollering into the phone at the Emergency Operator, and why had it taken her so long to call and then Seth had realized that only moments had passed since they entered the apartment, and then Trey was already talking over all the noise.

"Dude -- Seth! -- listen to me. You've got to hold this onto the wound -- front and back -- hold it hard. He's gonna whine like a little bitch, 'cause the pressure hurts, but don't listen. You have to stop the bleeding."

Seth had felt like he'd taken a bottle of idiot pills that morning, like he'd been bathing in stupid sauce since his grandfather's death the other day. Why was Trey telling him this?

There had been a noise at the door -- another noise -- and Seth had been startled at how fast the ambulance had gotten there, considering that Summer was still on the phone with them, but it hadn't been the ambulance. It had been Jess Sather, and that had confused him most of all.

It wasn't until weeks later that he'd even heard that part of the story, and at that precise moment -- with Trey forcing him to hurt Ryan by pushing down on his chest, with his girlfriend yelling and Ryan's girlfriend screaming and Trey, with his death-mask of blood, hissing in his ear -- he had felt like he'd walked right into the middle of a Fellini film. Or maybe Twin Peaks. Any minute, he had been sure, Trey would start talking backwards, or dwarves dressed nuns would high-kick down the hall from the ratty bedroom Seth had once shared with Alex.

Jess had taken in the scene with one cool, calculating glance, and had crowed Marissa's name in triumph. To Seth's utter surprise -- although why did he even bother, because everything had surprised him for the past twenty-four hours or so -- Trey had jumped up, had yelled at her, and loaded her down with bags and boxes, had sent her to -- wherever she had come from, and had resumed hissing in Seth's ear.

"Listen. This is important. You have to listen. Ryan came here because he found out what went down at the Bait Shop the other night. He wanted to give me a chance to turn myself in. We fought, and the Garden Grove gang showed up. They shot Ryan, and I took off. I called you and Summer, who called Marissa because she was closer. She got here before you and you found her hysterical. I was gone. I left by myself. Seth, are you listening?"

Trey's voice in his ear had been strong and urgent, and Seth had murmured back, almost against his will, "Garden Grove. Fought. By yourself."

Nothing Trey said had made any sense.

"We're going, Jess and me. Tell Ryan -- tell him I'm sorry I had to bounce, and I'll catch up with him when the heat's off. Listen, Seth, I'm taking the piece -- I'll toss it in the ocean -- do not let Marissa tell anyone what happened. Understand?"

No, he most certainly had not understood. Ryan was shot, Marissa had shot him, and Trey was --

"Wait," he had said, finally, the first thing he had managed since they had left for the apartment on Ryan's heels, what felt like weeks ago, "Wait. You're just -- leaving. You can't do that."

Trey had looked down at Ryan's ashen face, had glanced back at Marissa, sobbing in Summer's lap, and had heard, along with Seth, the far-off, beautiful sound of sirens, and had shaken his head.

"There's too much going on here. If we're still here, with the money and the drugs, Ry could be in trouble. He -- he's right to hate me, but I gotta let him cool off a little, I promised him I'd leave."

"Not now! He's -- he's hurt!" Seth had finally settled on, as Marissa began to wail again, and then a sharp car horn sounded.

Trey had jumped, and had grabbed the last bag still sitting on the dining-room table.

"I gotta go. That's Jess, she can't leave me behind to take the fall. Just, take care of him, okay?" Trey had said, and for a moment, a moment that Seth had doubted, later -- when Marissa had explained to them all what had really happened, how Trey had tried to kill his brother -- Trey had looked torn and worried and very, very young. Then he had snatched the gun from Marissa's lap and bolted out the door, and Seth had heard the screech of the tires peeling down the driveway and up the Pacific Coast Highway -- or thought he had -- even above the girls' wailing and the high-pitched whine of the sirens.

In the end, it was, Seth supposed, the best possible outcome for everyone. Ryan wasn't too badly hurt -- he had to wear a sling, and Sandy had forbidden him from working at the Crab Shack -- but he would be better in time for soccer camp in August.

His surgery had been scary, but the doctors said it was routine, and also said it wasn't the first time, which had made Seth startle and Sandy look thoughtful.

The cover story that Trey had hissed into Seth's ear with such power had fallen apart the second that the police had arrived at the emergency room. Seth was okay with white lies, far better than Ryan, but it turned out that he had no real stomach for deceit. Besides, Marissa had started talking the moment that she had stopped screaming and no one, not even Sandy, could get her to shut up.

It turned out, though, that the police were pretty nice to fragile rich girls who had nearly been raped by their boyfriends' thuggish brothers, even when they turned around and accidentally shot their boyfriends in the shoulder. Sandy and Jimmy had done some sort of complicated father-deal where everyone promised not to sue or prosecute everyone else for -- whatever --- attempted rape, attempted boyfriend-i-cide -- and had actually made it sound like Trey had done them all a favor by running with the notoriously bad-news Jess Sather.

He knew Trey was in big trouble, but the police were friends with Sandy, and had kept it out of the papers, had kept Marissa out of jail and hadn't even questioned Ryan, beyond the bare facts, and they weren't looking for him very hard.

The Coopers had left town as soon as Marissa had been cleared by the cops, before Ryan had even awoken from his drugged sleep -- to pick up Kaitlin on the East Coast and spend the summer in Europe "as a family," getting over "Marissa's trauma," but Marissa was still sober when she'd left, and she'd left a letter for Ryan, which Seth and Summer had opened and read without a shred of guilt before giving it to Ryan to read too. She was sorry, she felt guilty, she loved him. It all sounded sincere, if a little absurd.

Kirsten was still in rehab, and that sucked, but she was allowed to call out now and they could visit her. Sandy had waited until the first visitors' day to tell her what had happened -- he had gone up alone, leaving Seth to entertain a bored and irritated Ryan in the pediatric wing of Hoag -- and although it had been hard for her, she'd agreed to stay, as long as she talked to Ryan and Seth every day.

Atomic County was making money despite Seth and Zach's best efforts to destroy it, and when Reed had called, two weeks into summer vacation and offered them a sequel, almost against her will, Seth had actually been glad that Zach's Washington internship had fallen through and the two could try again. He and Zach and Summer were hanging out together, this time, and it was okay. Since That Night, he and Summer didn't fight nearly as much, and whatever had changed between them seemed to have changed Zach, too, so Seth was glad to have him as a friend, for real this time.

And if, when Jess's stepfather had shown up at the house after Ryan had been released, threatening to sue the Cohens and charge Trey with kidnapping, if Seth had watched his father lose his temper for maybe the third time ever, and had realized that Sandy was not over it -- that none of them were really over it -- it was okay, because Sandy had decided that it was time for Everybody in Therapy, like Everybody in Khakis, and that was probably for the best too.

In fact, Seth thought, as he calmly sat outside his therapist's office -- a small waiting room outside the bigger inner chamber where Dr. Mel, as she insisted he call her, was currently meeting with his father and Ryan -- this summer might not have been so bad after all. It was certainly better than last summer, except for one small problem.

Ryan was crazy.

He knew that he wasn't supposed to call it that -- that he was supposed to say that Ryan was "troubled," the way Julie had, before they left, or that he was just experiencing some "Post-Traumatic Stress," as Sandy said, but really, crazy pretty much summed it up.

When Ryan had awakened in the hospital, he had remembered everything, and Sandy had sent Seth out of the room to talk to him alone, to tell him what had happened in the meantime. He said that Ryan was quiet -- but when was that news? -- and they had thought that everything would be okay.

He'd been released from the hospital after nearly a week, with an armful of prescriptions and a standing appointment for physical therapy, and everything had seemed okay. He had gone into the pool house to take a nap after the strain ond confusion of the ride home, and Seth had woken him for takeout, as usual, at eight. It had seemed strange, just the three Cohen men, but it was all right -- they had talked quietly about Sandy's visit to Kirsten, and whether or not Ryan could try sailing with the sling on. They were just about finished, and Seth had actually gotten up to clear the table -- since Ryan was out of commission, Seth was still feeling like, somehow, that was his fault, on some level -- when Ryan had cleared his throat, and ducked his head, and had asked Sandy from behind his shaggy bangs,

"Um, can we go see Trey -- see Trey's grave -- tomorrow?"

Seth had thought, up until that moment, that people only dropped things out of surprise in the movies. That was before he'd spent the next two hours picking pad thai remnants from their kitchen floor.

He had turned back around to the table, where Ryan was staring at the table, and Sandy was staring at Ryan, carefully controlling his breathing.

"Ryan, kid? I thought we went over this in the hospital. Trey's okay. He's not dead. He's just . . . a fugitive. I'd take you to him, but I have no idea where he is," Sandy had admitted.

Ryan had just nodded, and shrugged.

"I'm not going to fall apart," he'd said, earnestly. "You can tell me the truth. I know he's dead. You don't have to pretend anymore."

Seth had come back into the dining alcove and sat heavily in his mother's chair even as Sandy had reached out and covered Ryan's hand with his own.

"I promise, Ryan, I wouldn't lie to you about this. Trey left the night you got shot."

Ryan had looked up, and his eyes had been filled with such sadness that Seth had nearly gasped in surprise.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "That I was mad. I'm not anymore, I promise. Please tell me. I -- I didn't get to the funeral or anything. I'm not mad at him, I just want to say goodbye."

Seth had been relieved to see that Sandy looked as worried as he felt.

"Ryan -- why do you think Trey's dead?" he had finally asked, trying another tactic.

Ryan had shrugged, and traced little patterns in the table's wood grain with his thumb.

"Why isn't he here? He'd never leave me like that -- not when I was hurt. He'd never do that."

What had surprised Seth the most was how vehement he had been. Since Trey had come to Newport, Ryan had been wary around him, worried about him, and had never expressed any kind of rock-solid belief in him of any kind. So it was doubly strange that he was so insistent about it after his brother had actually tried to kill him, after he'd actually tried to hurt Ryan by hurting his girlfriend.

"I heard him, that night. I heard him say he couldn't leave," Ryan had insisted.

Seth had shrugged, and had entered the conversation, reluctantly.

"Um, that was me, buddy," he had said softly. "I was trying to get him not to go."

Ryan had nodded at that, and raised his head to give Seth a half-smile, and Seth had thought it was just a momentary glitch in the proceedings.

A few minutes later, Ryan had gone back to bed in the pool house, and Seth and his father had exchanged worried glances. As Sandy had helped Seth scrap the scattered leftovers from the floor, he had tried to reassure Seth that some thing about That Night would always probably be a little muddled for them all, and for Ryan especially.

Seth had thought that sounded perfectly reasonable until the next morning, when his father had lost it on Mr. McConnell, Jess's stepfather, and had still been breathing heavily when Ryan had come into the kitchen for a late breakfast. He had made a beeline for the coffeemaker, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room, and had seemed like his normal, grumpy morning self.

When Sandy was still sitting at the table after his first cup of coffee was finished, however, Ryan had slid in across from him, instead of in his usual seat at the end of the counter.

"I was wondering," he had started, watching Sandy out of the corner of his eye, even as he poured cereal carefully into his bowl, "If you were doing anything this afternoon?"

Sandy had shook his head and tried to smile, even though Seth had thought it was a poor job.

"Not really. I've got some calls to make, but not much else. Why? Need a ride?"

With Ryan's arm in a sling, he wouldn't be driving too far, and Sandy had re-arranged his schedule for the first few days so he could take him to the doctors' and the physical therapist's and everywhere else, even though Seth could have done it just as easily.

Ryan had shrugged, and reached for the milk, and had said, casually, as he poured it in with a careful eye, "I just thought we could go to the cemetery after my physical therapy appointment."

They had met Dr. Mel for the first time that afternoon.

To be continued...