Disclaimer: I do not own The OC. I take it out for walks, but always return it safely.
Author's Note: This story is a sequel to another story of mine, Thursday Afternoon. It begins the morning after Thursday Afternoon ends. I suspect that if you have not read Thursday Afternoon, then this story will be completely stupid, confusing and not at all entertaining. In all likelihood, even if you have read Thursday Afternoon, this story may indeed still be confusing. But I had a great time writing it, and in the end, it is all about me, so, there you go. It takes place early in the series, right after Sandy has left the P.D.'s office.
I want to thank each and every person who read and reviewed Thursday Afternoon. I honestly did not expect any feedback and the wave of support was overwhelming. I hope that I do not disappoint anyone with this sequel.
Huge, huge tip of the hat to crashcmb who stepped up to the plate and took over beta duties. It's not an easy job.
Thanks again for reading,
muchtvs
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Best of Intentions
Prologue
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It's Christmas in his dream, and Sara is still alive. His sons Josh and Brad, sitting on the den floor surrounded by presents, excitedly tear into wrapping paper.
He can see them giggling, but their voices sound far away and distorted, as if he's listening to them from the bottom of a pool.
Ed watches it all through a fog, detached from the festivities. He moves across the room in slow motion to Sara. "I'm sorry," he tells her. "I didn't know about the boy. It happened before we met. I would never hurt you." She smiles at him, reaches under the Christmas tree and offers a beautifully decorated present. "Open it Ed," Sara urges. The boys stop their movements and watch their father intently.
In his hotel room, Ed Carden wakes up in a sweat, wondering what it all means.
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Sandy Cohen can't sleep.
One son is hooked up to an IV and the other one is pushed into a corner, using a coat as a pillow. Sandy just doesn't understand Ryan sometimes. At some point while he and Kirsten were eating dinner, a nurse must have brought in a foldout chair and bedding, but Ryan isn't using it. Instead, the teenager is lying on the cold hospital floor, all curled up with his arms around his mid-section. Sandy yawns, stands up, stretches, and throws away the sandwich that he bought for Ryan. Both boys had been fast asleep by the time he and Kirsten returned to Seth's room from the hospital cafeteria a few hours ago.
Sandy unfolds the chair and places a sheet and pillow on it. Leaning over Ryan, he gently nudges the sleeping teen.
"Ryan, come on. You can't sleep all night on this floor."
Ryan shifts his position, blinks up at Sandy, and asks in confusion, "What's going on?"
"Nothing," Sandy answers, and starts to heave Ryan into a standing position. "Come on, let's get you a little more comfortable." Under Sandy's guidance, the boy staggers to the makeshift bed and plops down.
Ryan rubs his eyes, asks Sandy in a daze, "Where are you going to sleep?"
It dawns on Sandy that Ryan slept on the floor, and not in the chair, out of consideration for him.
Seth would have never done that.
The lawyer guides Ryan onto his side. "Don't worry about me, Ryan. Go back to sleep," he quietly tells the teenager. "Everything's fine."
Sandy covers the boy with a blanket, sits down on the remaining chair in the room, and watches as Ryan's breathing resumes the natural rhythm of sleep.
Ryan's not the most abused, neglected, or messed up kid Sandy Cohen has ever dealt with. He's been the public defender to barely-teenage prostitutes, countless gang members, drug dealers, and a boy who tried to murder his father with a tire iron. Once, a few weeks ago over beers, Jimmy asked him why he brought Ryan home, why Ryan was different than the rest of the kids he had worked with.
Sandy didn't answer him because he knew Jimmy Cooper wouldn't understand.
But Kirsten did, and that was all that mattered. Twenty years ago, she brought the same boy home to her parents and fought to keep him.
To hell with the rest of the world, it already had its' chance at Ryan.
He belongs to them now.
In the quiet Newport hospital room, Sandy Cohen watches both of his sons sleep.
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To be continued...