If anyone had told him, back when he was growing up in Chino, that he would someday live in a beautiful pool house overlooking the ocean in Newport Beach, he would have punched them in the face being so damn retarded. But if someone had told him, when he moved into the pool house, that two years later, he would be wishing he were back in Chino? Well, he didn't know how he would have reacted. He certainly wouldn't have believed it.

But laying on the bed in Seth's room, that was exactly what he found himself wishing. After their day at the pier, Kirsten had asked him to move into the main house with her, and he had agreed. But now he felt like as much like an intruder as he ever had growing up. At least, in Chino, there had never been disappointment. He had never expected his life to get better, to be anything more than it had been. When his mom got drunk, it was just another day. When she got fired, it was inevitable. When Caleb fired Kirsten, it was just another round of the disillusionment that seemed to be forever on tap in Newport.

He stared at the ceiling, a wrinkled piece of paper in his hand as he contemplated where his life was heading. In Chino, he had become a person he didn't like. He had become a quitter. He couldn't change his family, so he quit making an effort and just tried to be like them – putting on a tough act to cover the insecurity. He couldn't change the hand life had dealt him, so he quit believing and just tried to survive. And now he was doing it again.

He spent his days wishing he could be more like Seth, just like he used to idolize Trey. And he spent his nights equally loving and hating Kirsten, just like he used to agonize over Dawn. He was using sex with Marissa to keep his mind off of everything at home, just like he used to lose himself in Theresa. And he was hating himself for all of it, just like he had his entire life.

It was time to admit defeat again, to give in to the voices who said he couldn't do any more than he had already done. But this time, it was for real. He couldn't keep running in circles, stuck in a cycle of pain and confusion. There was only one choice. It had to end, all of it.

Reaching for his cell phone, he dialed a number he knew by heart and waited. When the voice on the other end answered, he mustered all of his courage and said the words he never dreamed he would say. "I need your help."

XXXXX

"You sure you don't want me to go with you?" Sandy asked as he parked his car and stared through the windshield at the prison before them.

Ryan shook his head. This was something he had to for himself. "I'll be back," he promised, stepping out of the vehicle. "Thanks," he said through the open window before turning his back.

He stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and gripped the paper there. He didn't know what he was going to say, or if he should even be there, but something deep inside of him said that he had to do it anyway. If he didn't start to face the fear, he would live stunted in its shadow forever, angry until it killed him.

He signed in, clipped the visitor's pass to his jacket lapel with trembling fingers, and followed the warden down the hall to a dingy room full of round tables and hard plastic chairs. He sat as far away from anyone as he could get, secluding himself in a corner. His palms had started to sweat and he knew it wasn't because of the sweltering August air. His heart was pounding in his throat as he tapped his fingers on the top of the table.

Another ten minutes passed before he looked into the eyes he dreaded more than anything in the world. The man across the table was a stranger, but the steely blue of his eyes mirrored Ryan's so exactly that the connection was undeniable. "They told me my son was here to see me," he said. With a slight chuckle, his father's shoulders shrugged. "I didn't think it was you."

"You got another son I don't know about?" Ryan asked, not trying to hide the bitter tone. He had never known this man, not really. And the warm feelings he was hoping for were nowhere to be found now that they were this close. Throwing the tattered letter onto the table, he nodded toward it and crossed his arms. "You mean what you said in there?"

His father's hands went to the paper and drew it toward his body, letting his eyes drift over the words he had penned a lifetime ago. "I wrote this five years ago," he said in disbelief. "I thought your mom must have thrown it out before you saw it." The tenderness in the older Atwood's voice took Ryan aback. He wasn't expecting anything gentle or paternal to come out of the man's mouth. "How's your mom doing?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Ryan tightened his defenses. This was the man who had hit him hard enough to knock out two of his teeth when he was twelve. This was the man that told him it would have been worth the cost of an abortion to keep him from ever being born. This was the man who had said he hoped child services would just come and take Ryan away, so he would never have to look at his pitiful face again. But he was the only one who could answer the plethora of questions rattling around inside his son's head. "I haven't seen her."

Leaning forward, his father's eyes softened further. "You get taken away?" Ryan flinched at the question. "Look, Ry, I said and did a lot of things to you when you were growing up. This," he tapped the paper before him, "was just to let you know that I get that now. I never expected you to accept it."

The two sat, watching each other, for what felt like an eternity. The letter said that he had found an inner peace in prison, that he had asked forgiveness for all of the awful things he had done in his life. And it said that he was sorry for being a piss-poor father for the twelve years he had been in Ryan's life. Over the years, whenever Ryan was losing faith in humanity as a whole, he would pull out that letter, read it over and over again, and try to believe that someone in the world recognized him for who he was.

He didn't know how this worked, how to ask his questions, but words were tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them, tripping over each other to be heard. He spilled everything about stealing a car with Trey, getting arrested, being kicked out of the house, moving in with the Cohens, getting abandoned by his mom a second time, living the good life, and taking care of Kirsten. By the time he finished the recap, he and his father were both fighting tears.

He felt like a fool for sounding so weak and whiney, but he also knew he had needed to unburden his soul to someone who might actually give a damn, and stand a chance of understand where he was coming from. "I don't know why I told you all of this," he said finally. He stared at the table.

"Ry," his father's voice was calm and steady. The sheer fact that he wasn't screaming in disgust and anger, slurring his words together, made him seem foreign to Ryan. But comforting, at the same time. They would never be Seth and Sandy, but he didn't hate the man. He never had, not really. He hadn't known him well enough to hate him. "It's not your fault."

He nodded and cleared his throat, risking a look into his father's piercing eyes. They were confident and clear. "I know," he mumbled.

"If you knew it, you wouldn't be here," his father smiled.

With a slight sigh, Ryan stopped trying to defend his actions. He couldn't. He could swear up and down that none of them understood him, none of them knew what it was like for him, but they all knew. They all knew exactly what he was trying to do, and they had all warned him. They had tried to save him, and he had pushed them away. He couldn't do that anymore.

"This isn't advice from your dad." They both leaned back in their chairs. "Just words of wisdom from an addict, okay?"

With a slight nod of concession, Ryan opened his mind and he listened. Really listened. For the first time in his life. "Okay."

His father cleared his throat and looked as though he were collecting his thoughts. "I don't know Mrs. Cohen, but I knew your mom. And me. And I know that our problems, both of us, started long before you ever came along. We didn't start drinking, or snorting coke, or shooting heroine, or robbing liquor stores, or assaulting people because of you or your brother. We were those people long before we ever thought of bringing you guys into the world.

"All we wanted for you guys was more than we were. We wanted you and Trey to be better people than we were. We wanted you guys to have more and be more and save you from all this bull shit that we knew." He shook his head and took a deep breath. "Don't think we didn't try. Your mom did, anyway. She tried to kick her habits for Trey, when he was born, and then again for you."

Ryan didn't want to hear that his parents loved him. He didn't want to hear that people who loved him could hurt him like they had. He wanted to believe that they were selfish assholes that wanted their substances more than they wanted their sons. And he wanted to say something, but his mind was blank. He literally didn't know what to say, or how he was supposed to feel. Was knowing they tried supposed to make him forget everything else? Was it supposed to make everything better? Because he didn't feel better.

"You tried to help your mom, right? And again with this new lady?" Ryan nodded. "They know that. But all you're really doing is perpetuating the cycle, Son. I know. Trey used to do it for me. Ya see," he leaned forward again, using his hands to accentuate his point, "we know you're trying to be a good kid, trying to help us out. But we also know that we're supposed to be the parents. We're the ones who are supposed to take care of you. And the fact that you're doing our job only makes us feel more guilty."

Ryan's mind was numb, so much so that he couldn't force any words out of the back of his throat. All the times he had tried to do the right thing, he was only shoving them further into their hole. What if he had ruined them beyond repair? What if they were too far gone because of him? What if it was all his fault?

His father nodded as the guard came to give him the "wrap it up" warning. "I don't know your new mom, Ry, but I'm sure she feels like it's her responsibility to take care of you. Just show her that she doesn't have to." He stood as the guard approached again. "Let her know that the only person she has to worry about is herself, and then let her do what she will with that."

Suddenly, Ryan wanted to ask a million questions, to make up for a lifetime of silence. "What if she doesn't do anything with it?" he spat.

With a shrug, his father pushed the chair in. "You can't pick her up until hits the ground, Ry," he nodded, offering another small smile and a wave as the guard placed a hand on his shoulder to lead him back to his cell.

Once his father was out of sight, Ryan stood and moved toward the door. After signing out, he walked slowly toward Sandy's car. His head felt clear for the first time in months. And though he couldn't really find any joy in the answers he had received, there was a comfort in knowing what he now knew.

Climbing into the front seat of the car, he met Sandy's nervous eyes with a small smile. Before they got back to Newport, he would ask to move in with the Cohen men. But for now, he just wanted to think about his mom, about Kirsten, and about himself. His father had given him a shit load of things he didn't need over the years – black eyes, broken bones, bruises, and nightmares. But in the last hour, the man had given Ryan the one thing he had always searched for – permission to walk away, absolved of the guilt and stress of saving anyone but himself.