Takes place at the hospital after Caleb's heart attack, when Seth and Ryan go to get coffee for Kirsten and Lindsay.
Seth propped himself up against the vending machine and examined its contents with a morose sigh.
"Hate it, hate it. Really, really hate it," he recited, his finger hop-scotching from one button to the next. "Okay, so you know how I said I was starving? Let me qualify that. I'm starving for something resembling food, which I gotta say, doesn't apply to anything here. Sure we can't go to the cafeteria, Ryan? . . . Ryan?"
"What?" Ryan asked, his voice vague and distant.
"Cafeteria? Place with pizza and stir-fry and I'm guessing maybe even real coffee?"
"Oh. I don't think so, Seth," Ryan murmured. "We should stay close."
"Close. Yeah, I guess we should. So then, let me review our choices here. Rubbery cheese sticks. Yogurt-covered raisins, which, well, come on! A bag of pretzels that looks like it's three-quarters air. Oh, wait—peanut butter crackers. That could work." Seth fumbled in his pockets, fished out one quarter, one dime, a nickel, two pennies, and four poker chips. "Okay, it appears I'm a little short. Brother, can you spare a dime?"
Seth nudged Ryan and grinned with smug anticipation, which vanished when all he received was a dime deposited silently onto his outstretched palm. Ryan never even glanced up from the spot he was studying on the polished tile floor.
"What, that's it? Just money?" Seth protested. "No comment on my clever and apropos use of a depression-era reference? Not even a smirk or a classic Atwood eye-roll? Come on, dude, work with me here. Remember the song? Mr. Walz played it in class when we were studying Grapes of Wrath? 'Once I built a railroad?' Or hey, there's a verse more suitable for a future architect. 'Once I built a tower to the sun' . . . "
Ryan shrugged, his bleak gaze flickering over to Seth before plummeting back to the baseboard.
"Ri-ight," Seth drawled. "You're going for mime commentary, sort of a visual representation of depression. Got it. Kind of minimalist, but I'll admit, very effective. Really captures that old soup-kitchen style angst."
This time, Ryan fired a fierce sideways glare at Seth. His hand shot up and punched several buttons on the coffee machine, hard and randomly.
"And there's the wrath," Seth observed, sidling neatly out of Ryan's way. "Dude, don't kill the machine. True, it does deserve to die since it dispenses stuff that looks and tastes like liquid pencil shavings. Not that I've personally ever tasted a pencil . . ."
"How can you joke, Seth?" Ryan blurted. He glanced down the hall toward the cardiac unit and lowered his voice, his jaw clenching. "Your grandfather is in the hospital, and I put him here."
Seth opened his mouth and then closed it, biting his lip. Very carefully, he removed the coffee cup Ryan was clutching, placed it on a table, and sat down. Patting the plastic chair next to him, he waited until Ryan reluctantly took a seat. "Joking is how I cope, Ryan," he explained. "You understand that, right? And hell, yeah, it's not like I could forget that my grandpa's being prodded and poked by half a dozen doctors right now. Only you didn't put him here. The paramedics did."
"You know what I mean," Ryan growled.
"Yeah, I do know what you mean," Seth conceded. "But news flash, Ryan. You're wrong."
Ryan slumped forward, his elbows stabbing his knees, his eyes obscured by a tumble of bangs. "You weren't there," he muttered. "You didn't see what happened."
"Okay." Seth nodded, staring at the back of Ryan's head, and wondering absently how stands of hair could appear to bristle with tension. "Okay, so I wasn't an eyewitness. Fill me in, dude. Explain to me exactly how you caused my grandfather's heart attack. If, in fact, that's what he had because, you know, no diagnosis yet. Did you secretly salt all his food? 'Cause, see, I'm guessing he would have noticed that. So maybe you drugged his wine. Or, wait—do you have a Caleb Nichol voodoo doll stashed somewhere in the pool house?"
"Seth! I just . . . I pushed him, all right?"
Seth straightened, frowning. "Pushed him how?" he demanded. "Come on, Ryan, you can't tell me you put your hands on my grandfather. You wouldn't do that."
Ryan shifted miserably, still avoiding Seth's eyes. "Not literally pushed," he admitted. "But shit, the result was the same."
"Just back it up, buddy. What did you say? Oh, and here's a better question, what did my grandfather do to make you say it?"
Shaking his head, Ryan darted a quick look over his shoulder. "We should go back," he suggested. "Kirsten and Lindsay are waiting for their coffee."
"Yeah, considering how this shit tastes, I really don't think so. But nice try on the evasive action front, dude." Seth's voice plunged to a grave plea and he leaned over, his posture mimicking Ryan's. "What the hell happened tonight? I've been out of the loop, I know, with this whole comic book business. You might even say a tad self-involved." His shoulders shimmied and he ducked his head, a turtle looking for its shell. "Only do me a favor. Don't say it. But I'm here now. Talk to me, Ryan."
Seth waited, making a conscious effort to stay still. Finally Ryan spoke, doling out the words cautiously. "It started out okay, I guess. Your mom convinced Lindsay and your grandfather to have dinner with us. To make up for that fiasco at the restaurant the other night. She made fondue--"
"Okay, see, that's two red flags right there. Mom making anything. And nothing good ever comes of fondue." Ryan inhaled sharply. The sound sliced through the space between them and Seth winced. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Listening now. Go ahead."
"I shouldn't have been there, Seth. That was the real problem. It should have just been the three of them—you know, a family dinner."
"Ryan, come on. You are family," Seth objected. "Plus you're Lindsay's boyfriend—which, I admit, puts a strange kissin'-cousins spin on the whole almost-a-Cohen connection. But you know, whatever. Besides, Mom and Lindsay wanted you there."
Down the hall, the massive metal doors leading to the cardiac unit slid open and both boys swiveled around, Seth's eyes wide and apprehensive, Ryan flinching. Two nurses came out, their heads bent together in hushed conversation. The boys watched, waiting tensely, but the women disappeared into a staff lounge, unexpected echoes of laughter floating behind them. After a frozen moment, Seth slouched down in his chair.
"False alarm," he muttered. "Or, apparently, no alarm at all. So, Ryan, you were saying . . .?"
Ryan blinked at Seth, his face blank. "What?"
"Dinner? Fondue? Family?" Seth prompted.
Reflexively, Ryan began kneading his bicep, fingers digging deep into the muscle. "Your grandfather hates me," he reported tonelessly. "He got in a few digs, so I offered to leave." Biting his lip, he admitted, "I think I said something about giving him a chance to make up for lost time with Lindsay."
"Oh, snap," Seth breathed. "Yeah, I can't see Grandpa appreciating any hint that he's not Father of the Year. But, hey, it's not bring-on-a-heart-attack harsh, dude."
"It didn't end there, Seth. Your grandfather made some remarks, basically about me being a criminal. He brought up a bunch of stuff—me burning down his model home, disrupting his Man of the Year party, teaching you how to steal cars--"
"Wait! He what now?" Seth objected, sputtering around a sip of coffee. "Okay, when he's feeling better, I will totally set him straight about that last one, dude. I can't believe he blames you for me taking his car—which, by the way, was not so much stealing as it was unauthorized borrowing. Not to mention, what could you have taught me? How to ask the valet for the keys? " Grimacing, Seth scuffed the toe of one sneaker over the other. "Shit, Ryan, I'm sorry," he sighed. "No way you should be taking any heat for what I did."
"Doesn't matter, Seth. I could have handled all that stuff." Ryan sounded as if he was talking to himself, and Seth leaned closer to hear. "But then your grandfather mentioned Theresa and our . . . the baby."
Seth hissed his disbelief. "In front of Lindsay? Ryan, did she even know . . .?"
"Yeah," Ryan replied, hunching one shoulder. "I already told her. Better me than the Harbor gossip machine, right?"
"Definitely, man," Seth agreed. His eyes glinted, and his mouth pursed around a sarcastic comment, but then he paused, frowning. After a few moments of thought he ventured hesitantly, "Ryan? Grandpa has, like, zero moral ground to stand on if we're talking about surprise kids with not-your-wife women. How the hell could he say anything about you and Theresa?"
"Don't know, but he did. And that's the one subject . . . I just . . . I lost it," Ryan confessed. The hand massaging his arm clenched into a fist that he gripped, holding himself in check. "We had a kind of confrontation. I didn't hit him—I wouldn't hit him, Seth, I swear—but it probably looked like I was ready to. I know your mom was scared. She begged us both to back down. And then your grandfather, he just . . ."
"What Ryan?"
"He collapsed." Ryan clasped his hands over his head, shielding his face from Seth's gaze. "Shit, Seth," he whispered. "I thought he was going to die. He's Lindsay's dad—your mom's dad, your grandfather. I thought I killed him."
Nodding somberly, Seth rocked back and forth for a moment before he spoke. "Okay," he said slowly. "I can see where all this would turn on the old Atwood guilt machine. But seriously, man, you are so not to blame."
"Yeah? Tell that to Lindsay. She finds her father after all these years, they finally start to connect, and he winds up in the hospital."
"But she knows that's not your fault."
"You really think so?" Ryan asked, peering up from under his lashes. "She didn't come with us just now, did she?"
"No, but . . . you know, that's not . . . it probably doesn't mean anything," Seth fumbled. He squinted, recalling Lindsay's distant expression when he suggested that she join them on the coffee run. "Maybe Lindsay just thought somebody should stay with Mom."
At the mention of Kirsten Ryan recoiled visibly, his eyes glassy with guilt and self-reproach. "God, Seth, your mother," he whispered. "She told me to stop, and I didn't. She'll never forgive me. Hell, she shouldn't forgive me."
Frowning, Seth crumbled the edge of the cracker he was holding, watching as orange crumbs dusted his jeans. "Did Grandpa stop?" he demanded.
"He . . .? What are you talking about, Seth?"
"You said Mom asked you both to back down. Well? Did Grandpa listen? Did he stop?"
His eyes narrowing uncertainly, Ryan shook his head.
"Yeah, that's kinda what I thought." Seth's mouth twisted as he brushed off his jeans. "Listening to other people? It's not exactly a Caleb Nichol character trait. Now, thinking he's right all the time? Ignoring other people's feelings? Those pretty much are."
Cramming the rest of the cracker in his mouth, Seth chewed viciously. Ryan studied him, puzzled. "So . . . what?" he prompted.
"So Mom knows what Grandpa is like, Ryan. Better than anybody, probably. Trust me, she's not going to blame you for this."
Ryan tilted his head, considering. "I don't know," he murmured.
Seth swallowed the last of his crackers while he reached for the coffee. As soon as the liquid touched his lips he grimaced and shoved the cup away.
"Okay, this stuff has officially dropped to the mud-brown 'tasteless and lukewarm' level on my coffee-rating color chart. We should probably get it to Mom and Lindsay before it sinks all the way to noxious orange 'disgusting,'" he suggested.
"Yeah," Ryan agreed. He watched while Seth poured the last of his own coffee down the drain of the water fountain. "Seth? You have a color chart to rate coffee?"
"Coffee, pizza, graphic novels, —all the essentials of life, man," Seth replied as they walked back to the waiting room. "Hey, if the system worked for Homeland Security . . ."
"Right. Except I think it didn't--" Ryan stopped so abruptly that the cups he was carrying jostled each other. His eyes widened in consternation, riveted on the empty chairs where Kirsten and Lindsay had been sitting.
Behind him, Seth rocked to a halt, staring over Ryan's shoulder. Then he pivoted and marched to the nurse's station. "Hi. Seth Cohen," he announced. "My grandfather is here. Well, not my Cohen grandfather. My mom's dad. Caleb Nichol? N-i-c-h-o-l. Not like the coin, like the—well, not like anything really, I guess. Anyway, can you tell me how he is? Because my mom was waiting here and now she's gone, so I'm thinking maybe there's news?"
"Oh yes, of course. Mr. Nichol," the nurse replied. There was a smile in her voice that reassured Ryan, who was lingering three steps behind Seth. "He's going to be fine. Your mother and aunt are with him now, I believe."
"My aunt? Hailey is here?"
"Lindsay," Ryan hissed.
"Oh, right. The new, younger, good-thing-we-never-dated aunt." In the act of returning a clipboard to its hook, the nurse paused, staring at Seth. He flashed a disarming grin bracketed by his dimples. "Yeah, long story," he admitted. "So. My grandfather is really going to be okay?"
"He's in room 312E right down the hall," the nurse reported. "You can see him if you like." Her gaze skidded past Seth to Ryan and she added, "Family only, though, for the time being. Are you--?"
Ryan shook his head. "No," he replied. "I'm just . . ." With no idea how to finish the sentence, he let it trail off, covering with a smile and a hasty, "Thank you."
The nurse nodded quizzically and turned to answer a phone.
"Here," Ryan said, thrusting the container of coffee cups at Seth. "You can take them to Lindsay and your mom. I'll stay in the waiting room."
Seth stepped back, his arms dangling empty at his sides. "No, you know what, Ryan? I don't think I'm going to visit Grandpa right now."
"You're not?"
"Nah." Seth raked a hand through his curls, sniffing audibly. "That funky smell, dude? I hate to admit it, but that is eau de unwashed Cohen. I think I'll go home, take a shower, maybe do a little work on the comic book. You gonna come with?"
Ryan inclined his head, blinking his bewilderment. "No, I'll wait for Kirsten and Lindsay . . . Seth, are you okay?"
"Now see, Ryan, this is why you'll never be a doctor." With exaggerated emphasis, Seth explained, "The people who aren't okay? They're the ones in the beds or wheelchairs wearing really unattractive open-back gowns. Patients, they call them. I am what is known as a visitor."
"Yeah, except you're not visiting . . . Seth, don't you want to see your grandfather?"
Seth blew out a breath, his eyes dull, his mouth twisting in a wry grimace. "Honestly, buddy? No, I don't. Not right now," he confessed. "Look, it's great that he's going to be okay. I mean, I was really worried because a) he's my grandpa and b) despite all my Lex Luthor jokes, I actually do love the guy."
"Then I don't get it."
"No, I know." Seth sighed. "It's kinda hard to explain. But when you were telling me how Grandpa acted toward you at dinner? Well, it's just . . . Caleb Nichol is a bully, Ryan. He is. Sort of like Luke before he found his inner geek. All territorial and intolerant, and totally the kind of person who pissed in somebody's shoes back in school. Most of the time I can make myself overlook that, but right now? I just . . . don't like my grandfather very much. So I think maybe I should wait and visit him another time. Hell," Seth added ruefully, "it's not like he'll miss me anyway."
Ryan shook his head, unconvinced. "You're sure?"
"Trust me," Seth urged. "And dude? That coffee is rapidly approaching the critical orange level. You better get it to Mom and Lindsay . . . So, see you at home later?"
"Yeah. Later," Ryan repeated dubiously. He watched Seth until elevator door closed behind him, half expecting him to change his mind, feeling a jolt of disappointment mixed with respect when he didn't.
Alone, and now with Seth's absence to explain, Ryan had seldom felt as inadequate, as unsure of any welcome. But he couldn't leave. He owed Kirsten and Lindsay his support. Even if they didn't want it.
He looked helplessly at the tepid coffee he was carrying—a tardy, pointless offering, just like his apologies—and trudged down the hallways toward Caleb's room.