Fault Line/Epicenter/Aftershock

Before he even reached the second floor landing, Sandy stopped, exhausted. He slumped, shoulders stooped, one hand clutching the banister. With the other, he kneaded his temples, thumb and forefinger pressing painfully, palm curved to cover his stinging eyes.

At last he sighed, shuddering, and looked up.

There seemed to be so much further left to climb, all those steps, all sapping what remained of his energy.

He measured the distance to his son's bedroom door, wondering dimly how it could be so far away, why the air felt so thin and his feet so leaden.

A fist squeezed his heart each time he breathed.

Slowly, every step a conscious effort, Sandy made his way to Seth's room. He paused to fill his lungs, knocked once, eased the door open, and stepped inside.

It was like seeing something familiar from far away. He knew the place, but it wouldn't come into focus, wouldn't make sense.

There were all the familiar posters, the scattered sketchbooks and comics, CDs and video games, the chlorine and sweat-scented clothes strewn on the floor, the college catalogs, bookmarked with sticky notes, the well-worn skateboard propped against a wall--unmistakable evidence of a life being lived. They made no sound, and still they reverberated in the silence, discordant echoes of laughter and energy and a million plans.

At the center of the quiet chaos, Seth sat uncannily still, legs stretched out straight, a carved effigy posed on the bed.

"Ryan--" Sandy began. Instantly, his voice oxidized. It flaked away around the soft consonants, and he had to gather the shards before he could try again. "Ryan is home."

Without looking, Seth nodded. His fingers never stopped stroking Captain Oats, but no other part of his body moved.

Sandy watched for a moment. Then he crossed to the bed, nudging his son's feet over so that he could sit. "He's in the poolhouse," he explained, as though Seth had asked. "Your mother and I hoped he would stay in here with us now, but . . ." Seth's eyes flickered up, dark and knowing, then dropped to his lap again, and the rancid taste of regret filled Sandy's mouth. Bitterly, quietly, he murmured, "I know. We should have had him move inside a long time ago . . ."

A silence, opaque as fog, shrouded the room.

"Seth?" Sandy prompted. When his son didn't answer, he reached over, gently removing Captain Oats, stilling Seth's hand with his own.

"I don't think I can do this, Dad."

The words slogged out, muffled and muddy with shame.

"Ah, Seth . . ." Scooting up to the headboard, Sandy wrapped an arm around his son's shoulders.

As though the touch released a clogged valve, Seth's body collapsed, sagging against his father's, somehow boneless and brittle at the same time. Sandy had to hold his breath to hear the whispered confession. "I don't know how. It's too hard."

"I know," Sandy murmured. "I know. You've been trying to console Summer, and you're grieving too. It doesn't seem fair to ask you to be strong for someone else. But Ryan really needs you now."

"How is he?" Something strangled the question and it plummeted, lifeless, answering itself.

Sandy shook his head against his son's matted curls. "The doctors say that he should be fine," he reported vaguely.

Seth twisted, just enough for the despair in his face to lance his father's soul. "The doctors don't know Ryan though."

"No," Sandy conceded. "No, son, they don't. But you do. It's time . . ." Sliding open the nightstand drawer, he picked up Captain Oats and shut the toy inside. The latch clicked, an audible period, when it closed. "Time to put this away, Seth. Time to be a grown-up. Your mother is making some hot chocolate for Ryan. Why don't you take it out to him?"

"And then what?" Seth demanded. "Dad, I just . . . I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say to him—even how to look at him. It's hard enough with Summer. But at least I can hold her while she cries, and listen to her talk about growing up with Marissa, and just . . . shelter her, you know? But with Ryan . . ." His fists opened on air and clenched again. "How am I supposed to help him?"

"Just be his friend. Son, you can do this. You were there for him last year when Trey was shot."

Seth bolted off the bed, nearly knocking Sandy to the floor. "That was different, Dad! Trey was still alive—and so was Marissa—and I had Summer to help me. I can't . . . I just don't think I can face Ryan by myself." Gripping the edge of his dresser, nails gouging the wood, he glanced back over his shoulder. His eyes glistened with entreaty. "Will you come with me?"

"He needs you . . ."

Seth's face crumbled and Sandy recognized his little boy from years past: loitering alone at the edge of a playground, climbing into the dentist's chair, peering out the rear window of the camp bus, hiding under a table at his sixth birthday party, climbing into his parents' bed, tear-stained and trembling from a nightmare--all those moments of hurt, fear and loneliness.

He ached to comfort that child.

Only this time, he couldn't.

This time Seth had to find his own strength.

Sandy stood up, stiffening. "He needs you," he repeated. "Right now Ryan won't reach out to me or your mother. He just says what he thinks we want to hear. But if it's just you . . ." When Seth still wavered, swallowing wordlessly, he added, "I wish I could make this easier, son. I can't. But as hard as it is, you can't put your own feelings first. Not this time."

Meeting his son's reluctant gaze, Sandy held it grave and unblinking until Seth nodded.

"I know, Dad," he whispered. He released his hold on the desk, stepping away so that he stood unsupported. Deliberately, he rolled his shoulders back, unfolding his lanky frame. "Okay. Okay, right. So . . . Seth-Ryan time."

Resolution defined the planes of his face as Seth marched to his bedroom door. He stepped into the hall, hesitated, and turned back around, his eyes narrowed speculatively.

"You said Mom is making hot chocolate?" he asked. "Why? Does Ryan even like that stuff?"

Sandy shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted wearily. "Maybe making it just gives your mother something to do."

"Yeah." Slow, sad comprehension informed that one syllable. Seth's mouth curved, a phantom, wistful smile, and he left.

Sandy started to follow. His foot bumped a textbook abandoned on the floor, and he picked it up, absently smoothing a few wrinkled pages, noting the title.

The Sound and the Fury.

That phrase, unbidden, cued related lines. They appeared, smudged and sinister in his mind: dusty death; out, out brief candle; hour upon the stage; signifying nothing.

Flinching as though it singed his fingers, Sandy dropped the book. It fell open on the desk, jostling Seth's computer. The screen blinked, instantly awake, and Sandy froze. There, vivid on the monitor were Seth, Ryan, Summer and Marissa, all of them sprawled on the sand, sun-blessed and smiling and leaning against each other. The picture glowed for a moment, then dissolved into swirls of color, an Impressionist painting viewed much too close. Sandy stumbled back, and the shapes reformed. This time, they were clustered around the Christmukkah tree: Seth, grinning widely, an overstuffed stocking clutched to his chest, Summer adjusting a ribbon corsage, Marissa cradled on Ryan's lap, dangling a sprig of mistletoe over his head. Oblivious of the camera they gazed at each other, their faces tender, unguarded, alive with promises, their lips parted for a kiss.

Catching his breath, Sandy sank heavily into the desk chair.

In front of his eyes, images melted, transformed, shimmered like light on still water, and submerged again, a sea wash of memory. Seth and Summer. Summer and Marissa. Seth and Ryan. Ryan and Marissa.

RyanandMarissa.

Marissa.

Ryan.

Sandy watched, transfixed. And he wished.

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Seth padded quietly into the kitchen, his nose wrinkling. The room smelled faintly of scorched chocolate, and he bit his lip against any unwelcome joke that might shove its way out.

It was a needless precaution. Alone with his mother, Seth could think of nothing at all to say.

Feeling strangely off balance, he sagged against the counter to study Kirsten. She stood motionless by the sink. Her hands cupped a mug of cocoa and she stared into the dark froth as though searching for some secret message immersed in its depths.

When a minute passed and she never looked up, never stirred, Seth coughed softly. "Mom?" he prompted, the word like a small hand plucking at her sleeve.

"Hmm? Oh, sweetie, I didn't hear you come in." Kirsten raised her head, her eyes liquid, her lips struggling to shape a wan smile.

Unsure what else to do, Seth shuffled to his mother's side. "Hypnotized by hot chocolate, huh?" he asked, as he pried the cup from her grasp. "Yeah, I guess it can be powerful stuff."

Kirsten started slightly as cool air swept her empty palms. With nothing else to hold, her fingers knotted around each other.

"It's silly, I know," she murmured, nodding at the drink. "Ryan might not even like cocoa, but I just kept thinking . . . 'Magic milk.' Do you remember? That's what you called it when you were little. You always wanted some when you were sick, or . . . unhappy. To make you feel better." Kirsten touched the mug reverently, a benediction. "Did it ever really work?"

Seth squinted, summoning his childhood. The dark, warm aroma wafted up, surrounding him like a hug. "Yeah, it did. But Mom, didn't grandma make it for me most of the time? Or the Nana or Rosa? I remember yours always tasted . . . different."

Kirsten's mouth twisted. "That's because mine was Swiss Miss." Her voice thickened, swollen with unshed tears. "I didn't know how to make it from scratch. Oh, Seth, I'm so sorry. I should have learned."

"No! Hey, Mom, no, it's okay. When I said different, I meant, as in totally delicious. Those Swiss misses—they're like the cocoa experts of the world, right?" Seth slid an arm around his mother's waist, but she still shivered, bird-fragile in his embrace. Desperate to distract her, to make something seem even halfway normal, he lifted the cup to his lips, sniffed dramatically, and took a gulp.

"Seth! What are you doing? I made that for Ryan!"

"It's good," Seth observed in surprise. "Sorry. Little taste-test here, Mom. You know, just in case. Because unless I'm mistaken, there was some chocolate-based disaster in this kitchen."

"I burned the first two batches." Kirsten admitted ruefully. "That one is my third. You really think that it tastes all right?"

"It is très délicieux." To prove his point Seth drained the whole cup, exhaling a satisfied "Ahhh" as he swallowed. Then, his eyes wide with mischief, he ducked away from his mother. "Oh, wait . . . You do have more for Ryan, don't you?"

Kirsten bit her lip, shaking her head as she prepared another mug. "Seth Ezekiel Cohen, you are so bad," she chided, trying to return his teasing, failing entirely. The cup wobbled in her hands. With a smothered sob, Kirsten set it down and turned to Seth. Fine lines etched her face, each one a different kind of pain: grief and regret and guilt and helplessness. "And I love you so much," she added fiercely. Her trembling fingers stroked his cheek, tilting it gently so that she could kiss him.

Seth's playful façade collapsed, leaving him bereft. "I love you too, Mom," he whispered.

Burrowing his head in her hair, he blinked back tears, inhaling the fresh, delicate scent that wasn't shampoo or cologne or anything except his mother. For a moment, they stayed like that, clasped together, sharing sorrow and support, fortifying each other. At last Seth stepped away. He straightened his shoulders and picked up the mug she had filled.

"Okay," he told himself, low, an echo of his father. "I should go to see Ryan . . . take this to him before it gets cold."

Kirsten nodded. Her arms wrapped around her midriff, entreaty burning through her gaze, she trailed Seth to the French doors. "If you can, convince him to come inside," she begged. "Please, Seth. I want him here with us. The thought of him out there all alone . . ."

"I know, Mom. I promise, I'll try."

Carrying the cup in both hands like a votive offering, Seth made his way out of the house and across the patio.

Kirsten watched him go, counting his steps with her heartbeats, breathing an urgent litany. Her children. Her sons. Seth and Ryan. Ryan and Seth. Seth. And.

Her fingers pressed prayerfully against her dry lips.

Ryan, she thought. And then, Marissa. And then Ryan again and again, the name elusive as sand blown by a desert wind.

It stung her eyes.

It grated against her throat.

Kirsten stumbled back to the sink, suddenly parched, barely able to swallow.

Filling a glass with water, she gulped it down in one breath, poured more and drank that too.

It didn't help. Nothing helped.

She was still arid inside.

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Seth stopped at the door of the poolhouse. Sunlight snapped off the windows, blinding him for an instant, and he blinked, wavering. Then he knocked.

There was no answer.

His loose fist jittered in the air before dropping limp and empty to his side. Taking deep breaths, in, out, in, out, he waited. At last he eased the door open, inch by slow inch, and stepped inside. From somewhere he summoned a tone that sounded almost normal, falsely hearty and shrill, but still Seth.

"Ryan. Hey. Dad told me you were here. I thought maybe we might--"

From the step where he sat huddled into himself, Ryan lifted hooded eyes. Sunken, drained of color, they appeared ancient and fathomless. "Why aren't you with Summer?" he demanded. His voice was dull but serrated, like a rusty saw. It scraped Seth's skin.

"I was," he stammered. "But her dad sent me home. He gave her something. You know, so she can sleep for a while." He shifted, so that light would fall on Ryan's face. In shadow, it frightened him; shuttered and bruised, it looked unfamiliar, the face of some dangerous stranger, not Ryan at all.

"Go back. Stay with her."

"Yeah, but Ryan . . ."

"You stay with her," Ryan repeated. His stare penetrated, unblinking, allowing Seth no escape. "You have to be there when she wakes up."

When she wakes up.

Because Summer will wake up.

Marissa won't, not ever again.

Without waiting for an answer, Ryan ducked his head. The movement was a retreat, almost a surrender.

Stricken, Seth shuffled in place, back and forth but moving nowhere.

"Okay," he conceded softly. "Okay, I will, but I don't have to go now. Dr. Roberts said Summer should sleep for hours." Seth crept closer, expecting to be dismissed, but when Ryan said nothing he placed the mug down on the step and sat beside it, lacing his hands tightly around his legs. "Mom made this for you. It's hot chocolate. Believe it or not, it's good. Which I know because I figured I better check it out first. It's very, well, chocolaty and . . . Ryan? Dude, what are you doing?"

Ryan's jaw worked, but he didn't answer. His eyes closed and he hunched forward. Bewildered, a little afraid, Seth leaned over too, his gaze fixed on Ryan's hands. They were clenched tight, white-knuckled and blue-veined, wringing something between them convulsively.

"Ryan, is that your old wrist cuff?"

The twisting continued. Between Ryan's fingers, the shabby black leather pleated and split, scarred with crescents from his angry nails.

Seth swallowed and clutched his knees tighter. "I get it, you know," he confided cautiously. "I mean, I was holding Captain Oats before, and yeah, he's not bendy or anything, but it was still pretty much the same thing as you're doing now. Only the wrist cuff works totally better. I didn't know you still had it though. I thought it was . . ."

With an audible hiss, Seth sucked back the last word. Any one he might use sounded too much like "dead."

"Gone?" Ryan concluded. He shrugged, his mouth crimping. "No. Lots of things are gone, but not this." His eyes slit open, sliding sideways. "What do you want, Seth?" he asked wearily.

"Me? No, I don't . . . Well, I do. I mean, hell, yeah, I want a lot of things, Ryan. But mostly I just want to . . . help. I don't know how. But whatever you need me to do. Just name it, man."

Ryan's mouth moved wordlessly before he rasped out a brief, barely audible "Thanks." His fingers went slack and the mangled strip of leather fell between his feet. Turning his hands over, he rested them on his knees, exposing his open palms.

Seth winced, seeing them. The flesh was scored with small cuts, ragged and half-healed, a fading map of some distant, foreign land. Somehow the sight of those wounds, scarcely more than scratches, shredded whatever insulation he had wrapped around himself. Seth wasn't prepared for the searing rush of emotion. He should have been. The police had described what had happened, the doctors had warned them what to expect, but nothing had registered. Nothing had made sense that night.

It didn't make sense now either.

Flipped over. Crashed upside down. Crushed on impact.

Broke a window. Crawled over the glass. Carried Marissa away from the car. Before it exploded. Before it burned.

Just in time.

But too late.

In the quiet safety of the poolhouse, Seth heard the roar, saw the flames, felt the scorching heat, smelled the acrid stench of smoke and blood, imagined the rest: Marissa's limp weight in his own arms, her eyelids fluttering, her skin growing gray, the awful, ineffable loneliness of the moment when she simply. Stopped.

Nausea clogged his throat and he choked it down, cursing silently. He didn't know anything. He hadn't been there. At that time, in that place, there had just been two people. Ryan and Marissa.

And then there had been only one.

Marissa had died.

She was dead.

But Ryan had survived.

He was home now, alive.

Inches away but still unreachable.

"Ryan," Seth stammered. "I don't know what to do. You've got to tell me. Okay?"

He forced himself to stop staring at Ryan's hands, to focus on his voice instead. It emerged slowly, like twilight, dusky, and fading into dark.

"Leave, Seth. All right? You being here . . . I appreciate it. But right now, I can't . . ." Ryan's gaze flickered upward, forlorn, before falling again.

Seth bobbed his head reluctantly. He released his knees, bracing his hands against the step, but somehow he couldn't push himself to his feet. Defeated, he sank back down. "Are you sure?" he prompted. He pitched his voice low, beneath demand or entreaty. "'Cause I could just sit here. We wouldn't have to talk. Seriously, I'm fine with the sitting and not talking. Or maybe . . . you could come inside? You could use the guest room or the couch in the den. Or you could stay on the floor in my room. I'll even blow up the air mattress myself. You know put my legendary hot air to good use for a change . . ." Abruptly exhausted, Seth stopped. He glanced at Ryan and measured his last words. "Swear to Jesus and Moses, we won't bother you. But Mom . . . all of us . . . we really wish you'd stay in the house with us now."

Ryan's eyes were clenched shut, his fists digging into his thighs. "Kirsten wants me inside?" he asked, around shallow, erratic breaths.

"We all do. But . . . whatever you want, okay?"

Ryan nodded tersely. "I'll come." He paused as if each word required all his energy. "Just give me an hour."

"One hour. Okay. Cool. Or, you know not . . . So. Yeah. I'll just . . . see you inside then."

Seth backed toward the door, not sure how or what he had won, but afraid any false move would shatter his fragile victory. He was already reaching for the handle when Ryan spoke again.

"Seth?"

"Yeah?"

"Take the hot chocolate with you, okay? I can't . . ." Ryan licked his chapped lips, swallowing hard. "Tell Kirsten thanks. But I can't drink that."

"No problem."

Seth retrieved the mug and shuffled away again, easing the door shut, but not letting it latch behind him. Sagging against the poolhouse wall, he poured out the chocolate, watching it turn to mud in the ruthless sunshine.

"Yeah" he sighed. "I don't blame you, buddy. It's cold now anyway."

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Ryan edged into the kitchen. From outside, he had seen the Cohens clustered around the table. He had observed them talking, sensed their animation, felt the current of their energy, but as he entered, in the exact instant that he crossed the threshold, everything stopped.

They stopped.

The space vibrated with expectation, and Ryan shrank back, an animal caught in a humane trap. His body poised for flight, he scanned the room, searching for some clue that would tell him what to do next, how to escape, or atone, or confess.

Kirsten rose from her chair. "Ryan," she breathed, dispelling the static tension, infusing his name with assurances. "You're here. Can I get you something, sweetie? We were just going to have lunch." She swayed toward him. One hand hovered above his wrist, fingers flexing uncertainly, not quite daring contact.

Ryan blinked, shaking his head. "No. Thanks," he replied. One word followed another, automatic responses that disclosed nothing at all. "I'm fine. I'll just get some cereal."

He started to reach for the cupboard. Then, impulsively, he turned, ducking to brush a swift, furtive kiss against Kirsten's cheek.

Her eyes widened, jewel-bright and shimmering with instant tears.

"Oh, sweetheart," she murmured. Gratefully, tenderly, she drew Ryan into her arms. He shuddered once, burying his face against her neck as she stroked his hair, holding him close, crooning confidences that Sandy and Seth couldn't hear.

They didn't try. The moment was intimate, almost sacred, and it belonged to Ryan and Kirsten alone.

His lips curved, the promise of a smile, when she released him at last, and the air shifted, allowing them all to breathe.

Sandy exhaled, pushing back his chair. "Good to have you here with us, kid." His voice snagged on the barbed ends of that phrase, "here with us,", words almost denied them, lost forever to the Coopers, and he swiped the knuckles of one hand across his eyes.

Ryan nodded, half-shrugged, and took a hesitant step toward the table. Before he could move any further, Sandy stood up, crossing the space in two strides. He looped an arm around Ryan's shoulders and pulled him into a fierce, wordless embrace, finally letting go only when Ryan winced and stiffened.

"God, kid, I'm sorry. I forgot. Your ribs—"

"No, it's okay. I'm okay." Ryan's gaze met Sandy's, limpid, unflinching, for a long moment. Then, abruptly, his eyes fell, shadowed by some bleak emotion: grief, or guilt, or apology. "I'll just . . ." he mumbled. Stumbling to the counter, he opened a cabinet, rummaging inside, searching for nothing except sanctuary.

Alone at the table, Seth looked at his parents, both haggard, leaning against each other, at Ryan, rigid and half-hidden behind the cupboard door, at his own hands, splayed flat on either side of his placemat.

His knees jittered and his feet shuffled uselessly.

"So. Um, cereal. Good choice there, Ryan," he observed. It was something he might have said two days before, casual and pointless. Those qualities comforted him, and Seth babbled on, the stream of words cleansing as clear water. "You know, it's not just for breakfast anymore. In fact, it's downright trendy. There are even cereal bars now. Which aren't what you might think. You know, like 'I'll have the Drunken Seaman,' which would be, I guess, rum poured over Cap'n Crunch--"

"Seth," Sandy admonished sharply.

"Sandy, it's fine. You don't have to stop him." Ryan surfaced long enough to glance at Seth, something like gratitude, or maybe just affection, flickering across his face before he retreated again. From behind the cupboard door, his voice continued, disembodied and wooden, just starting to splinter. "I need to tell all of you. I made a decision."

The sentence suspended itself, a taut line stretching across an abyss.

"What?" Sandy asked slowly. "What does that mean, a decision?"

Stalling, not trusting himself to answer, Ryan withdrew a random box. He poured cereal into a bowl, watching as the flakes landed, flat, brown, flimsy, crumbling around the edges like leaves long fallen from a tree.

Dry leaves.

Already dead.

Moldering and nearly dust.

Ryan closed his eyes, gritting his teeth, before he finally spoke.

"I'm going to Albuquerque. To stay with my mom," he explained, the way he might say, "going to the store, to school, to the library." Moving his bowl to the center island he sat down, his thumb tracing the lip of an empty water glass. "I already talked to her. She thinks her boyfriend Ron can find me a job--"

"Whoa! Wait," Seth protested. He scrambled from his seat and slid onto the stool next to Ryan. "Why would you need a job there? When you say 'stay', you don't mean . . .?"

"I mean for the summer. That's all."

"Sweetie . . ." Touching Ryan's chin, Kirsten tried to coax his face toward her. When he resisted, she sighed, letting her hand settle on his shoulder, a plea and a promise. "If you want to see your mother, of course you should go," she said carefully. "But I don't think staying there all summer is a good idea. You won't be ready to work for a while yet anyway. And you've got college coming up--"

"I can't be here, Kirsten." Ryan's voice sounded hollow, all emotion scalded away, but when he finally looked up his eyes burned, smudged embers of remembered pain. "I just. Can't."

Behind Ryan's back, Sandy shook his head once, silencing his wife and son.

"Okay then, buddy, how about this?" he suggested gently. "We all drive down together. You can visit with your mom, and Kirsten, Seth and I can tour the Southwest. I think we could all use a change of scenery. Then, whenever you're ready to come home . . ."

"No," Ryan snapped. Immediately he recoiled, ashen and almost gasping with shame. "Sorry. I'm sorry. It's just . . . that won't work, Sandy. Seth has to be here for Summer. He should be with her now. And Julie is going need you and Kirsten. You can't leave. I have to." The words trailed off, faint as candle smoke. "I just hoped that you'd understand."

Kirsten's fingers moved, circling, warm and almost weightless against Ryan's cheek. "I'll make the arrangements for you," she whispered.

Ryan covered her hand with his, pressing it close for an instant before he slid away. "Thanks. But I already did," he admitted. "I'm leaving tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow?" Kirsten echoed, startled. "But Ryan, tomorrow is . . ."

"Marissa's funeral. I know."

"So . . . then, what?" Seth demanded. Baffled, disbelieving, he peered at Ryan, searching for some explanation in his averted face. "You're not going to go?"

Picking up a bit of cereal, Ryan held it for a moment, then ground it to dust between his fingers and watched it drift back into the bowl. "No," he murmured. "I'm not."

Kirsten glanced at Sandy helplessly, pleading with him to intervene.

"You sure about this, kid?" he asked softly. "Nobody is going to force you, but if you don't go, I'm afraid you'll regret it. I think you might want to be there for Marissa."

Ryan stood up. Without flinching, without raising his eyes from the floor, he carried his bowl over to the sink, emptied the contents into the disposal, and turned on the tap. "The funeral isn't for Marissa," he replied, his voice like dark rocks under the running water. "It's for the people who loved her, her friends and family."

"Yeah, dude," Seth stammered. "But Ryan, you . . ."

"Her mother shouldn't have to see me there."

Ryan finished rinsing the bowl. He wiped it dry and refolded the dishtowel, taking care to replace each item precisely where it belonged.

"Besides," he added, turning to face the Cohens, "I've already said my goodbyes."

TBC