Coffee Break: A missing scene (but not really) for "The Metamorphosis"

[chazper]

AN: "The Metamorphosis" was one of my favorite season 4 episodes, but I admit that finding a true missing scene stumped me. Nothing screamed "There is a void here!" (well, nothing Ryan-related anyway) so I just created a scene that I would have liked to see for the sake of some Kirsten-Ryan bonding and a little--very little--Ryan character development. This takes place post-kiss, after Ryan arrives home.

Coffee Break

Slow evening shadows began to stripe the Cohen kitchen, but Ryan, sitting alone at the counter, never noticed. A cup of rapidly cooling coffee rested between his cupped hands. He had taken one sip after he poured it but the liquid burned his lips and he couldn’t drink anymore. The brief, scalding sensation, half pleasure, half pain, reminded him too much of how his mouth had tingled after he kissed Taylor.

Ryan had set the mug down abruptly. Now he stared into its murky depths, chewing the inside of his cheek, trying to make sense of his memories.

Or maybe just brooding, he admitted to himself.

But it had been such a bizarre day. He had expected simplicity: a morning run, eight hours of work, a return to the quiet of the poolhouse. Ryan hoped to ease into a Cohen-approved routine, so that he could slip unnoticed into something like normalcy. Instead he felt as if he had tumbled headlong into a life he barely understood. Everything in it seemed scrambled together, right and wrong at the same time.

The air he breathed tasted like citrus instead of like smoke. Fresh and tangy, it still stung his throat. Even more disturbing, sunshine insisted on surrounding him. Ryan had tried to ward it off at the beach, shrouding himself in black workout clothes, but it had found him anyway. Its golden glow seeped through his pores, following him home and even into the restaurant.

After months of embracing darkness, it felt strange not to hide from the light.

Then there was Ryan himself. He scarcely recognized the person who had occupied his skin all day.

For so long all of his nonviolent human contact had consisted of nodding curtly when regulars entered Jake’s bar. At most, he might have grunted a gruff, rusty “Hey.” The managers of El Pavo Guapo expected much more. They wanted Ryan to represent the restaurant, to interact with its customers. And he had. True, he tried to isolate himself. Whenever possible, he had focused on inanimate objects-dirty tables or dishware that needed to be cleared. But when people demanded his attention Ryan had responded politely. He had greeted diners, ushering them to their seats with instinctive charm, exchanging pointless small talk about the weather. To his shock, it began to feel natural. Of course, there had been a few moments that kindled old pain, when women flirted with him or, worse, when kids wearing Harbor gear-kids who clearly thought that they knew-stared at him, whispering. Even then, though, Ryan managed not to flinch.

With barely any effort, he had become a different person.

Or, he mused, maybe he had just slid back into his old skin. But he had never expected to find it intact.

For long silent minutes Ryan mulled everything: the air, the light, the job, his own behavior at the restaurant.

Mostly, though, he thought about Taylor.

Maybe the day hadn’t really been strange. Maybe it just seemed that way because of her role in it.

Taylor bewildered Ryan. Sometimes she had been funny and endearing, but often she was exasperating or childlike, maddening or pitiful. Then there had been the Taylor at the yacht club. When he arrived, shocking her-shocking them both, really-she had become instantly sensual. Warm and pliant, she had breathed into his mouth the moment Ryan’s lips touched hers. He had been stunned by how naturally Taylor melted against his chest, her heart beating in time with his. She had nestled there as if she had finally found the place she belonged.

As if she had come home.

Reliving that moment, Ryan forgot his coffee, the waning light, the sweaty work clothes he had intended to peel off. He forgot everything except Taylor. Images of her face floated in front of his eyes.

The way she had looked when Ryan refused to sign her ridiculous papers, lost and alone, all the light in her eyes shuttered.

And then later, the way she appeared after his surprise kiss, flushed and glowing, gazing up at him with something like awe.

Ryan couldn’t believe he had aroused that reaction. It had been so long since he had touched anyone with desire or even with tenderness. Of course it had just been an act. Ryan knew that. The passion, the warmth, the sheer, vibrant connection-they had all been pretend.

For just one moment, though, with Taylor alive and yielding in his arms, it had felt real.

It had felt right.

And then, in an instant, it had felt all wrong.

Ryan could not even meet her eyes. The moment Henri-Michel's attorney left, he had to free himself, peeling Taylor’s fingers off of his wrist, gulping in the night air, rushing out of the club without a backward glance.

Only distance hadn’t helped. Taylor’s image had followed him. It had become all he could see: in the parking lot, in the car, now in the dark Cohen kitchen.

A sudden flood of light threw the room into sharp relief. At the same time, the sound of Ryan's name snapped through the air, rousing him.

“Ryan,” Kirsten said, her hand still on the switch. “You're here. I didn’t know you were home.” The welcoming lilt of her voice was edged with faint alarm.

Equally startled, Ryan blinked up from the mug of coffee cooling between his palms. “Kirsten,” he stammered. “Hi. Um . . . sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.” She inclined her head, considering. “Mind if I join you?”

Without waiting for an answer, Kirsten poured herself a cup of coffee and slid onto the stool next to him. “So,” she prompted mildly, “how was your first day at the restaurant, Ryan?” The question implied a half a dozen others: “Why were you sitting alone in the dark?” “Did something happen?” “Did somebody mention Marissa’s name?” “Are you all right?” “Do you need more time? More space? What can we do to make this easier?”

Ryan rolled an answer around in his mouth. “It was . . .” He shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

“Fine,” Kirsten echoed. Her brows arched quizzically. “Well, I guess that is . . . fine.” She paused for a moment, hoping for a smile, but when Ryan failed to respond, she took a long swallow of her coffee. Then she got up and began to rummage in the cupboard. “Did you eat dinner?” she asked over her shoulder. “I already had a salad, but I could make you a sandwich, or reheat leftover lasagna from yesterday. And I think there are some eggrolls--”

“No,” Ryan protested. “Thanks. But I, uh, ate at the restaurant.”

That wasn’t strictly true. He had choked down a bite of his fajitas, but the rest of his meal had gone untouched. Ryan couldn’t eat, not with his throat clotted by remorse, not haunted by Taylor’s despair when he had turned his back on her.

She had looked hopeless. Worse, she had looked resigned, used to being rejected.

But Ryan couldn’t make himself help her.

“I don’t care,” he had insisted when Julie first urged him to pursue Volchock. “I don’t want to care.”

Now Volchock was in prison and Ryan had forced himself to face the reality of Marissa’s death. But his core response hadn’t changed: he still did not want to care.

Caring hurt too much.

“Oh. Well. All right, if you’ve eaten . . .” Kirsten hesitated, apparently at a loss. Then her eyes flashed with inspiration. “How about dessert?” she suggested, delving behind the coffee filters and thermos bottles. “Cookies!” Triumphantly, she flourished a bag of double-stuffed Oreos. She shook several onto a plate, then nudged it companionably between Ryan’s place and her own. When he didn’t react, she jiggled the dish so that it jostled his arm. “I could eat these all myself,” she admitted wryly, “but I’d prefer not to. A little help, please?”

Ryan gave an abashed grin, took a cookie and nibbled the edge absently. Next to him, Kirsten twisted the top wafer off hers and delicately scooped up a bit of cream with her fingertip. After she licked it off, she wiped her hand on her napkin and took a sip of coffee. “So,” she said, studying Ryan over rim of her mug, “did you happen see Sandy? He mentioned that he might swing by the mall today.”

“Yeah, he did. He was with some guy-Jason Spitz?”

“Ah yes. Sandy’s new friend.” Ryan cocked his head, puzzled, and Kirsten laughed. “Well,” she explained, “Jimmy and Neil are both gone, Seth will be off to RISD soon, and next year you’ll be in college too, so Sandy decided he needed to find a friend--someone he could do guy things with. What were he and Spitzie up to?”

“Watching the game at the bar.”

“Ah. Definitely a guy thing. Then I guess mission accomplished. I’m surprised Sandy didn’t ask you to join them though.”

Dropping his gaze, Ryan swept a few stray crumbs into his napkin. “He did. I just wasn’t in the mood. It was kind of a long day.”

“Oh.”

A faint frown creased Kirsten’s brow. She swirled another dollop of cream onto her fingertip and examined it thoughtfully. Beside her, Ryan straightened his placemat. He started to edge off his stool, a “Goodnight” already forming on his lips. Before he could get up, though, Kirsten’s voice stopped him.

“By the way,” she said. Her tone sounded stern and she wagged her finger at him. “This? Is our little secret.”

“This . . . what, Kirsten?”

“The fact that I eat my cookies cream-first like a little kid.”

To illustrate, Kirsten popped her finger in her mouth and sucked it clean. She looked so smug that Ryan couldn’t help it. He slid back onto his seat, chuckling softly. Kirsten’s face glowed, gratified.

“Sandy and Seth don’t know that I eat Oreos this way,” she confided.

Ryan stared at the cookies, seeing them for the first time. “I didn’t know you ate Oreos at all,” he admitted.

“No one did. They’re my guilty pleasure, and I would like to keep it that way. So . . .”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell,” Ryan promised. “What happens in the Cohen kitchen--”

Kirsten completed the phrase with him. “Stays in the Cohen kitchen.” She plopped another cookie on the plate, even though three still remained there. “Good. I knew I could trust you, Ryan. Now if you want to sneak a few sometimes, feel free, but make sure Seth and Sandy don’t see you. Especially Seth. You know how he is. If he finds these cookies--” She stopped, shuddering.

“He’ll eat the whole bag.”

“Exactly,” Kirsten agreed. “And then tease me about hiding it in the first place. So just be-what’s Seth’s word for sneaky?”

“Stealth,” Ryan said. He unscrewed the top wafer of a cookie, put it aside, and poked warily at the cream.

Watching him, Kirsten chanced a furtive smile. “Right. Just be stealth.”

For a couple minutes, they ate in companionable silence. Then Ryan wiped his mouth. Sucking in a deep breath, he slid a quick, sideways glance toward Kirsten.

“Taylor Townsend stopped by the restaurant,” he blurted.

“Taylor? Really” Kirsten’s eyes widened and her lips crinkled, amused. “Well I’m sure that added some spice to your day.”

Ryan’s head jerked up. “Kirsten,” he groaned.

She peered at him innocently over a chocolate wafer. “What, Ryan?”

“Come on. She added spice? At a Mexican restaurant?”

“I never even thought of that,” Kirsten claimed. She stifled her smile with a swallow of coffee. “It’s just that Taylor does have a very . . . vivid . . . personality. So was she there to sample the cuisine?”

Tracing the rim of one of his Oreos, Ryan shrugged. “Not exactly. Although she did order a lot of food.”

“Oh. So really she was there--?”

“Looking for Seth. At first anyway.”

“Ahh,” Kirsten murmured. She nibbled another cookie and waited.

It took a while, but finally Ryan continued. “Taylor wanted him to, um, do her a favor. With her divorce.”

“Her divorce? But shouldn’t a lawyer be helping her with that?”

A brief, crooked grin plucked one corner of Ryan’s mouth. “Yeah, you’d think so. But this is Taylor. She does things . . . differently.”

Kirsten chuckled. “That’s true.”

“Anyway, since Seth wasn’t available, she, well . . .” His voice trailing off, Ryan gestured vaguely. He hid behind his coffee, grimacing at the taste of the lukewarm liquid.

“She asked you,” Kirsten concluded. “And did you help her, Ryan?”

He bobbed his head, his jaw clenched. “Yeah. I did.”

Kirsten smiled her approval. “Good,” she said firmly.

Seeing her response Ryan braced himself. He expected another question-“What did you do for her exactly?”-and he didn’t know how to answer. To his surprise, though, Kirsten just stirred her coffee.

“You know, Ryan,” she said at last, “I got to spend some time with Taylor at Thanksgiving. She helped me cook dinner-no comments, please, about that being the reason the food was edible--and I went with her to meet her mother. The poor girl had been hiding since she got back to Newport. She hadn’t told Veronica that her marriage had failed, and she was afraid to face her alone . . . You do know about Taylor’s relationship with her mother, don’t you?”

Ryan nodded. He could hear Taylor’s voice.

“I don’t have anyone else,” she had confessed hopelessly. “I don’t really know my dad, and last year was the first time I ever had any friends . . .” But she had confided something else too. She had said the words so simply, the way she might state her name or the place she was born, or any truth that she had known forever.

“My mom hates me.”

Just that, but Ryan understood her heartbreak.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I do.”

“Veronica Townsend--” Kirsten exhaled a sharp breath, and her eyes darkened to a storm-filled navy blue. “I just cannot understand how any woman can treat her own child that way.” She glanced at Ryan, holding his gaze meaningfully. Then she continued. “And Taylor is so sweet. She’s intelligent and helpful and very eager to please. Now of course, it is true that she can also be a little . . . well, a little--” Tilting her head, Kirsten paused, searching for the right word.

“Strange?” Ryan suggested dryly.

“Ryan Atwood!” Kirsten tapped his hand in reproach. “I was going to say ‘lively’. Or maybe ‘unusual’. But yes,” she conceded. Laughter bubbled through her voice. “I suppose ‘strange’ works too. I do like Taylor, though. And I’m very glad you helped her. I think that she really needs a friend.” Her fingers slid back to Ryan’s wrist, this time covering it gently. "You could use one too," Kirsten added with soft emphasis.

Ryan shifted uneasily on his stool. “I’ve got Seth and Summer,” he mumbled. “And you and Sandy.”

“Yes, you do,” Kirsten agreed. “But Seth and Sandy and I--we’re your family, Ryan. Summer is too, in a way. And you know that we will always be here for you. But you need other people in your life too. Friends you can hang out with and have fun with and tell all the things that you don’t want to tell your parents, even though you should.” She waited hopefully, but Ryan didn’t smile. Kirsten sighed and started again. “Look at Sandy and Jason Spitz,” she urged. “Friends matter, Ryan. They do, no matter how old you are or how much your family loves you.”

Ryan’s eyes dimmed and he shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, so low that Kirsten could barely hear him. “You just . . . lose them.”

Still holding his hand, Kirsten took a deep breath. She inched her stool closer, so that her shoulder was touching his. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Sometimes you can, and sometimes it’s much, much too soon. But that’s life, Ryan. It’s the chance we take whenever we open our hearts to someone-knowing that someday they might be gone.” Her hand tightened around his. With the other she reached over to tilt his face towards hers. “But loving someone is worth that risk, Ryan. It is. I promise.”

He flushed, confronted with the truth in her eyes.

“Seth and Sandy and I-we are so glad to have back home with us. And we know how hard you're working, trying to figure out how to live without Marissa. But, Ryan, we do want you to live. That means more than just work and read and sit through family dinners. We want you to get excited about things, to enjoy yourself, to let yourself get involved with other people--”

Ryan straightened on his stool. “Sandy said something like that today too,” he confessed.

“He did?”

“Yeah. He, um, he said getting involved in other people’s lives is something I do and if I stop, it would be like turning my back on part of myself.”

Kirsten nodded gravely. “Sandy is right,” she said, releasing her gentle grip. “Please, Ryan, just think about it. Keep the doors to your heart open. As for Taylor . . . well, I know a mother’s opinion doesn’t count, but I think she could be a very good friend for you right now. We already know that she's never boring. And who knows? She might even make you smile.”

With a start, Ryan realized that Taylor had done that already. It had happened over and over throughout the day. Her transparent excuses to return to the restaurant, her wide-eyed wheedling, her non-sequitur questions (“What’s your favorite fruit?”), her ridiculous French lies (“at least thirty instances of mad, passionate, incredible, acrobatic love-making”)-they had all prompted smiles.

And each once had felt unforced, refreshing and natural.

Ryan didn’t know how that had happened.

He stood up suddenly.

“I, um, think I’m gonna go shower and change, Kirsten,” he said, gesturing at the rumpled hem of his black t-shirt. “Maybe just go to bed early. Thanks for the cookies and the company, though. And don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret from Seth and Sandy.”

Kirsten rose too. “Our secret,” she amended. Smoothing a strand of his short hair back into place, she kissed his cheek. “Good-night, Ryan,” she said. “I’m sorry about the lecture, but sometimes we parents . . . well, we just have to give advice. We can’t help ourselves.”

“It’s okay.” Ryan cocked his head. He sounded almost surprised at his own reply. “I didn’t mind.”

He hugged Kirsten, quickly but tenderly. Then he stepped back. With practiced ease, he slid his untouched cookies into the package and rinsed out his plate and mug at the sink. He was halfway to the door when Kirsten called, “Ryan, wait!”

Hurrying after him she thrust bag of Oreos in his hands. “You can put it back in its hiding place tomorrow,” she whispered. “But you barely ate two cookies. Take them just in case you feel like having something sweet later tonight.”

Ryan hesitated. Then he smiled his thanks. The package brushed against his thigh, like a companion's light touch, when he opened the French doors.

Maybe, he thought, as he padded out to the poolhouse, Kirsten might be right about friends. Even an unpredictable friend like Taylor.

And maybe he might even want dessert later.

FIN