Flight Is Just A Concept (That We Live Inside) | Ryan | PG-13 | ~ 14000 words | AU | Part One
flight is just a concept (that we live inside)
Ryan (Ryan/OFC, past Ryan/Keltie, other canon pairings) | PG-13 | ~ 14000 words | AU
Ryan moves to a small town and adopts The Cat Who Must Not Be Named. He befriends his neighbour Jon, a new father, and Brendon, the waiter at the local bar.
Big thanks to jocondite and queen_geek for their beta help!
Title is from Change by The Young Veins, cut text is from "Song" by Adrienne Rich.
If I'm lonely
it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it's neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning.
-- From Song by Adrienne Rich
The cat seems to be feeling prickly today. She holds still when Ryan reaches for her, staring straight ahead with wide eyes while he skims the back of his hand over her cheek, just barely brushing across the tips of her fur. He moves his hand carefully; it takes a number of gentle sweeps before she finally ducks her head, allowing Ryan to rub his knuckles over the top of her head.
Ryan thought he needed company, but didn't think he was ready for another dog yet, and it seemed like a cat would be easy to look after. The people at the shelter didn't know much about what her other owners were like, and now Ryan has a suspicious cat, a full-grown cat when he should have gotten a kitten. He didn't even look at the kittens when he was there, didn't think he had the energy for one.
The cat is grown and shaped by some other family that gave her up when the youngest child finally left for university. She never sits on his lap - Hobo always sat with him when he watched TV - and she never comes when he calls and she won't eat if he's in the same room.
Ryan drags the backs of his fingers over the curve of the cat's small head then pulls his hand away, rubbing his palms together to brush away the stray hairs clinging to his skin. He leaves the cat, lying on the couch, and walks into the kitchen.
He makes himself dinner: grilled cheese and a handful of baby carrots from the bag in the fridge, and puts out dry food for the cat. It's past seven and still light outside. The days are getting longer, but spring's not quite here yet. Everyone tells him that their town is beautiful in the summer, and he says that he looks forward to seeing it. He's probably the only resident of the town who's living there through the winter but hasn't been around for a summer before. Usually it's opposite: people coming for the summer and leaving before it gets cold.
Ryan doesn't much care about experiencing the idyllic summer living offered by this little town on the coast. He was looking for somewhere far away and easy, and the rent for this house is only a couple hundred more than his one bedroom apartment was back in the city.
The cat comes into the kitchen, sitting a couple feet away from her bowl and waiting for Ryan to leave so that she can eat. The cat has a name, but Voldemort is a stupid fucking name for a cat, so Ryan just thinks of her as cat.
He leaves the cat with her food, putters around for a couple of hours, putting away laundry and tidying up, takes a book with him to bed, but turns off the light before finishing a full chapter. Lies in the dark and listens to the sounds of the house creaking. It's an old house, but somehow manages to be noisy like the wood is still settling into the foundation. Ryan thinks it sounds like footsteps. Like movement down the hall, even though he knows there's no one else in the house, no one but him and the cat.
*
Ryan walks the garbage bin to the foot of his driveway.
"Hidey ho, neighbour," Jon says. He's wearing flip flops, sport shorts and a white t-shirt.
Ryan has on cords, a button up, his plaid vest, a cardigan, and a lilac scarf. He sets down the garbage bin and fiddles with his bracelet, running his thumb over the wooden beads as he waits for Jon to finish stacking bags. Jon always puts out a lot more trash than Ryan does, but he's got a wife and an eight month old and Ryan's just got himself.
"Good morning," Ryan says, when Jon looks up.
Jon wrinkles his eyebrows, and says, "Not really. Did you hear the Henderson's kid roll in last night? Three in the morning and I could feel the bass from his music, I swear. I don't know what asshole thought it would be a good idea to put a subwoofer in the car, and then give that car to a sixteen year old. You have a car when you were sixteen?"
"Sort of," Ryan says. "Technically I had a Bug, but it didn't run most of the time, and when it would drive I shared it with my best friend, so I had half of a car, half of the time."
"I bet you weren't blaring music when you came home at night."
"Nah," Ryan says. "I was sneaking back, so I kept the music off. The noise wake up the baby?"
"Yeah," Jon says. "Cassie's fucking pissed. She's thinking of saying something to his parents."
"Mhh," Ryan says, wiggling his finger between two beads. Living in a neighbourhood is weird, and people keep assuming that just because he has a house it means that he's an adult person. He arranged to rent it in a series of emails, having found the listing on Craigslist, and moved in without first coming to check the house in person. The owner rents it to him at the same rate year round, even though the rent usually tripled during the summer months, so Ryan doesn't complain when it turned out that the carpet peels away from the walls, and the back door blows open through the night if Ryan doesn't tie the handle to a peg on the wall. When it turned out that only two of the burners on the stove actually produce heat.
Jon says, "Yeah, so, anyway, I think some of us are going to go down to Herman's tonight. You feel like coming?"
Ryan shakes his head. He doesn't even bother making up excuses anymore, because it's clear that Jon only invites him along out of some sense of neighbourly obligation. Ryan can handle five minutes of domesticated small talk with Jon; anything more than that might drive him insane.
"Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me."
"Thanks," Ryan says. "Have fun."
He walks back into the house and turns on his computer. He checks his email and starts opening the things that he needs to reply to in new tabs. Being a Digital Marketing Coordinator is pretty much the same as what he was doing in high school, except that he's pimping other people's bands instead of his own. He managed to convince Pete Wentz to come down to hear his shitty high school band: just him, singing and butchering the guitar part, and Spencer because Brent couldn't even make it over that night. Pete said, "Your band is shit, but you're good at selling it," and gave him a job at Decaydance.
He's supposed to do his work in the main office, but he told them he was moving and didn't offer to resign, and no one fired him, so now he's working from home. It's pretty much the same as working from the office, except that he gets more done, especially when he loses track of time and ends up spending half the night replying to messages on MySpace. On the plus side, he doesn't feel especially lonely, even though he's been living in this town for months and months and has yet to make a friend. Ryan moved to get away from people, anyway. He's not even very friendly with the stupid cat, but that somehow feels like more of a disappointment.
*
Spencer calls while he's on his lunch break.
"I'm booking Pink Cucumbers on a tour down the west coast this summer, and I think we're putting the dates up sometime this week, just as a head's up."
"Alrighty," Ryan says. He put in a good word for Spencer when he was looking for work after high school, but then that rat bastard went and got a whole bunch of promotions, and now he's got his own little stack of baby bands. Ryan thought that Spencer would answer phones or something, not become a booking agent.
The good part of that is that Spencer always remembers to pay his utility bills, so Ryan was able to live with him after the jerkoff power company cut his heat last winter. Ryan's been good about paying his bills since he moved, though. The house is a little cold right now, but Ryan is pretty much entirely sure that that's because a window is open somewhere.
"So," Spencer says, after what Ryan realizes must have been a long pause. "How's it going?"
"I don't know," Ryan says. "Good, I think." After another beat he asks, "How about you?"
"Good," Spencer says. "Yup."
Ryan starts fiddling with the corner of his mousepad, pushing his finger into the firm foam padding.
"I'm not sleeping very well," Ryan says eventually. "The house makes a lot of noise."
"Do you think it's the mice?" Spencer asks.
"I'm pretty sure I've gotten rid of them." He corrects himself. "I'm pretty sure that the exterminator got rid of them, thank you for figuring out who I was supposed to call about that. It's just noises, not theft of breakfast food."
"You should get a dog," Spencer says. Then, "Shut it, I can hear you rolling your eyes."
Ryan blinks quickly, looking down at one fix spot on his desk. "No, you can't."
"I could," Spencer says. "I'm just saying--"
"Dude, I know," Ryan says. "A dog would be able to guard the house and I'd feel safer and it would be good for getting me out of the house each day to walk it, and anyway I ended up with an evil cat, I know. You've said it all a million times."
"And yet," Spencer says.
"And yet, I still don't think I'm ready for a dog."
"Do you think that Keltie's going to give Hobo back?" Spencer asks.
"No," Ryan says. "Not for longer than a couple weeks at a time, but that's my point. I can't take care of a dog right now."
"Dogs are actual pets," Spencer says. The line goes quiet for a moment and then Spencer sighs, says, "You're all by yourself out there."
"I'm doing okay," Ryan says. "This is what I need right now. I'll come visit you soon, okay? I'll spent the entire trip hanging out with your dogs and get my fill. Don't worry."
"When?" Spencer asks. "When are you going to come?"
"Definitely sometime this summer probably, or maybe at the end of August or something? I could come down for our birthdays."
"That's like six months away," Spencer says.
"Also possibly before then?" Ryan says.
"I'll book you a plane ticket," Spencer says. "You can come back this weekend and stay for as long as you want."
"I can't just leave," Ryan says. "This is where I live now. And anyway, I've got to be here to feed the cat."
"The fucking cat," Spencer says. "The least you could do is to give her a new name."
"I don't know what her name should be," Ryan says.
"Yeah, gee, that's a tough one," Spencer says. "It'd have to be something, hmm, something that... something that wasn't motherfucking Voldemort, Jesus, Ryan, just pick anything else."
"I kind of like it," Ryan says. "It's like the cat who must not be named. Anyway, don't even talk to me about this: you named your dogs after Star Wars characters."
"You only bring that up when you know I'm right about something," Spencer says. "My lunch break is over now, so I've got to go. Anytime you want to come, seriously. I'll make all the arrangements."
"Sure," Ryan says. Spencer's nice about always asking him to come, but he and Haley don't even have a guest bedroom and the springs in their couch are very sharp. Spencer's been inviting him over since they were kids and Ryan thinks it must be automatic for him after all these years.
"Take care of yourself," Spencer says, and then hangs up the phone.
Ryan sets the phone down, lifts up his arms and stretches before beginning to type again.
*
The cat is lying at the foot of Ryan's bed.
"Hey," he says, walking over and crouching down in front of her. He runs his hand slowly down her back, lifts his hand to pet her again, but she bolts before he makes contact.
"Okay, bye," Ryan says to the empty space on the bed. He stands up and walks to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
*
Tuesday morning, and Ryan puts on his green pants and pink striped shirt to walk the garbage to the front of the driveway.
Jon's a little earlier than him this time, so he's already at the edge of the street, trying to stuff a pizza box into the green garbage can.
"You want to just stick that in mine?" Ryan offers, lifting his own lid in offering. He's only got one garbage bag in the the can, so it's still half empty.
"Thanks," Jon says. He puts the pizza box into Ryan’s garbage can, and says, "A couple of the guys are heading down to Herman's tonight. You want to come with?"
Ryan shakes his head automatically, but stops himself halfway through. "What is Herman's?" he finally asks.
Jon laughs. "The pub on Main Street. They've got chicken wings spicy enough to make hair grown on your balls." He snorts and says, "More hair."
"Just what I've always wanted," Ryan says.
"So are you coming?" Jon asks.
Ryan doesn't know yet, but he says, "Sure," figuring that he can bail later.
--
Except that Jon walks over at 6:15, rings Ryan's doorbell, and says, "You ready to head down?" without any preamble.
Ryan blinks, but then shrugs. "Yeah, I guess so." He calls out, "Goodbye, cat," even though he hasn't seen the cat all day, and he doesn't even know if she's actually inside the house. He leaves the window in his bedroom open, so she comes and goes as she pleases.
"Bye, cat," Jon echoes. While Ryan locks the door, Jon says, "I love cats. Cassie and I really want to get one."
"Oh, yeah?" Ryan says. He doesn't know what Jon would need a cat for when he's already got a wife and a baby.
"What's your cat's name?" asks Jon as they make their way down the street.
"I didn't name her," Ryan says.
"She doesn't have a name?" Jon asks. "Why not?"
"She does have a name," Ryan says. "But I wasn't the one who gave it to her. I got her from the shelter, so someone else named her, and it's not a great idea to let kids name pets, just, you know, in case you were thinking of getting something for Bobby."
"Dude, whatever, I still can't believe that anyone let me name a kid. Naming stuff is hard."
Jon's kid is named Bob, not Robert, but everyone calls him Bobby.
"How'd you choose the name?" Ryan asks.
"In college, me and Cass had a couple of guinea pigs named Dylan and Marley, so--"
"So one day he'll be like, 'Dad, am I named after musicians?' And you'll be like, 'Well, technically you're named after guinea pigs, but the guinea pigs were named after musicians,'" Ryan says.
Jon nods. "Alternatively, and it's too soon to tell for sure but me and Cassie have a good feeling about this: lying to children is always a good option."
--
Herman's has huge oak tables and tall narrow chairs that are more like stools.
Jon introduces Ryan to Tom, who works at the photo store with Jon, and Nick and his roommate De'Mar.
Their server's name is Brendon. Ryan knows this because of the name tag pinned to his bright red t-shirt, and because he says, "Evening, guys. My name is Brendon and I'll be your server."
"Bden!" Jon says, lifting his hand to high-five Brendon. "You're back."
"Indeed I am," Brendon says. "You want to start with a couple of pitchers?"
"Yeah," Jon says. "Can we have extra lemons?"
"Hey, you know I always take care of you," Brendon says. He tucks his little pad of paper into the apron without writing anything on it and says, "Back in a jiffy."
"Wow, the winter has passed quickly," Jon says. "It's always funny when the summer folk start showing up again."
"Pretty soon this place'll be overrun with tourists," Tom complains.
"This town only comes to life when it's sunny," Jon tells Ryan. "A bunch of people come flooding in, so places start hiring extra staff. There's actually a whole back room over there--" Jon gestures behind himself, "that they don't even bother opening up in the winter."
Brendon comes back and sets a stack of glasses and a bowl of lemons on their table, dashes off and returns with a couple pitchers of beer.
"Thanks, dude," Jon says.
"You want to order, or should I give you a minute?" Brendon asks.
Jon pushes his menu forward without opening it. "I want a burger with cheese and bacon and no pickles."
Ryan opens his menu and quickly starts scanning it.
"Wings, I guess," he says when it's his turn to order.
"How hot do you like it?" Brendon asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
Ryan looks over at Jon, who laughs loudly.
"I didn't mean to scare you off," Jon says.
"Aww, you warned him?" Brendon asks. "That's no fun."
"I worked here for a summer a few years ago," Tom says. "Best part of the job is goading tourists into ordering food that's way too hot."
"Except that then you have to spend the rest of the night refilling their water glasses," Brendon says.
"I'm not a tourist," Ryan says, "so however spicy that is, please."
"I've gotcha," Brendon says. He's got a huge pile of napkins in his apron, so this time he tucks the pad into the pockets of his pants. Ryan is impressed that he manages to squeeze it in, given that his jeans look like they’re painted on.
"If Brendon's back it means they'll start doing open mic night soon," Tom says.
"Oh yeah," Jon says, "you're right."
"I think that's why Brendon keeps coming back each summer," Tom says. "The tips aren't that good, but they always let him have an hour to himself on stage."
"Open mic?" Ryan asks. "You guys ever play?"
Tom starts laughing. He look at Nick then elbows Jon while he says, "We were in a band together, in high school. Jon sang."
"Whatever," Jon says. "Only 'cause you said it was too hard to play guitar and sing at the same time."
"That was while I worked here," Tom says. "We got a lot of stage time. Always after the tourists got their chance to sing, though. When everyone was starting to leave. Brendon gets to play at seven, because they're not afraid of him scaring the crowd away."
Brendon pops up again, carrying a couple plates of French fries. "My ears are burning," he says. "What have you been saying about me?"
"Waiters should be seen, not heard," Tom says.
"Waiters shouldn't leave halfway through their shifts and forget to come back," Brendon fires back. "Marg still talks about that one."
Tom grumbles. "There was a sun shower, I wanted to take pictures."
"You walked out carrying someone's turkey sandwich," Brendon says.
"The weather waits for no man!"
"Nor do tourists."
"Point," Tom says.
Brendon slides Ryan's plate of wings onto the table. "I gave you extra ranch sauce," he says. "That's the trick to cutting the spice."
"Thanks," Ryan says.
"You guys need more beer?" Brendon asks, reaching for the empty pitchers. "Wait? Why did I even bother asking that?"
"I missed you while you were gone," Jon says, batting his eyelashes at Brendon.
--
"How are you holding up?" Brendon asks.
Ryan's face is covered in sauce, his fingers are coated. He's long since used up the pile of napkins that Brendon brought over, so he can't even wipe off his face before saying, "Good," adding a little apologetic nod down at the mess he's made all over the table.
"You look like a man well satisfied," Brendon agrees. He grabs Ryan's pile of used napkins, Tom's empty plate, and a couple of the side plates that have been pushed toward the center of the table. "Need anything else? Should I fill that up again?" he asks, looking at the empty pitcher of beer.
Ryan doesn't even know how many pitchers they've gone through, except that it's been a lot. Hanging out with Jon wasn't nearly as bad as he thought it would be, especially given that Jon's the only one with a family. His friends don't seem to be especially settled down, and no one talked about mileage on minivans or brands of baby monitors.
Ryan pushes away from the table, lifting his hands and saying, "I need to wash up. The bathroom?"
They all start pointing at the same time, and Ryan makes his way slowly over to the other side of the bar.
He's drunk, and he spends a lot time washing chicken wings off his fingers, splashing cold water all over his face. He has been feeling pretty good, but as he stands by himself in the bathroom, he thinks of Jon sitting at the table with his friends, how they come here every week and he's never been here before, and that if he didn't come again it wouldn't make any difference. He can stand in the bathroom for as long as he wants, and conversation will go on without him. He's tempted to sneak out the back.
He's bent over the sink, splashing his fingers under the stream of cold water, when someone else comes into the bathroom.
"Thought maybe you'd gotten distracted checking for hair on your balls," Jon says.
"I'm saving that for when I get home," Ryan says. "Gotta have something to look forward to."
Jon snorts, then walks over to the urinals.
Ryan finishes washing his hands and stands by the paper towel dispenser, waiting for Jon to finish.
He didn't want to have people counting on him; that was the whole point in moving. He feels annoyed at himself for being maudlin. If he wanted to be around people who knew him, he wouldn't have left.
"We decided against another pitcher," Jon says.
"Probably for the best," Ryan says.
--
Walking home is about a million times better than having to catch a cab. Ryan says goodnight to Jon, and walks back into his empty house. All the lights are off, and it's difficult to make his way up the stairs blind. When he gets to his bedroom, the cat is lying on the foot of his bed, though she makes a run for it when she sees that he's arrived.
Ryan undresses, washes up, and takes his laptop into bed with him. He's probably still wasted, so he doesn't log into anything work related. Instead, he types up a long blog post that doesn't even make sense to him. Saves it in the drafts folder of his email instead of clicking post.
*
Ryan wonders if he should buy wet cat food or just stick with the dry stuff. The wet food is way more expensive, and it's going to be a pain to carry a bagful of cans back to the house since he's on foot, but maybe it would be nice for the cat to have a treat. He could also buy some actual cat treats.
He looks at the package: seven calories per treat. Cats are like ten pounds, which is like... one tenth smaller than a person. No, probably more than that. Maybe one twelfth or something. So seven calories for a cat would be like seven times twelve calories for a person? Is that how it works? What is seven times twelve anyway? Ryan never could figure out the twelve times tables. Eighty-four. But how many calories are cats supposed to have in a day?
The people at the shelter said that he wasn't supposed to feed the cat shitty food because she's getting old. Ten doesn't seem that old to Ryan, but he'll take their word on it. Treats probably count as shitty food.
"X-ray vision?"
Ryan startles and looks up, spinning around. The waiter from the other night is standing behind him. Brendon.
"What's that?" Ryan asks.
"You suddenly develop x-ray vision?" Brendon asks. At Ryan's blank look he grins and says, "You're staring awfully hard at that package."
"Oh," Ryan says, looking down. He shrugs his shoulders and says, "I was just trying to decide. You know anything about cat food?"
Brendon shakes his head. "I've just got a dog. Sorry, dude."
Ryan twitches the corners of his mouth up and says, "Don't worry about it. You buying food for your dog?"
"Oh, nah," Brendon says. He nods to the right. "I was heading to laundry detergent. My dog's living with Shane. I come up here for the summer, but he stays back in the house."
"You come up here to work?"
"Yeah," Brendon says. "I mean, it's basically just the same to wait tables no matter where you are, but I like being by the ocean, and it's sweet that they'll give me some time on stage. It's just playing for tourists, but--"
"Hey, a show's a show," Ryan says. "I played in a bowling alley once."
"You're in a band?" Brendon asks.
"Oh, no," Ryan says. "Not for ages now. That was in high school."
"I've kind of always just done my own thing," Brendon says. "Being in a band would be awesome."
"Eh," Ryan says. He reaches over and puts the cat treats back on the shelf.
"Well, good luck with your cat," Brendon says, taking a couple of step over to where his cart is sitting.
"Thanks," Ryan says. "I need it."
Brendon says goodbye and walks away, and Ryan turns back to the shelves, eyeing the rows and rows of choices. Too many choices: that's always been a problem for him.
*
The cat doesn't seem to like her new food very much; Ryan's glad that he only bought a small bag. The shopping trip wasn't a great success, all in all. Ryan doesn't like the new juice that he bought himself. Pomegranate and blueberries sounded good, but it's too dry. He's determined to finish the bottle.
He sits at the kitchen table, drinking the juice and trying to decide what he wants to make for supper, when someone knocks on his door.
"I don't actually know your phone number," Jon says. "I was going to try and throw a tin can on a string through your window, but my aim just isn't what it used to be."
Ryan nods. "Those mid-twenties really take a lot out of you."
"Exactly. So, anyway, I was going to head up to Herman's for a bit. Cassie's sister is visiting, and they keep talking about breast feeding, and I love my wife and I love my baby, but I just don't know how much talk of nipple pain my stomach can take. The skin cracks and it's just-- gahh."
Ryan makes a face, but tries to smooth his features when he sees Jon looking at him.
"I'm glad I'm not a woman," Jon says.
"Beards over babies," Ryan agrees.
"So, you want to head down?" Jon asks.
"Sure," Ryan says, glad not to have to cook.
--
It's busier this time, and they have to wait a few minutes for someone to find them a table.
"I can't stay too long," Jon says. "There's a roast in the oven; I've probably just got time for a drink."
"Sure," Ryan says. "I'm going to let someone else cook for me tonight, but you can take off whenever you need to."
Jon leans back in his chair and stretches. "Nice to get out of the house," he says.
"Not so much fond of your inlaws?" Ryan asks.
Jon scrunches up one cheek, and says, "Well, they're fine. And they're going to take Bobby to the park tomorrow, so me and Cassie will have the house to ourselves all afternoon, and that'll be fucking aces. You have siblings?"
"Sort of," Ryan says. "Half siblings. But I never see them, so not really. They're younger, too. No kids."
"Other people's kids suck," Jon says. "I mean, whatever, I like my brothers' kids, but for the most part--"
"This guy I grew up with is married," Ryan says. "I will probably like his kids, if he ever reproduces."
"Well, don't tell him if you don't," Jon says.
"I'll keep that in mind. I probably wouldn't see them all that much anyway."
"How come?"
"Eh, you know how it is," Ryan says. "Grow older, grow apart. We don't have as much in common as we used to."
Ryan orders a mushroom burger and he and Jon both get a pint of beer. Jon finishes his before the food arrives, and leaves money on the table before standing up.
"Good luck with the nipple talk," Ryan says.
"Enjoy not having to cook," says Jon, giving a little salute before leaving.
Ryan plays with the edge of his napkin and waits of his food to arrive. He never thought anything of eating by himself, but right now he feels a little self-conscious. The town isn't small enough for everyone to know everyone - he doesn't think it is, anyway - but still everyone else seems to be at crowded tables.
The noise in the pub grows and grows, and then suddenly dims. Ryan looks around, and sees that the stage has been set up. Brendon walks out with his guitar and sits on a tall stool, just him in front of a microphone.
Brendon leans forward and says, "Hellooo," in a low voice, which makes the crowd laugh and quiet even further.
"How are you guys doing tonight?" Brendon asks. "How's your food? Pretty good? Are you remembering to be kind to your waiters? I'm going to play a few songs for you, so you might want to order that extra drink quickly." He wiggles his eyebrows and grins, and Ryan smiles back, even though he knows that Brendon can't see him.
"I've got a few songs you'll probably recognize and some you won't," Brendon says. "And then afterwards I'll turn over the mic."
Brendon starts playing. Somewhere in there, Ryan's food comes and he eats automatically, his attention still focused on the front of the room. Brendon's just sitting, but still he manages to work up enough of a sweat to soak through his shirt.
Ryan finishes his burger and spends the next hour nibbling on the remaining fries, listening to the music and making eyes at the pretty blonde sitting at the bar. Brendon's a good singer and Ryan's sick of being alone in his house all the time.
--
The pretty blonde's name is Felicia. She's on a roadtrip with a couple of her girlfriends, but they're back in the inn; she'd rather recharge by going out. She sits at his table and eats the rest of his fries.
"Can I buy you some?" Ryan asks. "There're only the soggy ones left."
"My own fault," Felicia says. "I took too long to come over and say hi."
Ryan laughs and offers to go get her a drink.
"We're leaving early tomorrow," she says. "But thanks anyway."
She's sharing a room with her friends, but she's happy enough to come back to Ryan's place.
"Are you a local?" she asks as they walk down the street after Brendon's set is done.
"Kind of," Ryan says. "I just moved here."
"Yeah?" she asks. "I thought this would be more the kind of place that people would be trying to get out of."
"Not really," Ryan says, "from what I can tell. It's pretty dead in the winter, but lots of people come down to work in the summer."
"How are you settling in?"
"Well," Ryan says.
"That good, huh?" Felicia asks.
Ryan shakes his head and throws his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in. They have to walk slower like this, but it's nice to be close to another person.
"It's been... different," he says. "But that was kind of the point."
"The point of moving?"
"Yeah. I needed a change of scenery." He gestures up ahead and says, "I'm just down this street."
--
Felicia has to leave right afterwards to get back to her room. Ryan reaches over and picks up her underwear off the floor, passing them over.
She laughs and says, "Thanks," bending over and sliding them up her legs. She has nice legs.
Ryan offers to walk her back to the inn, but she says, "No, thanks. I remember how to get back."
He walks her to the door instead, and after she's put her shoes on he crowds her up against the wall, kissing her slow and steady. He's still a little sticky from sex and after she's gone he's going to brush his teeth, but there's something nice about this kind of kissing. There's nothing to prove now.
"Good luck settling in," she says, leaning back against the wall and looking up at him. Her mascara and eyeliner has smudged in a way that makes her eyes look huge. "I hope your cat stops hating you."
"Good luck telling your parents that you're not going back to college," Ryan says.
She gives him a crooked smile. They kiss again, and it feels comfortable, the strange and easy intimacy between strangers. Ryan likes this, has always liked this.
Felicia leaves. Ryan walks around the house turning off the lights. He puts more food in the cat's bowl and hops in the shower, rinsing off quickly. His bed smells like sex when he lies down, but he'll wait until tomorrow to change the sheets.
*
"How's it going?" Ryan calls to Jon as he collects his mail.
"Awesome," Jon says. "Cassie's sister is going to take the baby for the day so we've got the house to ourselves."
"Nice," Ryan says.
"I'd almost forgotten what a quiet house sounded like," Jon says.
"Have fun with that," Ryan says, waving goodbye as he walks back into his house.
He leafs through the small stack of letters: they're all bills and advertisements. He powers up his computer, doesn't the email from Spencer until he's looked through everything else. Spencer's sent him a couple of links to stupid youtube videos and a reminder to update DisContinuation's MySpace page. Ryan watches the videos and doesn't bother replying to the email.
He works for a while before something distracts him away from the computer monitor. He lifts his head, trying to figure out what it was. It must have been - it smells like -
Ryan gets up, opens a window and - yeah, he's pretty sure he's smelling what he thinks he's smelling. He walks around, out the back door and the smell gets stronger. He looks around his backyard, but doesn't see anyone.
He walks over to the side of the yard and curls his fingers over the top of the fence, pulling himself up. He peeks over the top, and Jon and Cassie wave sheepishly at him, sitting cross-legged on the lawn, side by side.
"Whoa," Ryan says. He sinks back on his heels, then rocks forward again.
"You coming over or what?" Jon asks.
--
They finish the joint together.
Ryan says, "I wouldn't have guessed that you two--"
"Not much anymore," Jon says, shrugging.
"Because of the baby," Ryan says.
"Because of the baby," Jon agrees.
Ryan doesn't say anything, but something in his expression must give him away.
Jon raises his eyebrows and says, "You one of those confirmed bachelor types?"
Ryan shrugs. He wishes they hadn't finished the joint already. "I was engaged," he says.
"Yeah?" Jon asks.
Ryan shrugs again, and doesn't say anything. He sees Jon exchange a look with Cassie, but he doesn't look too closely to try and figure out what it meant.
He leans backward, holding himself up with his palms flat to the glass. The tips of the blades feel prickly on his skin. He's not baked or anything, but he feels nice. He was surprised to find Jon and Cassie back here, but he feels a little less like an alien in the neighbourhood now. He's been trying to half-smoke in his bathroom, half-out the window, but it's tricky to find that balance of not stinking up the house, and not smoking out the neighbourhood. He doesn't want to piss off his landlord, but he also doesn't want to make his neighbours angry.
"I support other people getting married," Ryan says.
Jon tips sideways and gives Cassie what looks to be a very wet kiss on the cheek. She wrinkles up her nose, her face pulled back in a way that shows both of her dimples. Ryan can feel himself smiling at them, and he looks down instead.
"So you're not engaged anymore?" Cassie asks.
"No," Ryan says. "Not anymore."
--
The cat jumps up on the couch beside him.
Ryan is still feeling a little baked. Just a little bit, not too much. He'd asked Jon and Cassie back to his place, but they didn't want to still be buzzed when the in-laws came back, so Ryan ended up hitting his bong by himself. It's been a few hours since then, time for dinner soon. His couch feels so firm beneath him, like he wants to like down, but he thinks it will be too hard under his cheek. The cat doesn't seem to be having trouble though; she's lying down.
"Hey, kitty," Ryan says before stroking along her back slowly. He hasn't been sleeping well, and he's crashing harder now than he normally would. The cat's fur is soft, and Ryan is glad not to be alone in his house.
He almost wishes that Spencer lived nearby. Then he could go over to Spencer's house, maybe toke up a little with Haley while Spencer cooked something for dinner. Spencer's a pretty decent cook, mostly because he covers everything with cheese and butter.
The cat gets up and starts walking in circles. She doesn't seem to be moving away from Ryan though, just moving. He keeps petting her lightly, and eventually she settles again on the couch. She's maybe a little bit closer now than before. Ryan wishes he could convince her to sit in his lap. Hobo was always so clingy, which was mildly annoying when Ryan had shit to get done. Keltie would get mad at him for locking Hobo out of his room, but he had trouble working with the dog demanding constant attention. He would like to give her some attention now. For her to lie on his lap, or maybe on the couch beside him so they could both stretch out together.
He thinks of Keltie, and feels his stomach tighten. It's something like missing her and something like guilt and something like just missing who she was in his life: someone he could rely on. He brushes his fingers over the downy hair under the cat's chin.
She lets him. Just for a while, though, and when she squirms away and curls up at the other end of the couch, Ryan gets up and walks to the kitchen.
He doesn't know what he wants to cook, but he knows he's hungry.
*
On to Part Two
Ryan (Ryan/OFC, past Ryan/Keltie, other canon pairings) | PG-13 | ~ 14000 words | AU
Ryan moves to a small town and adopts The Cat Who Must Not Be Named. He befriends his neighbour Jon, a new father, and Brendon, the waiter at the local bar.
Big thanks to jocondite and queen_geek for their beta help!
Title is from Change by The Young Veins, cut text is from "Song" by Adrienne Rich.
If I'm lonely
it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it's neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning.
-- From Song by Adrienne Rich
The cat seems to be feeling prickly today. She holds still when Ryan reaches for her, staring straight ahead with wide eyes while he skims the back of his hand over her cheek, just barely brushing across the tips of her fur. He moves his hand carefully; it takes a number of gentle sweeps before she finally ducks her head, allowing Ryan to rub his knuckles over the top of her head.
Ryan thought he needed company, but didn't think he was ready for another dog yet, and it seemed like a cat would be easy to look after. The people at the shelter didn't know much about what her other owners were like, and now Ryan has a suspicious cat, a full-grown cat when he should have gotten a kitten. He didn't even look at the kittens when he was there, didn't think he had the energy for one.
The cat is grown and shaped by some other family that gave her up when the youngest child finally left for university. She never sits on his lap - Hobo always sat with him when he watched TV - and she never comes when he calls and she won't eat if he's in the same room.
Ryan drags the backs of his fingers over the curve of the cat's small head then pulls his hand away, rubbing his palms together to brush away the stray hairs clinging to his skin. He leaves the cat, lying on the couch, and walks into the kitchen.
He makes himself dinner: grilled cheese and a handful of baby carrots from the bag in the fridge, and puts out dry food for the cat. It's past seven and still light outside. The days are getting longer, but spring's not quite here yet. Everyone tells him that their town is beautiful in the summer, and he says that he looks forward to seeing it. He's probably the only resident of the town who's living there through the winter but hasn't been around for a summer before. Usually it's opposite: people coming for the summer and leaving before it gets cold.
Ryan doesn't much care about experiencing the idyllic summer living offered by this little town on the coast. He was looking for somewhere far away and easy, and the rent for this house is only a couple hundred more than his one bedroom apartment was back in the city.
The cat comes into the kitchen, sitting a couple feet away from her bowl and waiting for Ryan to leave so that she can eat. The cat has a name, but Voldemort is a stupid fucking name for a cat, so Ryan just thinks of her as cat.
He leaves the cat with her food, putters around for a couple of hours, putting away laundry and tidying up, takes a book with him to bed, but turns off the light before finishing a full chapter. Lies in the dark and listens to the sounds of the house creaking. It's an old house, but somehow manages to be noisy like the wood is still settling into the foundation. Ryan thinks it sounds like footsteps. Like movement down the hall, even though he knows there's no one else in the house, no one but him and the cat.
*
Ryan walks the garbage bin to the foot of his driveway.
"Hidey ho, neighbour," Jon says. He's wearing flip flops, sport shorts and a white t-shirt.
Ryan has on cords, a button up, his plaid vest, a cardigan, and a lilac scarf. He sets down the garbage bin and fiddles with his bracelet, running his thumb over the wooden beads as he waits for Jon to finish stacking bags. Jon always puts out a lot more trash than Ryan does, but he's got a wife and an eight month old and Ryan's just got himself.
"Good morning," Ryan says, when Jon looks up.
Jon wrinkles his eyebrows, and says, "Not really. Did you hear the Henderson's kid roll in last night? Three in the morning and I could feel the bass from his music, I swear. I don't know what asshole thought it would be a good idea to put a subwoofer in the car, and then give that car to a sixteen year old. You have a car when you were sixteen?"
"Sort of," Ryan says. "Technically I had a Bug, but it didn't run most of the time, and when it would drive I shared it with my best friend, so I had half of a car, half of the time."
"I bet you weren't blaring music when you came home at night."
"Nah," Ryan says. "I was sneaking back, so I kept the music off. The noise wake up the baby?"
"Yeah," Jon says. "Cassie's fucking pissed. She's thinking of saying something to his parents."
"Mhh," Ryan says, wiggling his finger between two beads. Living in a neighbourhood is weird, and people keep assuming that just because he has a house it means that he's an adult person. He arranged to rent it in a series of emails, having found the listing on Craigslist, and moved in without first coming to check the house in person. The owner rents it to him at the same rate year round, even though the rent usually tripled during the summer months, so Ryan doesn't complain when it turned out that the carpet peels away from the walls, and the back door blows open through the night if Ryan doesn't tie the handle to a peg on the wall. When it turned out that only two of the burners on the stove actually produce heat.
Jon says, "Yeah, so, anyway, I think some of us are going to go down to Herman's tonight. You feel like coming?"
Ryan shakes his head. He doesn't even bother making up excuses anymore, because it's clear that Jon only invites him along out of some sense of neighbourly obligation. Ryan can handle five minutes of domesticated small talk with Jon; anything more than that might drive him insane.
"Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me."
"Thanks," Ryan says. "Have fun."
He walks back into the house and turns on his computer. He checks his email and starts opening the things that he needs to reply to in new tabs. Being a Digital Marketing Coordinator is pretty much the same as what he was doing in high school, except that he's pimping other people's bands instead of his own. He managed to convince Pete Wentz to come down to hear his shitty high school band: just him, singing and butchering the guitar part, and Spencer because Brent couldn't even make it over that night. Pete said, "Your band is shit, but you're good at selling it," and gave him a job at Decaydance.
He's supposed to do his work in the main office, but he told them he was moving and didn't offer to resign, and no one fired him, so now he's working from home. It's pretty much the same as working from the office, except that he gets more done, especially when he loses track of time and ends up spending half the night replying to messages on MySpace. On the plus side, he doesn't feel especially lonely, even though he's been living in this town for months and months and has yet to make a friend. Ryan moved to get away from people, anyway. He's not even very friendly with the stupid cat, but that somehow feels like more of a disappointment.
*
Spencer calls while he's on his lunch break.
"I'm booking Pink Cucumbers on a tour down the west coast this summer, and I think we're putting the dates up sometime this week, just as a head's up."
"Alrighty," Ryan says. He put in a good word for Spencer when he was looking for work after high school, but then that rat bastard went and got a whole bunch of promotions, and now he's got his own little stack of baby bands. Ryan thought that Spencer would answer phones or something, not become a booking agent.
The good part of that is that Spencer always remembers to pay his utility bills, so Ryan was able to live with him after the jerkoff power company cut his heat last winter. Ryan's been good about paying his bills since he moved, though. The house is a little cold right now, but Ryan is pretty much entirely sure that that's because a window is open somewhere.
"So," Spencer says, after what Ryan realizes must have been a long pause. "How's it going?"
"I don't know," Ryan says. "Good, I think." After another beat he asks, "How about you?"
"Good," Spencer says. "Yup."
Ryan starts fiddling with the corner of his mousepad, pushing his finger into the firm foam padding.
"I'm not sleeping very well," Ryan says eventually. "The house makes a lot of noise."
"Do you think it's the mice?" Spencer asks.
"I'm pretty sure I've gotten rid of them." He corrects himself. "I'm pretty sure that the exterminator got rid of them, thank you for figuring out who I was supposed to call about that. It's just noises, not theft of breakfast food."
"You should get a dog," Spencer says. Then, "Shut it, I can hear you rolling your eyes."
Ryan blinks quickly, looking down at one fix spot on his desk. "No, you can't."
"I could," Spencer says. "I'm just saying--"
"Dude, I know," Ryan says. "A dog would be able to guard the house and I'd feel safer and it would be good for getting me out of the house each day to walk it, and anyway I ended up with an evil cat, I know. You've said it all a million times."
"And yet," Spencer says.
"And yet, I still don't think I'm ready for a dog."
"Do you think that Keltie's going to give Hobo back?" Spencer asks.
"No," Ryan says. "Not for longer than a couple weeks at a time, but that's my point. I can't take care of a dog right now."
"Dogs are actual pets," Spencer says. The line goes quiet for a moment and then Spencer sighs, says, "You're all by yourself out there."
"I'm doing okay," Ryan says. "This is what I need right now. I'll come visit you soon, okay? I'll spent the entire trip hanging out with your dogs and get my fill. Don't worry."
"When?" Spencer asks. "When are you going to come?"
"Definitely sometime this summer probably, or maybe at the end of August or something? I could come down for our birthdays."
"That's like six months away," Spencer says.
"Also possibly before then?" Ryan says.
"I'll book you a plane ticket," Spencer says. "You can come back this weekend and stay for as long as you want."
"I can't just leave," Ryan says. "This is where I live now. And anyway, I've got to be here to feed the cat."
"The fucking cat," Spencer says. "The least you could do is to give her a new name."
"I don't know what her name should be," Ryan says.
"Yeah, gee, that's a tough one," Spencer says. "It'd have to be something, hmm, something that... something that wasn't motherfucking Voldemort, Jesus, Ryan, just pick anything else."
"I kind of like it," Ryan says. "It's like the cat who must not be named. Anyway, don't even talk to me about this: you named your dogs after Star Wars characters."
"You only bring that up when you know I'm right about something," Spencer says. "My lunch break is over now, so I've got to go. Anytime you want to come, seriously. I'll make all the arrangements."
"Sure," Ryan says. Spencer's nice about always asking him to come, but he and Haley don't even have a guest bedroom and the springs in their couch are very sharp. Spencer's been inviting him over since they were kids and Ryan thinks it must be automatic for him after all these years.
"Take care of yourself," Spencer says, and then hangs up the phone.
Ryan sets the phone down, lifts up his arms and stretches before beginning to type again.
*
The cat is lying at the foot of Ryan's bed.
"Hey," he says, walking over and crouching down in front of her. He runs his hand slowly down her back, lifts his hand to pet her again, but she bolts before he makes contact.
"Okay, bye," Ryan says to the empty space on the bed. He stands up and walks to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
*
Tuesday morning, and Ryan puts on his green pants and pink striped shirt to walk the garbage to the front of the driveway.
Jon's a little earlier than him this time, so he's already at the edge of the street, trying to stuff a pizza box into the green garbage can.
"You want to just stick that in mine?" Ryan offers, lifting his own lid in offering. He's only got one garbage bag in the the can, so it's still half empty.
"Thanks," Jon says. He puts the pizza box into Ryan’s garbage can, and says, "A couple of the guys are heading down to Herman's tonight. You want to come with?"
Ryan shakes his head automatically, but stops himself halfway through. "What is Herman's?" he finally asks.
Jon laughs. "The pub on Main Street. They've got chicken wings spicy enough to make hair grown on your balls." He snorts and says, "More hair."
"Just what I've always wanted," Ryan says.
"So are you coming?" Jon asks.
Ryan doesn't know yet, but he says, "Sure," figuring that he can bail later.
--
Except that Jon walks over at 6:15, rings Ryan's doorbell, and says, "You ready to head down?" without any preamble.
Ryan blinks, but then shrugs. "Yeah, I guess so." He calls out, "Goodbye, cat," even though he hasn't seen the cat all day, and he doesn't even know if she's actually inside the house. He leaves the window in his bedroom open, so she comes and goes as she pleases.
"Bye, cat," Jon echoes. While Ryan locks the door, Jon says, "I love cats. Cassie and I really want to get one."
"Oh, yeah?" Ryan says. He doesn't know what Jon would need a cat for when he's already got a wife and a baby.
"What's your cat's name?" asks Jon as they make their way down the street.
"I didn't name her," Ryan says.
"She doesn't have a name?" Jon asks. "Why not?"
"She does have a name," Ryan says. "But I wasn't the one who gave it to her. I got her from the shelter, so someone else named her, and it's not a great idea to let kids name pets, just, you know, in case you were thinking of getting something for Bobby."
"Dude, whatever, I still can't believe that anyone let me name a kid. Naming stuff is hard."
Jon's kid is named Bob, not Robert, but everyone calls him Bobby.
"How'd you choose the name?" Ryan asks.
"In college, me and Cass had a couple of guinea pigs named Dylan and Marley, so--"
"So one day he'll be like, 'Dad, am I named after musicians?' And you'll be like, 'Well, technically you're named after guinea pigs, but the guinea pigs were named after musicians,'" Ryan says.
Jon nods. "Alternatively, and it's too soon to tell for sure but me and Cassie have a good feeling about this: lying to children is always a good option."
--
Herman's has huge oak tables and tall narrow chairs that are more like stools.
Jon introduces Ryan to Tom, who works at the photo store with Jon, and Nick and his roommate De'Mar.
Their server's name is Brendon. Ryan knows this because of the name tag pinned to his bright red t-shirt, and because he says, "Evening, guys. My name is Brendon and I'll be your server."
"Bden!" Jon says, lifting his hand to high-five Brendon. "You're back."
"Indeed I am," Brendon says. "You want to start with a couple of pitchers?"
"Yeah," Jon says. "Can we have extra lemons?"
"Hey, you know I always take care of you," Brendon says. He tucks his little pad of paper into the apron without writing anything on it and says, "Back in a jiffy."
"Wow, the winter has passed quickly," Jon says. "It's always funny when the summer folk start showing up again."
"Pretty soon this place'll be overrun with tourists," Tom complains.
"This town only comes to life when it's sunny," Jon tells Ryan. "A bunch of people come flooding in, so places start hiring extra staff. There's actually a whole back room over there--" Jon gestures behind himself, "that they don't even bother opening up in the winter."
Brendon comes back and sets a stack of glasses and a bowl of lemons on their table, dashes off and returns with a couple pitchers of beer.
"Thanks, dude," Jon says.
"You want to order, or should I give you a minute?" Brendon asks.
Jon pushes his menu forward without opening it. "I want a burger with cheese and bacon and no pickles."
Ryan opens his menu and quickly starts scanning it.
"Wings, I guess," he says when it's his turn to order.
"How hot do you like it?" Brendon asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
Ryan looks over at Jon, who laughs loudly.
"I didn't mean to scare you off," Jon says.
"Aww, you warned him?" Brendon asks. "That's no fun."
"I worked here for a summer a few years ago," Tom says. "Best part of the job is goading tourists into ordering food that's way too hot."
"Except that then you have to spend the rest of the night refilling their water glasses," Brendon says.
"I'm not a tourist," Ryan says, "so however spicy that is, please."
"I've gotcha," Brendon says. He's got a huge pile of napkins in his apron, so this time he tucks the pad into the pockets of his pants. Ryan is impressed that he manages to squeeze it in, given that his jeans look like they’re painted on.
"If Brendon's back it means they'll start doing open mic night soon," Tom says.
"Oh yeah," Jon says, "you're right."
"I think that's why Brendon keeps coming back each summer," Tom says. "The tips aren't that good, but they always let him have an hour to himself on stage."
"Open mic?" Ryan asks. "You guys ever play?"
Tom starts laughing. He look at Nick then elbows Jon while he says, "We were in a band together, in high school. Jon sang."
"Whatever," Jon says. "Only 'cause you said it was too hard to play guitar and sing at the same time."
"That was while I worked here," Tom says. "We got a lot of stage time. Always after the tourists got their chance to sing, though. When everyone was starting to leave. Brendon gets to play at seven, because they're not afraid of him scaring the crowd away."
Brendon pops up again, carrying a couple plates of French fries. "My ears are burning," he says. "What have you been saying about me?"
"Waiters should be seen, not heard," Tom says.
"Waiters shouldn't leave halfway through their shifts and forget to come back," Brendon fires back. "Marg still talks about that one."
Tom grumbles. "There was a sun shower, I wanted to take pictures."
"You walked out carrying someone's turkey sandwich," Brendon says.
"The weather waits for no man!"
"Nor do tourists."
"Point," Tom says.
Brendon slides Ryan's plate of wings onto the table. "I gave you extra ranch sauce," he says. "That's the trick to cutting the spice."
"Thanks," Ryan says.
"You guys need more beer?" Brendon asks, reaching for the empty pitchers. "Wait? Why did I even bother asking that?"
"I missed you while you were gone," Jon says, batting his eyelashes at Brendon.
--
"How are you holding up?" Brendon asks.
Ryan's face is covered in sauce, his fingers are coated. He's long since used up the pile of napkins that Brendon brought over, so he can't even wipe off his face before saying, "Good," adding a little apologetic nod down at the mess he's made all over the table.
"You look like a man well satisfied," Brendon agrees. He grabs Ryan's pile of used napkins, Tom's empty plate, and a couple of the side plates that have been pushed toward the center of the table. "Need anything else? Should I fill that up again?" he asks, looking at the empty pitcher of beer.
Ryan doesn't even know how many pitchers they've gone through, except that it's been a lot. Hanging out with Jon wasn't nearly as bad as he thought it would be, especially given that Jon's the only one with a family. His friends don't seem to be especially settled down, and no one talked about mileage on minivans or brands of baby monitors.
Ryan pushes away from the table, lifting his hands and saying, "I need to wash up. The bathroom?"
They all start pointing at the same time, and Ryan makes his way slowly over to the other side of the bar.
He's drunk, and he spends a lot time washing chicken wings off his fingers, splashing cold water all over his face. He has been feeling pretty good, but as he stands by himself in the bathroom, he thinks of Jon sitting at the table with his friends, how they come here every week and he's never been here before, and that if he didn't come again it wouldn't make any difference. He can stand in the bathroom for as long as he wants, and conversation will go on without him. He's tempted to sneak out the back.
He's bent over the sink, splashing his fingers under the stream of cold water, when someone else comes into the bathroom.
"Thought maybe you'd gotten distracted checking for hair on your balls," Jon says.
"I'm saving that for when I get home," Ryan says. "Gotta have something to look forward to."
Jon snorts, then walks over to the urinals.
Ryan finishes washing his hands and stands by the paper towel dispenser, waiting for Jon to finish.
He didn't want to have people counting on him; that was the whole point in moving. He feels annoyed at himself for being maudlin. If he wanted to be around people who knew him, he wouldn't have left.
"We decided against another pitcher," Jon says.
"Probably for the best," Ryan says.
--
Walking home is about a million times better than having to catch a cab. Ryan says goodnight to Jon, and walks back into his empty house. All the lights are off, and it's difficult to make his way up the stairs blind. When he gets to his bedroom, the cat is lying on the foot of his bed, though she makes a run for it when she sees that he's arrived.
Ryan undresses, washes up, and takes his laptop into bed with him. He's probably still wasted, so he doesn't log into anything work related. Instead, he types up a long blog post that doesn't even make sense to him. Saves it in the drafts folder of his email instead of clicking post.
*
Ryan wonders if he should buy wet cat food or just stick with the dry stuff. The wet food is way more expensive, and it's going to be a pain to carry a bagful of cans back to the house since he's on foot, but maybe it would be nice for the cat to have a treat. He could also buy some actual cat treats.
He looks at the package: seven calories per treat. Cats are like ten pounds, which is like... one tenth smaller than a person. No, probably more than that. Maybe one twelfth or something. So seven calories for a cat would be like seven times twelve calories for a person? Is that how it works? What is seven times twelve anyway? Ryan never could figure out the twelve times tables. Eighty-four. But how many calories are cats supposed to have in a day?
The people at the shelter said that he wasn't supposed to feed the cat shitty food because she's getting old. Ten doesn't seem that old to Ryan, but he'll take their word on it. Treats probably count as shitty food.
"X-ray vision?"
Ryan startles and looks up, spinning around. The waiter from the other night is standing behind him. Brendon.
"What's that?" Ryan asks.
"You suddenly develop x-ray vision?" Brendon asks. At Ryan's blank look he grins and says, "You're staring awfully hard at that package."
"Oh," Ryan says, looking down. He shrugs his shoulders and says, "I was just trying to decide. You know anything about cat food?"
Brendon shakes his head. "I've just got a dog. Sorry, dude."
Ryan twitches the corners of his mouth up and says, "Don't worry about it. You buying food for your dog?"
"Oh, nah," Brendon says. He nods to the right. "I was heading to laundry detergent. My dog's living with Shane. I come up here for the summer, but he stays back in the house."
"You come up here to work?"
"Yeah," Brendon says. "I mean, it's basically just the same to wait tables no matter where you are, but I like being by the ocean, and it's sweet that they'll give me some time on stage. It's just playing for tourists, but--"
"Hey, a show's a show," Ryan says. "I played in a bowling alley once."
"You're in a band?" Brendon asks.
"Oh, no," Ryan says. "Not for ages now. That was in high school."
"I've kind of always just done my own thing," Brendon says. "Being in a band would be awesome."
"Eh," Ryan says. He reaches over and puts the cat treats back on the shelf.
"Well, good luck with your cat," Brendon says, taking a couple of step over to where his cart is sitting.
"Thanks," Ryan says. "I need it."
Brendon says goodbye and walks away, and Ryan turns back to the shelves, eyeing the rows and rows of choices. Too many choices: that's always been a problem for him.
*
The cat doesn't seem to like her new food very much; Ryan's glad that he only bought a small bag. The shopping trip wasn't a great success, all in all. Ryan doesn't like the new juice that he bought himself. Pomegranate and blueberries sounded good, but it's too dry. He's determined to finish the bottle.
He sits at the kitchen table, drinking the juice and trying to decide what he wants to make for supper, when someone knocks on his door.
"I don't actually know your phone number," Jon says. "I was going to try and throw a tin can on a string through your window, but my aim just isn't what it used to be."
Ryan nods. "Those mid-twenties really take a lot out of you."
"Exactly. So, anyway, I was going to head up to Herman's for a bit. Cassie's sister is visiting, and they keep talking about breast feeding, and I love my wife and I love my baby, but I just don't know how much talk of nipple pain my stomach can take. The skin cracks and it's just-- gahh."
Ryan makes a face, but tries to smooth his features when he sees Jon looking at him.
"I'm glad I'm not a woman," Jon says.
"Beards over babies," Ryan agrees.
"So, you want to head down?" Jon asks.
"Sure," Ryan says, glad not to have to cook.
--
It's busier this time, and they have to wait a few minutes for someone to find them a table.
"I can't stay too long," Jon says. "There's a roast in the oven; I've probably just got time for a drink."
"Sure," Ryan says. "I'm going to let someone else cook for me tonight, but you can take off whenever you need to."
Jon leans back in his chair and stretches. "Nice to get out of the house," he says.
"Not so much fond of your inlaws?" Ryan asks.
Jon scrunches up one cheek, and says, "Well, they're fine. And they're going to take Bobby to the park tomorrow, so me and Cassie will have the house to ourselves all afternoon, and that'll be fucking aces. You have siblings?"
"Sort of," Ryan says. "Half siblings. But I never see them, so not really. They're younger, too. No kids."
"Other people's kids suck," Jon says. "I mean, whatever, I like my brothers' kids, but for the most part--"
"This guy I grew up with is married," Ryan says. "I will probably like his kids, if he ever reproduces."
"Well, don't tell him if you don't," Jon says.
"I'll keep that in mind. I probably wouldn't see them all that much anyway."
"How come?"
"Eh, you know how it is," Ryan says. "Grow older, grow apart. We don't have as much in common as we used to."
Ryan orders a mushroom burger and he and Jon both get a pint of beer. Jon finishes his before the food arrives, and leaves money on the table before standing up.
"Good luck with the nipple talk," Ryan says.
"Enjoy not having to cook," says Jon, giving a little salute before leaving.
Ryan plays with the edge of his napkin and waits of his food to arrive. He never thought anything of eating by himself, but right now he feels a little self-conscious. The town isn't small enough for everyone to know everyone - he doesn't think it is, anyway - but still everyone else seems to be at crowded tables.
The noise in the pub grows and grows, and then suddenly dims. Ryan looks around, and sees that the stage has been set up. Brendon walks out with his guitar and sits on a tall stool, just him in front of a microphone.
Brendon leans forward and says, "Hellooo," in a low voice, which makes the crowd laugh and quiet even further.
"How are you guys doing tonight?" Brendon asks. "How's your food? Pretty good? Are you remembering to be kind to your waiters? I'm going to play a few songs for you, so you might want to order that extra drink quickly." He wiggles his eyebrows and grins, and Ryan smiles back, even though he knows that Brendon can't see him.
"I've got a few songs you'll probably recognize and some you won't," Brendon says. "And then afterwards I'll turn over the mic."
Brendon starts playing. Somewhere in there, Ryan's food comes and he eats automatically, his attention still focused on the front of the room. Brendon's just sitting, but still he manages to work up enough of a sweat to soak through his shirt.
Ryan finishes his burger and spends the next hour nibbling on the remaining fries, listening to the music and making eyes at the pretty blonde sitting at the bar. Brendon's a good singer and Ryan's sick of being alone in his house all the time.
--
The pretty blonde's name is Felicia. She's on a roadtrip with a couple of her girlfriends, but they're back in the inn; she'd rather recharge by going out. She sits at his table and eats the rest of his fries.
"Can I buy you some?" Ryan asks. "There're only the soggy ones left."
"My own fault," Felicia says. "I took too long to come over and say hi."
Ryan laughs and offers to go get her a drink.
"We're leaving early tomorrow," she says. "But thanks anyway."
She's sharing a room with her friends, but she's happy enough to come back to Ryan's place.
"Are you a local?" she asks as they walk down the street after Brendon's set is done.
"Kind of," Ryan says. "I just moved here."
"Yeah?" she asks. "I thought this would be more the kind of place that people would be trying to get out of."
"Not really," Ryan says, "from what I can tell. It's pretty dead in the winter, but lots of people come down to work in the summer."
"How are you settling in?"
"Well," Ryan says.
"That good, huh?" Felicia asks.
Ryan shakes his head and throws his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in. They have to walk slower like this, but it's nice to be close to another person.
"It's been... different," he says. "But that was kind of the point."
"The point of moving?"
"Yeah. I needed a change of scenery." He gestures up ahead and says, "I'm just down this street."
--
Felicia has to leave right afterwards to get back to her room. Ryan reaches over and picks up her underwear off the floor, passing them over.
She laughs and says, "Thanks," bending over and sliding them up her legs. She has nice legs.
Ryan offers to walk her back to the inn, but she says, "No, thanks. I remember how to get back."
He walks her to the door instead, and after she's put her shoes on he crowds her up against the wall, kissing her slow and steady. He's still a little sticky from sex and after she's gone he's going to brush his teeth, but there's something nice about this kind of kissing. There's nothing to prove now.
"Good luck settling in," she says, leaning back against the wall and looking up at him. Her mascara and eyeliner has smudged in a way that makes her eyes look huge. "I hope your cat stops hating you."
"Good luck telling your parents that you're not going back to college," Ryan says.
She gives him a crooked smile. They kiss again, and it feels comfortable, the strange and easy intimacy between strangers. Ryan likes this, has always liked this.
Felicia leaves. Ryan walks around the house turning off the lights. He puts more food in the cat's bowl and hops in the shower, rinsing off quickly. His bed smells like sex when he lies down, but he'll wait until tomorrow to change the sheets.
*
"How's it going?" Ryan calls to Jon as he collects his mail.
"Awesome," Jon says. "Cassie's sister is going to take the baby for the day so we've got the house to ourselves."
"Nice," Ryan says.
"I'd almost forgotten what a quiet house sounded like," Jon says.
"Have fun with that," Ryan says, waving goodbye as he walks back into his house.
He leafs through the small stack of letters: they're all bills and advertisements. He powers up his computer, doesn't the email from Spencer until he's looked through everything else. Spencer's sent him a couple of links to stupid youtube videos and a reminder to update DisContinuation's MySpace page. Ryan watches the videos and doesn't bother replying to the email.
He works for a while before something distracts him away from the computer monitor. He lifts his head, trying to figure out what it was. It must have been - it smells like -
Ryan gets up, opens a window and - yeah, he's pretty sure he's smelling what he thinks he's smelling. He walks around, out the back door and the smell gets stronger. He looks around his backyard, but doesn't see anyone.
He walks over to the side of the yard and curls his fingers over the top of the fence, pulling himself up. He peeks over the top, and Jon and Cassie wave sheepishly at him, sitting cross-legged on the lawn, side by side.
"Whoa," Ryan says. He sinks back on his heels, then rocks forward again.
"You coming over or what?" Jon asks.
--
They finish the joint together.
Ryan says, "I wouldn't have guessed that you two--"
"Not much anymore," Jon says, shrugging.
"Because of the baby," Ryan says.
"Because of the baby," Jon agrees.
Ryan doesn't say anything, but something in his expression must give him away.
Jon raises his eyebrows and says, "You one of those confirmed bachelor types?"
Ryan shrugs. He wishes they hadn't finished the joint already. "I was engaged," he says.
"Yeah?" Jon asks.
Ryan shrugs again, and doesn't say anything. He sees Jon exchange a look with Cassie, but he doesn't look too closely to try and figure out what it meant.
He leans backward, holding himself up with his palms flat to the glass. The tips of the blades feel prickly on his skin. He's not baked or anything, but he feels nice. He was surprised to find Jon and Cassie back here, but he feels a little less like an alien in the neighbourhood now. He's been trying to half-smoke in his bathroom, half-out the window, but it's tricky to find that balance of not stinking up the house, and not smoking out the neighbourhood. He doesn't want to piss off his landlord, but he also doesn't want to make his neighbours angry.
"I support other people getting married," Ryan says.
Jon tips sideways and gives Cassie what looks to be a very wet kiss on the cheek. She wrinkles up her nose, her face pulled back in a way that shows both of her dimples. Ryan can feel himself smiling at them, and he looks down instead.
"So you're not engaged anymore?" Cassie asks.
"No," Ryan says. "Not anymore."
--
The cat jumps up on the couch beside him.
Ryan is still feeling a little baked. Just a little bit, not too much. He'd asked Jon and Cassie back to his place, but they didn't want to still be buzzed when the in-laws came back, so Ryan ended up hitting his bong by himself. It's been a few hours since then, time for dinner soon. His couch feels so firm beneath him, like he wants to like down, but he thinks it will be too hard under his cheek. The cat doesn't seem to be having trouble though; she's lying down.
"Hey, kitty," Ryan says before stroking along her back slowly. He hasn't been sleeping well, and he's crashing harder now than he normally would. The cat's fur is soft, and Ryan is glad not to be alone in his house.
He almost wishes that Spencer lived nearby. Then he could go over to Spencer's house, maybe toke up a little with Haley while Spencer cooked something for dinner. Spencer's a pretty decent cook, mostly because he covers everything with cheese and butter.
The cat gets up and starts walking in circles. She doesn't seem to be moving away from Ryan though, just moving. He keeps petting her lightly, and eventually she settles again on the couch. She's maybe a little bit closer now than before. Ryan wishes he could convince her to sit in his lap. Hobo was always so clingy, which was mildly annoying when Ryan had shit to get done. Keltie would get mad at him for locking Hobo out of his room, but he had trouble working with the dog demanding constant attention. He would like to give her some attention now. For her to lie on his lap, or maybe on the couch beside him so they could both stretch out together.
He thinks of Keltie, and feels his stomach tighten. It's something like missing her and something like guilt and something like just missing who she was in his life: someone he could rely on. He brushes his fingers over the downy hair under the cat's chin.
She lets him. Just for a while, though, and when she squirms away and curls up at the other end of the couch, Ryan gets up and walks to the kitchen.
He doesn't know what he wants to cook, but he knows he's hungry.
*
On to Part Two