Boone
Carter, 13
Boone, 16
Declan, 16
I don't have to see the ripped pages of the Bible or the shattered, empty beer bottles to know my dad's going to be a raging mess. All I needed to see was the date written on the whiteboard at school. Oddly enough, it was written in red, some sort of a fucked-up symbol for the worst day of the year to be William Fell's kid.
My dad is lying on his back in the middle of the destruction, staring up at the ceiling. He's got a pocket knife in his hand that he keeps flipping open and closed. I'm glad it's just a pocket knife this year.
When I was only five, I came home from school to find him sitting in the chair, soaked in the booze he'd been drinking, holding a gun to his head. Every year he's gotten less and less drastic, but it's been harder and harder for me to tell him not to go through with his threats. Sometimes, I wonder if he just got on with it, things would be better. Maybe if he just did it, then he'd finally be with my mom, like he always said he wanted. Then I could be done with him. I don't know what would come next, but anything would be a step up from this.
I don't feel like talking. I've tried that before. He only wants to talk about her—which is fine, except he always gets frustrated with me because I don't have anything to say back. There's not much to say about a woman I never had the chance to meet.
I kneel down and snatch the pocket knife away from him. He doesn't even put up a fight. This is just dramatics—a reason to turn to the alcohol.
His head rolls to the side, almost lifelessly. His eyes are bloodshot and glazed—his skin is the color of death. "Coward," he slurs. "I'macoward."
I carefully fold the knife and then slip it into my pocket.
"I can't do it."
Most people would probably call themselves that for the drinking or for trying to kill themselves, and my dad is calling himself a coward because he can't bring himself to end his life. He says it every year like clockwork.
In an entire day, he manages to go through those damn steps of grief. The part about acceptance excluded, of course. I know from experience he's about to go through his anger phase. I've learned to run for that one, because he always comes after me with something. At first it was just a belt, then his fists, and now he comes after me with blunt objects. My dad can be rough, and he's knocked me around a time or two, but never worse than on this day. This day stopped being about my mom's death, and it started being about what my dad's going to do.
He blames me for her death. She was diagnosed with cancer when she was pregnant with me, and given the choice between saving herself or saving me, she chose to let me live. She didn't have any treatment, and by the time I was born, nothing could be done. She died so I could live. It pisses me off because she must've been a good woman; she had to have been to make that decision.
Dad sits up suddenly, and the fire in his eyes tells me it's time to run. He yells something so colorful his Bible should probably spontaneously combust, and then points at me. "Your fault."
I grit my teeth and look up at the ceiling. Maybe Dad looks up to God because he’s looking for answers—maybe I'll find them, too. I do blame myself. But I also know I couldn’t help what happened. You don't get to decide who your parents are or what your history is going to be.
There's a knock at the door behind me, and I immediately turn, hoping I'm wrong about who I already know it's gonna be: Carter. She always wants to fix me, and the way I was acting today gave her a reason. I just didn't want to talk to anyone, including her, so I was distant.
She's staring at us from the tear in the screen door. Her eyes are wide, and she looks petrified.
"You should leave," I order her. My voice sounds grainy, as if I took a handful of glass off the floor and swallowed it.
"She will," my dad slurs. "They always do."
"Is he okay?" she asks.
My dad starts to stand, and I know it's about to get nasty. I don't know what he'll do, but he always does something.
"Leave, Carter," I say, using the harshest tone I've ever used with her.
"Boone!"
Before I can do anything, my dad is slamming me to the ground. He's so out of his mind that he goes straight down with me. Glass pierces my skin. My dad falls on top of me, his elbow jamming into my face.
"Fuckin' kid," he snarls, saliva coming out of his mouth. He reeks of alcohol and cigarettes and my mom's perfume.
My whole body feels as if it were in pain, throbbing. He's dead weight, pushing me further into the shards. I know my face has got to be bleeding something terrible because I taste copper. My nose feels like it might even be broken, but I've broken it so many times by now it's hard to tell.
I've learned to deal with him and this and everything else. But Carter seeing it? No. It makes me feel horrible. Like shit. It makes any cut and bruise and potential broken bone seem like child's play
"Needs help!" I hear Carter yell.
Shit.
I shove at my dad's shoulder, who's passed out now. "I'm fine."
"What's the matter?" That's Declan joining our little fucking party.
I drop my arm and squeeze my eyes shut. "Leave me the fuck alone."
"Boone, I—" Carter starts.
"Get outta here."
"I'm sorry, please—"
"Now."
#
I press my hand against the handle of the gas station's door, letting out the longest damn sigh in the history of sighs. If I'm going to do this, I need to do it right. I'm wearing my best clothes, for God’s sake. Hell, I'm actually wearing clothes. I want Carter to think I'm trying for her, and if that means wearing a shirt with buttons and khaki pants, it's worth it. I mean, it works out because I'll have to look nicer if I'm gonna own a business with Jason.
Win, win, right?
Right. So fucking right.
Pep talk over. I push the door open and walk inside. Carter is standing behind the counter in her usual place, reading a novel. Luckily, she doesn't look spooked as she did yesterday.
I don't know exactly what went down with the two of them, but the look on her face made me want to hunt that guy down. I know Carter can handle herself, but I still hate that she had to. I hate that someone got under her skin and just walked away as if it were nothing. That tells me he'll come back. I wish she would've used that mace on him, taught him a lesson.
She looks up from her book. Her hair is back in a ponytail, stray pieces flying all around her face. I've always liked how she's beautiful without even trying. She doesn't have any makeup on, and she's wearing a uniform that I'd never put my employees in (unless I wanted them to hate me) but still makes her look like a dream.
"I'm early," I say as I walk toward her,
"We said we were going to stop pointing out what you're purposefully doing to impress me, remember?" she asks, setting her book down in a way to keep her page marked.
"Today, we're gonna try something."
"I can't leave until I have relief."
"That can be arranged." Shit. Not what she wants to hear right now. "Ignore me." The goal is to be less like my usual self and try to flirt with her in a way that'll make her smile, not want to murder me. She hates it when I do this, even if it makes her eyes light up and her face flush. "We don't need to leave to do this."
"Okay," she says slowly.
"I want to start over. We're so caught up in the past that it's holding us back."
"Boone, we can't change the fact we have a past.”
"I'm not saying we should. There was a lot of bad, but there was a lot of good, too, right?"
She stares at me.
"Carter, there was good."
She splays her hands on the counter, purposefully not meeting my gaze and watching them instead.
Without thinking, I reach out and run my fingers over the top of one of her hands. Electricity shoots up through my arm. I forgot how life-altering it feels to touch her. It's addicting—the only thing to ever show me how my dad could be so dependent on alcohol or Declan on drugs.
"There was good," she agrees in a whisper.
Relief washes over me. If she can acknowledge that, there's room for us to grow. "All I'm saying is I want to start over with a clean slate. I want to show you I've changed, but that's not gonna happen if you keep comparing me to my worst. I want you to start judging me for how I am now. If I mess up, you can walk away. I want you to." I slowly link my fingers with hers. I run my thumb over her knuckles, making her gasp. "I'm ready to start something with you, whatever you'll let me have, but we can't do that if we're going to stay stuck in the past."
"I'm not stuck in the past." She pulls her hand away, leaving mine cold and empty. Lonely. "I remember the past so I can learn from it. I can't make the same mistakes again—not when it hurt so bad."
When I hurt her. "Let me learn, too. Please."
Her eyebrows pull down as she worries her lip. She's shutting down on me. Here I've been telling her I'm going to be different—that I'm going to fight for her—and I can't even put up a good case as to why she should give me a final chance, even as just friends. What if I'm just lying to the both of us? Maybe I can't do this. Maybe this'll chalk up to another one of my many failures.
I ball my hands into fists, wanting to grasp at something—anything—her. I can't let this happen. I can't let her go. It's all in or nothing.
"All the things I did—they were never about you, Carter. They should've been, but they weren't. I've always loved you more than anything, but I don't know how to love people. I just self-imploded. I made decisions that were bad because it's what I'm used to doing. …"
She starts shaking her head, and I trail off. Her eyebrows raise, and she says in a soft, commanding tone, "You know how to love people, Boone. You just don't know how to let anyone love you back."
I deliberately breathe through my nose and unclench my hands. My fingers feel like twigs that'll break with too much force. "How do you always do that?" I ask.
"Do what?"
"You always hit the damn nail on the head when it comes to me."
The bell above the entrance rings, signaling the next shift worker has arrived, and Carter immediately takes a step back, taking off her name badge as she does. At least the next shift is on time today. Very quietly, in a voice I can barely hear or decipher, she says, "It's because I've always loved you, too."
#
Carter's quiet on the walk home, which is fine. I'm just glad she's letting me walk her home after our talk back there. I was convinced it was time to stick a fork in me. It doesn't matter if I'm not done with her—if she's done with me it's over. I'll keep being as persistent as I am until she gives me that final leave me alone. Up until now, she's only half meant it, so I haven't listened too closely. When she's serious, though, I'll let her go.
I'll hate it, but I will.
Sometimes, it only feels as a matter of time until then.
Her house is basically at the opposite end town from my trailer. She told me Kara made their dad pay for it, and I was initially surprised Kara didn't choose one of the houses in the historic district of town, which are out-of-this-world expensive, but I think Kara chose right. This house is the sort you only see on television shows when you're growing up—the type where you can't help wondering if they really exist. Picturesque and perfect—what everyone dreams of—just like the family inside. The exterior is as clean as the words spoken inside. The same amount of love is put into the landscape as is given to each other. The inside is just as welcoming as they accustomed to kindness.
Plus, there’s more than one bathroom. A step up from the barely-functional one we had in the trailer.
I think when Carter started living with Kara and Gabe, I got something out of it, too. Thanks to them, I know the world's not as dysfunctional as it seems.
Carter's shift today was later, so by the time we get to her street, the sun was setting. I met with Jason early this morning to hammer out some details about our prospective plans. I was surprised to find out he already put in his two weeks’ notice at his job. That was the moment when shit got real for me. Granted, I've basically been running my own business for a while, but it's scary when your friend (who has a family to support) gets involved in the venture. There's more to lose.
That's probably why I laid it all out on the line with Carter. It feels like it's now or never. I'm ready to settle down and start a life. I don't know what that entails exactly, but I know it involves Carter. The only problem is I should've started things with her back when I had the chance and not waited until I'd burned every bridge to ash.
"I'm off tomorrow," Carter tells me, sounding unsure.
Damn. I blow out a breath through my teeth, doing my best not to look as disappointed as I feel. The last thing I want is a day apart when we’re making so much progress. "All right."
"The hospital is having a cookout, and it's Gabe's year to go."
"You don't have to explain it, Carter. It's okay." I hate the way both of our hands are dangling aimlessly at our sides. All I want to do is reach down and grab hers. When we were younger—even when we got older—I would always hold her hand. It was just something I did. I used to pretend it was to keep her safe, but then I realized how much I liked it, which turned into me noticing I liked Carter, period. It was effortless back then—holding her hand and being with her. "The way I see it, I'm doing what I can to see you. I'll work around your schedule to spend time with you. It doesn't need to be the other way around."
"It should, though," she says quietly. "We both need to work at it if we're going to do this."
To say I get hopeful is an understatement. Now I know how puppies feel when they think they've found their owner. "What are you saying, Carter?"
"I'm saying I'll try. Clean slate." She stops beside the stop sign where we'll part ways, and turns to face me. She holds out her hand, which is shaking. "I'm Carter Hart."
My hand is also shaking as I reach out and clasp it. "I'm Boone Fell." She gives me a final nod, smiling a nervous smile, and turns around, walking away. "We're gonna be best friends, Carter Hart, I already know it."
She glances over her shoulder, and I swear her smile looks a notch more real. "We'll see, Boone Fell."
I already know what my note tonight is going to say. I've been pouring my heart out in them, but I want this one to be the start of something normal. Like what a normal guy would say to a normal girl who's his new friend but who he wants to have more with.
Nice to meet you, beautiful.