"My parents … " I said.
"I don't care, don't apologize."
"How did you find me?"
"I have my ways."
We were locked in each other's eyes, each other's embrace. We were filled with each other, in that moment. It was a perfect moment.
"What's your last name, kid," I suddenly heard from behind me. It was Dad, I could tell that without needing to turn around. What made me turn around was the sudden look of fear that came over Boon's face. I tried to take everything in at once. My mother running across the lawn, my father's face looking like pure hatred, the gun in his hand, the gun he was pointing at Boon.
"Dad! Stop! This is … " I said, throwing my hands up to protect Boon, who was staring straight back at my father.
"What's your fucking last name," Dad repeated, using his Sheriff's voice. The voice that meant business. Serious, serious business.
Part II
15
Did they make you read Romeo and Juliet in high school? They made us read it. I hated it. I thought it was stupid. I mean, these two kids just suddenly fall head-over-heels in love? They barely know each other! And then all that drama, all that pain, and they just wind up dead. What kind of story is that?
I'm not here to tell you that "once you have real love, Romeo and Juliet makes a lot more sense." It doesn't. It doesn't make any more sense to me now than it did in tenth grade English. That's not how love works. No one ever needs to wind up dead. If you're in love and you wind up dead, you weren't doing it right. At least, I'm pretty sure of that. After everything that's happened though … I guess I could see myself winding up dead.
And "star-crossed lovers?" Sorry, but as easy as it might seem to blame fate, I don't believe anyone winds up where they are because of things outside of their control. I mean, sure, oxytocin is a powerful drug, and a lot of the time you feel like you're being compelled to do things, like you don't have a choice, but you always have a choice.
I guess that's one of the best things I learned from all this. You always have a choice.
But there is one bit of Romeo and Juliet that makes sense to me these days, on the rare occasion I think about it …
O, I am fortune's fool!
16
"Dad, no!"
My father was standing, one eye closed, the other narrowed to a slit, with a shotgun aimed at Boon. Actually, the shotgun was aimed at me, and I was standing in front of Boon.
"Get in the house, Samantha," Dad said, not taking his eyes off Boon, who was gently pushing me away.
"Do what he says," Boon said to me, under his breath. I could feel his heart pounding against my back as I stood between him and my father.
"Dad, you stop this right now. This is my friend, Boon, and whatever you think … "
"Samantha, I'm going to tell you one more time, get in the house," Dad said, his voice increasing in fury with each word. My mother was hopping around in a frenzy, unsure of whether to try and calm Dad down or swoop in and yank me away. I could see terror in her eyes, and knew it was reflected in my own. Dad could be strict but this was … well, it was unusual, to say the least.
"Tell me your last name, kid," he repeated, menacing.
"Culver," Boon said from behind me, his voice betraying no trace of anxiety or pressure. He finally reached out and physically pushed me to the side, breaking eye contact with my father to look at me.
"Get inside, Samantha. I don't want you seeing whatever this is going to turn into," Boon said. His voice made my heart freeze. He sounded like a man who was used to doing what needed to be done. Dirty things. Things that you wouldn't want your kids to know about. He sounded, for the first time since I'd met him, like a scary biker. It was so different from the bemused, inquisitive, clever guy I'd hit it off with. I was sobbing by then, unaware of anything but the barrel of the gun, Boon's wide, cold eyes, my father's anger like a physical force.
Boon suddenly softened, his face seeming to melt into pleading. He reached out for me.
"Don't fucking move," Dad cried out. I could see the situation was beginning to wear on him, could see his hands shaking as he held the gun. Ignoring him, I took Boon's hand. He slipped something into my palm. Then he dropped his gaze, turning back to my father.
"My last name is Culver, sir. My father is Tank Culver. Of the Cold Steel Motorcycle Club," he said, swallowing hard but not giving up the staring contest. My mother rushed to me, and I folded into her arms, wanting her comfort.
"Daddy, please," I managed to cry as my mother struggled to corral me away from the scene.
"Do you love him, Samantha?" My father suddenly asked, not turning his attention (or gun) away from Boon. His voice, though, was softer, almost as though he was anticipating my answer, and was already disappointed in me. I guessed he had seen everything he thought he needed to see in that first moment he saw us together. After all, the way I'd rushed into Boon's arms, the way our eyes had been locked together, it probably did look like love.
But was it? In a second, I knew I had my answer.
"No, Daddy, but he's my friend," I said. This wasn't, of course, nearly the whole truth. But it was some sort of truth. I didn't love him, at least not then. After all, I'd only just met him, and it was going to take a lot more than one huge romantic gesture for me to start confessing undying love.
On the other hand, Boon certainly wasn't just a friend. He was … something else. Something in between. The best way I could sum up exactly how I felt about Boon, how I'd felt when he sent me that text, was that I was excited beyond all reason to fall in love with him. I could feel it had already started to happen, and I was ready for it to happen.
As soon as the words left my mouth, I looked to Boon's face, trying to see how he'd react. He didn't look crestfallen. He didn't look dejected. He looked … cold. He wasn't looking at me, but at my father. I wanted to explain more. I wanted to tell them both: I'm confused! I could love him! If you'd let me, Dad, if you'd let me, Boon, I could love him!
"Please, Daddy, stop," I finally managed to say, more tears leaking from my eyes. And then my father deflated. Like a balloon, he just seemed to lose all the air and strength in his body at once. He didn't drop his eyes from Boon's, but he did drop his gun. His shoulders slumped. He shook his head.
"Kid, you must have had some sorta traumatic brain injury on that hog of yours if you thought coming around here was a good idea," Dad said at last. Boon's shoulders dropped as well as he relaxed, no longer the target at the end of Dad's shotgun. "Now, I suggest you get on that death machine of yours and ride it as far the fuck away from Missoula, Montana as you can get before you drown."
With that, and nothing more, Dad turned. He strode towards Mom and I, who were huddled together, both sobbing, and grabbed us, pushing us ahead of him into the house. If I wasn't so shocked already from everything that had happened, I would have been shocked by this rough treatment. Dad never laid a hand on Mom or I. Looking back once more before falling across my doorstep, I saw Boon, head hanging for just a moment before rising again and looking, defiantly, at my father's back.
That look scared me almost as much as anything else that had just happened.
That look made me think that maybe I hadn't been behaving very intelligently. That maybe I'd been downright stupid. Maybe I'd dragged my friends, my family, into a dangerous situation. After all, Boon was a member of a freaking biker gang, for god's sakes.
His tattoos weren't just there to look cool.
He didn't ride a bike for fun.
This wasn't a hobby.
He was trouble.
And I'd walked right into it, given him everything, been led on by his cute smile and strong arms and deep eyes. He got me high, and I made out with him in a bathroom. Suddenly, that story didn't seem cool or edgy or fun. It seemed downright … stupid.
I began to panic as my family filed into the house. What if he comes after me, what if he comes after my dad, what if …
I remembered that I was still holding whatever it was Boon had slipped into my palm. In my frenzied state, I didn't even bother looking at it, just slipped it into my pocket.
"How did you meet him?" Dad asked, turning to face me as I stood in the hallway. He didn't look angry anymore, just … confused? Maybe a little angry, still, but mostly sad and confused. I struggled to breathe, never mind speak.
"Hugh, give her a minute," Mom said, coming to my rescue. She threw her arm around my shoulders, curling me in close. I closed my eyes and let my head rest against her, feeling her breathe, steady and deep. How can moms go from freaking out to perfectly calm so quickly? How are moms so good at doing whatever the situation calls for? I know for a fact that Mom was not, in fact, feeling very calm at that moment. Despite the steadiness of her breathe, I knew that, inside, she was as strung up as I was. But she managed to keep it all under wraps. For my sake.