If pressed, Boyd would have admitted that 34 Maple Drive - a modest, suburban house with a small flower garden at the front - was in no way threatening, yet simply staring at its facade caused him to experience a level of fear he had felt before only in times of seemingly imminent death. He reasoned with himself that this was silly, that a man who had both built and disarmed bombs should be afraid of a house. Nevertheless, he had been sitting across the street from it in his beat-up Jeep for a good half an hour trying to get up the nerve to knock on the door.
His internal monologue was abruptly interrupted when the door was opened by a tall, 20-something man in a UK sweatshirt; although the average observer would have no reason to react to him, his appearance froze Boyd in place for about 20 seconds before he could remember how to breathe. He had seen Raylan so many times in his head over the past three years that seeing him in the flesh now in such a casual manner was not processing correctly in his brain.
Raylan was leaning against the porch columns, arms crossed, gazing thoughtfully out over the street, until his eyes seemed to rest on something across the way, which Boyd realized with growing horror was him. A little voice in the back of his head screamed, "Run, run!" but his body obviously had different ideas. He felt a bit like he was hovering outside it, merely watching himself get out of the Jeep and walk slowly in Raylan's direction. Raylan, in turn, stared at him in shocked surprise for a solid minute before his face broke into a broad grin, and he started down the porch steps to meet Boyd.
Seeing Raylan smile united the knot in Boyd's stomach, and he broke into a run, colliding with Raylan in a hug that nearly knocked them both into the grass. Instead, Raylan absorbed Boyd's momentum into a spin, and they whirled round a few times, gripping each other tightly. Then the spinning stopped, and they were just standing in Raylan's front yard holding each other, neither saying a thing. Boyd let out a sigh of relief, overwhelmed for the first time by an ineffable feeling of "home."
After a few minutes, he slowly moved his head from Raylan's shoulder to the crook of his neck, then slid it back so his cheek was pressed to Raylan's, his hands resting gently at the base of his neck. He could feel Raylan tense up at the increased intimacy of his position, although his grip around Boyd never loosened. Boyd responded by pushing back from him so they were finally face to face, separated by only a few inches, and waited for him to make the next move.
Raylan stared at him for a little while before murmuring, "Not here, inside," in a hoarse whisper and backing up toward the house, taking Boyd with him. As soon as they were across the porch and inside the screen door, Boyd could hold it in no longer and kissed him. It began as a soft kiss, exploring and tentative, but as Raylan responded in equal measure, the subsequent kisses grew bolder and more frantic. Suddenly Raylan was fumbling with the buttons on Boyd's shirt, while Boyd was trying to yank Raylan's sweatshirt over his head as quickly as possible. Naked from the waist up and radiating heat into the crisp autumnal air filtering in through the screen, they bounced from one solid surface to the next throughout the small house, from screen door to living room wall to kitchen cabinet stocked with cheerful, flower-patterned china.
As Raylan took a break from attacking Boyd's mouth to give some attention to that sensitive spot on the left side of his neck, Boyd took the opportunity to pant out, "Bedroom?" Raylan leaned back up, murmured a quick, "I'll show you," and kissed Boyd on the lips once more, meanwhile leading him to a room in the back of the house. They fell back onto Raylan's bed in a tangled pile of bodies and limbs. Raylan was straddling Boyd and fumbling with his belt when suddenly he muttered, "Fuck, condoms!" and, after uttering another curse at finding the nightstand empty, ran off into the main part of the house.
Boyd took the opportunity the brief intermission gave him to have a quick look around Raylan's bedroom. There were boxes everywhere; Boyd deemed this typical of Raylan and wouldn't have been surprised if they'd occupied those exact positions in the room for months already. His glance swept casually over the plain, little space until it stopped unexpectedly on a small wicker chair in the corner; thrown over it in a familiar, haphazard manner was a little black cocktail dress.
Boyd felt his stomach churn and sink as he got up to examine it, picking up the dress with one finger and dropping it just as quickly. It was with great apprehension that he crossed the room to open a large box labeled, "Clothes" only to find himself faced with argyle sweaters and pencil skirts. He recoiled and pushed the box away violently, backing up until he hit the bedroom wall.
His mind flashed instantaneously to all the small alarm bells he realized now had been going off since he first arrived at the house; the pleasant suburban neighborhood, nicely kept flower garden, and cheerful china set all pointed to a man who was not living alone. The terrible truth hit him in a flash just as Raylan re-entered the room.
"You're married?" Boyd yelled, trying to cover the pain in his voice with anger and hoping Raylan didn't notice.
Raylan looked as if he'd been punched in the gut. After a couple of moments, he started, "Boyd, I -"
"Married?" Boyd continued to yell, for he knew if he let Raylan start explaining, he would make lying about it seem like a perfectly okay thing to do. And it was not okay, not at all. "Where's your ring?"
Raylan looked abashed for a moment, then pulled it out of the front pocket of his jeans. "I took it off when I realized it was you," he said quietly.
"So I'm not the first," Boyd said slowly, putting the pieces together. "No man who's never cheated would part with a wedding ring so quickly. What, Raylan, you tell your wife you're working late, go to some seedy bar in Lexington, pick up a brawny coal miner for a quick fuck?"
Raylan visibly blanched at this, and Boyd could see that his bullet had found its mark.
"So that's what I am, Raylan?" he barreled on, "Just another anonymous fuck?" Boyd knew the hurt was seeping through the anger, but he couldn't help it.
"No!" Raylan interjected forcefully, "You will always be more than that to me." Raylan took a few steps toward Boyd, as if to comfort and convince.
"Don't," Boyd warned, raising his hands and retreating toward the door, "Don't talk like I can have you, like you're mine and I'm yours and we can be happy together. You're married, Raylan, and that means you belong to somebody, to some poor girl who has no clue who she's sleeping next to every night. What did you say, that you loved her and wanted kids and mini-vans and PTA meetings til death do you part? Little does she know she's just your cover story."
Raylan bristled at that, snapping, "Don't talk about Winona like that, like she's some kind of human shield. I do love her; occasionally fulfilling my physical needs with someone else doesn't change that."
"Physical needs?" Boyd laughed bitterly, "Christ, Raylan, you have built yourself a tidy little house of cards here. I'm just glad I won't be there the day it all comes crashing down with the weight of all the lies you've told yourself." With that he spun and left the room in search of his shirt, wanting to get far away from that house as quickly as he could.
Raylan followed, his own temper rising. "What, Boyd, did you expect me to wait for you?" He was yelling now as well, "I asked you to build a life with me, but you said no! You have no right to have expectations of picking up where we left off!"
"No, I suppose I don't," Boyd admitted, suddenly feeling very tired, "But that didn't stop me from wanting to. The second you left that night, I regretted letting you go; typical me, taking the only good thing in my life and throwing it away. I felt so lost afterwards that I enlisted and went all the way to Kuwait just to forget. And I know you didn't ask for it, and I didn't have any right to, but the only thing that kept me sane over there was dreaming about you."
"About me?" Raylan asked, his voice softening considerably, the anger rapidly draining from it.
Boyd just kept talking, feeling a sudden need to tell Raylan the whole, sorry mess. "You know, about the good times we used to have and could maybe have again someday if I made it home. When the whole world's exploding around you, Raylan, and you feel every second like your luck's about to run out, the thought of somebody at home loving you, waiting for you, is too comforting to resist, and whether or not it's real becomes less and less important."
Raylan interjected, "So when your tour ended..."
"I looked you up in the phone book and came to find you," Boyd finished for him. "I'd already gone to three other Raylan Givenses in Lexington by the time I got here. I didn't even know if I had the nerve to knock on the door, but I had to see you. And when you saw me sitting there, before I knew it, I was out of the car and running, because I realized in that moment that I would give anything in this whole, crazy world to hold you again." Boyd didn't look at Raylan as he finished, but instead headed for the door, overcome once again by a need to be far, far away.
Raylan crossed the room in two long strides and took his hand. This time Boyd didn't pull away, but looked up at him tentatively.
"Boyd, I'm so, so sorry," he began, "I gave you false hope for the kind of future I can't give you, and I can see now that was cruel. if things were different..." he trailed off.
"But they aren't and we can't." Boyd finished quietly. "You're married, and I'm stupid, and...goodbye, Raylan." He threw open the screen door, ignoring Raylan calling out his name, and nearly ran to his car so Raylan wouldn't see the tears pricking his eyes. With shaking hands, he turned the key in the ignition and was about to step on the gas when he saw a car turn into Raylan's driveway. He knew in his head that he should just press the accelerator, drive off, and never look back, but the sick, masochistic part of his brain just had to see who was going to get out of that car.
Boyd didn't have long to wait - the white Volvo pulled up next to the large, oak tree by the drive, and a pretty woman in her early 20s got out. Judging by her little suit jacket and short skirt, as well as the briefcase she was carrying, she was just coming home for the day. Boyd watched the little scene unfold like some sort of strange, silent movie he couldn't switch off. The door swung open and Raylan hurried out, covering up the apprehension on his face with a quick smile when he saw her. She skipped up the steps and threw her arms around his neck to give him an affectionate kiss. He placed a tentative hand on her waist and, after she withdrew, opened the screen door so she could enter the house, the two of them carrying on a conversation Boyd couldn't make out. Suddenly Raylan turned his head and shot one last look at where Boyd was parked before following the woman - his wife, Boyd corrected - inside.
The second the screen door closed for a final time, Boyd let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and lay his head back on the headrest, taking in air in ragged little gasps. After getting his breathing moderately under control, he wiped his eyes, stepped on the gas, and sped away into the growing dark. The streets of Lexington, then Harlan, all sped by in a blur and in what seemed like no time at all, Boyd found himself parked in front of his Daddy's two story farmhouse. He now knew with perfect clarity what he had to do.
After taking a few moments to leave any lingering traces of emotional upset behind, he hopped down from the car and ambled up to the front door. As he raised his hand to knock, the door swung open, and he found himself face to face with the father he'd run two continents over to escape.
"Well, well, said Bo, coolly appraising his son. "Look what the cat dragged in. How long have you been back, then?"
"Got in this morning," Boyd replied, making his tone as detached as his father's.
"And it took you all day to come and see your Daddy? I raised you better than that, boy," Bo said, heat seeping just a little through the coolness of his voice. The violent sociopath Boyd knew all too well was slipping out from under Bo's backwoods, back-slapping persona. Boyd had to suppress sudden flashes of just exactly how his father had raised him better than that and remind himself that no one takes a belt or baseball bat to an army man, not even Bo Crowder.
"I had some business to take care of," he responded levelly, drawing himself up to his full height and placing his fingers lightly over the knife holstered against his left hip, lest Bo get a notion to resume old habits. "Now that it's concluded, I've come home. For good."
"Does this mean you're ready to step up and accept the responsibilities of being a Crowder in Harlan County?" he asked, arms crossed.
"I am," stated Boyd simply. "A man can only avoid his destiny for so long. I intend to stop running from mine."
Bo chuckled, his tone considerably warmer, but still containing its omnipresent undertone of calculation, and said, "Well, I am glad to hear you say that, son. Come inside, and I'll pour you some of my home brew. We've got a lot to talk about."
He nodded quietly, and his father clapped him on the shoulder and led him inside. Boyd could almost feel Raylan's disapproval, his image lurking at the periphery of Boyd's vision, but he shook off the feeling quickly: Raylan had his own life to lead now. He wouldn't care if Boyd threw his away or not. And after all, he thought to himself as the door to the house swung slowly shut, what exactly did he have left to lose anyway?