After the scene in the school office, Boone had straightened out who Shannon was with both the somewhat less horrified teacher, and the school, having her added to Andrew's permanent record as the boys' mother. The poor teacher still looked a trifle unsettled at the news that she was his just stepsister; they both knew that the distinction sometimes made little, or no, difference to some people.
They stopped on the way home to drop Andrew off at a friends' house. Peter stood at the end of his walkway watching for them. When they turned the bikes off, he announced that his mom had asked Andrew to stay for supper, but wanted him to make sure it was okay with Andrews' dad. Boone looked a little reluctant.
"Boone, I know the food rules, it'll be fine," Andrew rolled his eyes and shook his head at his dad. This was obviously a bone of contention over which they'd clashed before.
"Food rules?" she frowned and looked at Boone. 'What the fuck?' she thought.
"I'm pretty careful about what we eat. We still, more or less, follow Jack's instructions from when we were rescued." He explained.
"Boone, for Christ's sake, that was eight years ago! Are you nuts?" she couldn't believe it. She knew the limitations that Jack had set out, and, while maybe okay for an adult to live by, to her, they seemed a more than a little constrained for a child.
"I'm not an idiot, Shannon. I know how long it's been." He glared at her. "It's just a healthy way to eat, so I don't see any reason to change!"
"Jesus, Boone, you are unbelievable. He's a kid, for gods' sake!" she looked at her son. "Are you telling me you've never been to McDonald's?"
"No," he shook his head, "never."
"We'll go tomorrow." She promised. His eyes widened at that and he smiled excitedly.
"Oh, no. No, no, no. You absolutely will not." He pulled her to face him. "I'm not poisoning my child with that crap."
"My kid goes to McDonald's just like every normal kid!" she spat.
"Well mine doesn't, so I guess you'd better find yourself another kid!" he shot back.
Andrew and Peter watched as they continued to fight, like the brother and sister they'd been raised as, for a few minutes; their faces inches apart, as they argued with each other. Finally Andrew had had enough. "Okay, guys." He tried, getting no response. "Guys!" he shouted.
They stopped and turned to him, Boone was flushed bright red; Shannon's jaw was clenched in anger. "Don't you think you've embarrassed me enough for one day?"
"Sorry," Boone apologized; still shooting furious looks at Shannon.
"We'll…" she started restating her promise to him.
He held up his hands, stopping her. "I don't want to anymore." He shook his head at her. "It's not worth fighting over."
Returning home, Boone stopped her in the garage. "Shan, I don't think…that is, we can't fight in front of Andrew."
She looked at him incredulously, "Boone, are you an idiot? That's what we do; we fight. It's almost the whole basis for our relationship. I love how you challenge me constantly, and you love how I challenge you. So, to say we can't fight in front of Andrew is close to saying we can't talk in front of him at all."
"You think I don't know we enjoy fighting? Right now, I'm half convinced that you're being purposely obtuse just to piss me off. I mean we can't fight over him, how I'm, I mean we're, raising him. He's already got an obvious edge over most kids; I don't want him to get the upper hand by thinking he can play us against each other." He tried to reason with her.
She thought about it for a few seconds. "Okay, I'll buy that." She had limited parenting experience, but what he said made sense, and she wanted what was best for their son as much as he did. He'd been doing this by himself for the last six years, so she figured he knew what he was talking about. For his part, he was just surprised that he'd won that battle so easily.
Without the need for him to hurry and rush to prepare dinner, a short while later, they found themselves sitting quietly in the back yard.
He had his head bent over a book; without realizing it, she was staring at the top of his head. Suddenly she realized why something about it was striking her as out of place. She got up and pulled his hair apart. He hadn't been expecting it and reached up to bat her hands away. "Hold still." She looked closer at his hair. She started chuckling. Shaking her head she asked him, "Boone, did you dye your hair?"
"Well…technically, no." he grimaced a bit.
"What's with the evasive answer? It was really a yes or no question." She frowned.
"I didn't, Andrew did." He shrugged.
"You let an eight year old dye your hair? She asked, disbelievingly.
"He wanted to know what I'd look like as a blonde, and I didn't really care." He shrugged again.
"Jesus, I thought your hair looked a lot lighter than I remembered. You are such an idiot. Your hair's too dark to dye blonde without stripping it first." She shook her head at him.
"I don't know anything about that shit. I only know it's lighter!" he protested.
"Yeah, and now the dark roots are coming in. Do you know how ridiculous you're going to look?" she asked, still laughing.
"I thought it'd just wash out," he started to look a little concerned.
"And just how long ago did he do it?" she shook her head at his stupidity.
"Um, maybe a month, I don't know, I don't keep track of that kind of crap."
"Aaand after a month, you still thought it'd wash out?" she laughed at him.
"Oh shit! Christ, I'm an idiot." He briefly covered his face with his hands then looked at her expectantly, "Can we do anything about it?" He asked hesitantly.
"Yeah, you dumb fuck," she shook her head and laughed. "We'll dye it back to its' original colour, though you deserve to look like a circus freak." She was overplaying the effect his hair growing out would have, but he was buying every word, much to her delight.
He seemed reassured by that and leaned back in the lounge chair in which he was seated. "Tell me something about when you were gone. You've heard most of the mess I made of that time; I'd like to hear about your adventures." He prompted.
"I'd hardly call them adventures. Tell me, have you flown since the crash?" she wanted to know.
"Yeah, a couple of times, not fun." He remembered his abject terror.
"No shit. I'm okay with it now; I've done it so many times, but that first time, when I left, Jesus. I got myself so freaked out that I had an asthma attack in the walkway. The flight attendant had to lead me to my seat and give me a double vodka just to get me to sit down. Of course, that was after I'd had to explain why I was acting the way I was. The poor guy I was sitting next to probably still had the imprint from my fingers in his arm, and scars from my nails." She laughed at the memory. "You got my car keys and the directions to where I'd parked?"
"I did." He confirmed "Thanks for FedExing them from the airport."
"You don't still have the car, do you?" She was sure she hadn't seen it in the garage, but he'd kept her bike so, anything was possible.
He shook his head. "I kept it for a while, but sold it when it was obvious you weren't returning any time soon, if at all."
"So how come you kept my bike, but sold my car?" she wondered.
"Shannon, there's a big difference between holding on to an eighty-five hundred dollar motorcycle and an eighty-five thousand dollar car." He tried to justify his actions. "Anyway, I ride your bike when I want to get out by myself. I like the single seat it's got. Besides, I was going to give the bike to Andrew, as soon as he got tall enough to ride it."
"Don't you mean old enough." She corrected.
He shrugged and shook his head.
"Oooo, law abiding Boone Carlyle letting his kid ride a motorcycle underage." She laughed at how uncharacteristic of him that would have been.
"I just wanted someone to ride with. Chances are he'll end up short like me and wouldn't have been tall enough to ride it till he was of age anyway." He smirked. "So, are you going to continue avoiding the subject, or are you going to tell me where you went when you left?" He redirected the conversation.
"You want the short story or the long?" she asked.
He thought for a second, "Just the Cole's Notes for now." There would be plenty of time in the future to get the details.
She recounted how she gone from ticket booth to ticket booth looking for a first class seat to anywhere, ending up with a ticket to Brussels. On landing she'd gone at first to a hotel; then had found a furnished apartment for rent. She'd spent a few weeks looking around the city. "I was in a coffee shop when I first saw Mark." She stopped. "Are you really sure you want to hear this?"
"I'm more interest in what you did than who, but I guess it's all interconnected." He shrugged. "Go on."
She suddenly needed the comfort of his arms around her, and got up, moving over to kiss him. She pushed his knees apart. He obediently spread them, putting his feet on the grass, so she could sit in front of him, pressing her back against his chest. He looped his arms around her; she covered them with her own, pulling his embrace tighter. She took a breath to start her story again, but then looked over her shoulder at him. "Is it okay, that I'm sitting like this when I'm about to tell you about being with another guy? I mean it seems more than just a little absurd."
"Shannon, there's nothing about us that isn't more than just a little absurd, don't let it stop you now." He shook his head. "Go on." He repeated.
"Okay, well then, he looked a little like you. About the same height, same hair colour, I mean, your real hair colour." She glanced laughing over her shoulder at him.
"Bitch." He leaned down and kissed the side of her neck.
"I guess that's what attracted me to him in the first place. It's sick, I know. Anyway, he knew a good crowd, a party crowd, and he was someone to take home at night. But, fuck, was he stupid. He probably wasn't as bad as I remember, but, compared to you, to who I was used to talking to…God I missed talking to you Boone." She felt the tears start. "I'd find myself out in the city, enjoying a sight, and I'd turn to make a comment to you, and…" she stopped, took a deep breath and forced the tears back.
"Anyway, after about five months I couldn't stand his lack of intelligence any longer. Christmas was coming and the thought of having to put up with his inane chatter our first Christmas apart was more than I could face, so I told him I was moving on. We had no emotional attachment to each other, so he took it well. I'd always made him pay his own way, so it wasn't like he was losing a meal ticket either. For some reason I couldn't bring myself to spend your money on another man." She said, sarcastically.
"Really, Shan, a conscience? How very unlike you." He smirked.
She elbowed him in the ribs. "Anyway, I moved to Barcelona, went about the same pattern as Brussels, finding an apartment, seeing the sights, partying. When Christmas came, I was alone, but I thought I'd be able to handle it. Was I wrong! I started drinking champagne and orange juice first thing in the morning, switching to vodka and orange around noon. I can't tell you the number of times I found myself with the phone in my hand. But I knew it wouldn't be fair to either one of us if I called. I think I made it to late afternoon before I passed out in the bathroom with my head hanging over the toilet." She shook her head in amusement. "I can't believe I didn't drown."
"Late afternoon?" he echoed. "I made it a little farther than that, but of course I was surrounded by my loving family." He put as much sarcasm into the second last word as he could muster. She looked up over her shoulder at him questioningly. "My mother invited herself to dinner." He rolled his eyes. She nodded her understanding and rested her head back against his shoulder. "She was insufferable, insulting me snidely every chance she could. I kept sneaking off to take another anti-depressant; Heather eventually hid the bottle on me. I'd been home from the hospital for a couple of months, but they still had me on the meds, and I saw a shrink once a week. Anyway, by the time I served dinner, I was so stoned Elvis himself could have pulled a chair up to the table and I would have given him a plate without even batting an eye. I stupidly topped off the pills with a glass of wine while I picked at my food. Even though Heather kept trying to take the glass away from me without anyone else noticing, I persisted in finishing it. She'd cleared the table and we were still sitting there waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, when I guess I'd had enough of Sabrina. Apparently I told her she was the most cold-hearted, nastiest bitch anyone ever had the misfortune of calling mother, and that if I ever did successfully kill myself it would be all because of her; then I pitched face forward onto the table. I had a bruise on my forehead for a few days after that. Tom told me I'd said it to her in the same tone of voice that I would have used to tell her I liked her dress, with a smile on my face the whole time, appearing stone cold sober."
By the time he'd finished, she was leaning forward, laughing hysterically, while picturing the scene in her head.
"I didn't remember anything about it, of course. I think serving dinner was my last actual memory. I woke up the next morning, lying on my stomach, fully dressed, crossways on my bed. They'd had Nick, my mothers' old chauffeur, carry me upstairs. Man, did I have a hangover." He was laughing and shaking his head at the memory of it. "Shit, nothing puts the Christ in Christmas like passing out at the dinner table."