TWELVE
Samson is leaning against the guest bathroom counter holding a rag to his nose to stop the bleeding. I’m sitting on a heat compress in the dry bathtub. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and even though Alana and my father are down the hall, we can hear every word they’re saying.
“He’s going to sue us,” my father says.
Samson laughs quietly. “I’m not going to sue him,” he whispers.
“He’s not going to sue us,” Alana says.
“You don’t know that. We barely know him and I broke his nose,” my father says.
Samson looks at me. “It’s not broken. He doesn’t hit that hard.”
I laugh.
“I’m confused,” I hear Alana say. “Why did you hit him?”
“They were in the outdoor shower. I thought he was—”
“We can hear you!” I yell. I don’t want him to finish that sentence. This is already too embarrassing.
My father walks to the bathroom and opens the door all the way. “Are you on birth control?”
Oh, my God.
Alana tries pulling him out of the bathroom. “Not in front of the boy, Brian.”
Samson pulls the rag from his nose and narrows his eyes at me. “The boy?” he whispers.
At least he has a good sense of humor about this.
“Maybe you should go,” I suggest. “This is getting too embarrassing.”
Samson nods, but my father is back in the doorway. “I’m not saying you aren’t allowed to have sex. You’re almost an adult. I just want you to be safe about it.”
“I am an adult. There’s nothing almost about it,” I say.
Samson is standing near my father, but my father is blocking the entire doorway as he speaks to me. He doesn’t notice Samson attempting to squeeze by him to escape.
“This is my only way out,” Samson says to my dad, pointing over his shoulder. “Please let me out.”
My father realizes he’s blocking him and quickly steps aside. “Sorry about your nose.”
Samson nods and then leaves. I wish I could escape, but I’m pretty sure there are tentacles still embedded in my leg and it hurts to move.
My father returns his attention back to me. “Alana can take you to get on the pill if you aren’t already on it.”
“We aren’t…Samson and I aren’t…never mind.” I push myself out of the tub and stand up. “This is a really intense conversation and my thigh feels like it’s melting off my body. Can we please do this later?”
They both nod, but my father follows after me. “Ask Sara. We’re very open about this stuff if you ever want to talk about it.”
“I’m aware of that now. Thank you,” I say, heading up the stairs to my room.
Wow. So this is what it’s like to have involved parents? I’m not sure I like it.
I walk straight to my bedroom window and watch as Samson enters his house. He turns on his kitchen light and then he leans over the counter and folds in on himself, pressing his forehead to the granite. He’s gripping the back of his neck with his hands.
I don’t know what to think of that. Is that a sign of regret? Or is he just overwhelmed because he got punched twice and refused to fight back? The way he’s reacting right now fills me with so many questions. Questions I know he won’t likely answer. He’s a vault and I really wish I had a key.
Or some explosives.
I want an excuse to go over there so I can get a closer look at him and see what it is exactly that’s bothering him so much. I need to know if it’s because he almost kissed me.
Would he try it again if I gave him the chance?
I want to give him the chance. I want that kiss almost as much as I don’t.
I do have his memory card. I could take it back to him. I haven’t looked at the pictures yet, though. I really want to see them before I give it back to him.
Sara has a computer in her bedroom, so I fish the memory card out of my backpack and go to Sara’s computer.
I wait several minutes for all of the images to load. There are a lot of them. The first ones to load are all pictures of nature. All things he said he takes pictures of. Countless sunrises and sunsets. Pictures of the beach. But they aren’t necessarily pretty pictures. They’re soothingly sad. Most of them are taken with the focus zoomed in on something random, like a piece of trash floating in the water, or seaweed piled up on the sand.
It’s interesting. It’s like he puts the focus on the saddest part of whatever is in view of his lens, but the picture as a whole is still beautiful.
The pictures he took of me begin to load. There are more than I thought there would be, and he apparently started snapping pictures of me before I even moved to the front of the ferry.
Most of the pictures are of me on the side of the ferry, watching the sunset alone.
He put the focus on me in every picture. Nothing else. And based on all the other pictures he took, I suppose that means he thought I was the saddest thing in his frame.
There’s one picture in particular that strikes me. It’s zoomed in and the focus is on a small rip in the back of my sundress that I didn’t even know was there. Even with his focus on something as sad as my dress, the picture is still striking. My face is out of focus, and if this were a picture of anyone else but me, I’d say it was a beautiful piece of art.
Instead, I’m embarrassed he paid such close attention to me before I even noticed he was there.
I scroll through every picture of me and notice there isn’t a single picture of me eating the bread. I wonder why he didn’t photograph that.
That says a lot about him. I regret reacting how I did when he tried to offer me money on the ferry that day. Samson may actually be a decent human and the pictures on this memory card back that up.
I remove it from the computer and even though I’m still in pain and kind of want to crawl in bed and go to sleep, I head downstairs, outside and across the yard. Samson always uses his back door, so I head in that direction. I walk up the steps and knock.
I wait for a while, but I don’t hear his footsteps and I can’t see the kitchen from this point of view. I hear something behind me, though. When I turn around, P.J. is sitting at the top of the stairs watching me. I smile a little. I like that he’s still around.
Samson eventually opens the door. He’s changed clothes in the time I was watching him from my window to the point of me knocking on his door. He’s wearing one of Marcos’s HisPanic T-shirts, which seem to be the only shirts he wears, if he’s wearing a shirt at all. I like that he’s supportive of Marcos’s vision. Their friendship is kind of adorable.
Samson is barefoot, and I don’t know why I’m staring at his feet. I look back at his face.
“I was just bringing your memory card back.” I hand it to him.
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t delete anything.”
Samson’s mouth curls up on the left side. “I didn’t think you would.”
He steps aside and motions for me to come in. I squeeze between him and the doorframe and enter his dark house. He flips on a light, and I try to hide my gasp, but it’s even bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside.
Everything is white and colorless. The walls, the cabinets, the trim. The floor is a dark wood—almost black. I spin around in a circle, admiring it for what it is, but also recognizing how unlike a home it feels. There isn’t any soul at all.
“It’s kind of...sterile.” As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn’t. He didn’t ask for my opinion on his house, but it’s hard not to notice how unlived-in it feels.
Samson shrugs like my opinion of his house doesn’t bother him. “It’s a rent house. They’re all like this. Very generic.”
“It’s so clean.”
“People sometimes rent at the last minute. It’s easier for me if I keep the houses rent-ready.” Samson walks to his refrigerator and opens it, waving a hand inside. The refrigerator is mostly empty, aside from a few condiments in the door. “Nothing in the fridge. Nothing in the pantry.” He closes the refrigerator door.
“Where do you keep your food?”
He motions toward a closet near the stairs that lead to the top floor. “We keep the stuff we don’t want renters to have access to in that closet. There’s a small fridge in it.” He points to a backpack next to the door. “Everything else I own I keep in that backpack. The less I have, the easier it is for me to move between our properties.”
I’ve seen him with the backpack a couple of times but thought nothing of it. It’s kind of ironic that we both carry our lives around in a backpack, despite the vast difference of wealth between us.
I glance up near the door, at a picture on the wall. It’s the only thing in the house that has any character. I walk over to it. It’s a photo of a young boy, about three years old, walking on the beach. A woman is behind him, wearing a flowy white dress. She’s smiling at whoever is taking the photo. “Is this your mother?” It reminds me of those perfect sample photos they place in frames before they’re purchased.
Samson nods.
“So that’s you? As a toddler?”
He nods again.
His hair is so blond in the picture, it’s almost white. It’s darkened since he was a child, but I’d still consider his hair blond. I don’t know if it’s this blond in the winter, though. It seems to be the kind of hair that changes color with the seasons.
I wonder what Samson’s father looks like, but there aren’t any photos of him. This is the only photo in this section of the house.
I have so many more questions as I stare at the picture. His mother seems happy. He seems happy. I wonder what happened to him to make him so private and withdrawn? Did his mother die? I doubt he’d elaborate on anything if I were to ask him.
Samson flips on more lights and leans against his kitchen counter. I don’t know how he can appear so casual when all of my muscles are tight with tension. “Your leg feel better?” he asks.
I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about the picture or his mother or anything else that would be another layer deep. I walk into the kitchen and stand across from him, leaning against the large center island. It’s the kitchen island Cadence was sitting on a few nights ago when I watched him kiss her.
I push that thought out of my head. “It feels a little better. I doubt I’ll get in the water again, though.”
“You’ll be fine,” he says. “Rarely happens.”
“Yeah, that’s what you said earlier, and then it happened.”
He smiles.
It makes me want our moment back. I want to feel how I felt when he pulled me to him and kissed my shoulder. I don’t know how to get there, though. It’s so bright in here. The atmosphere is different than it was when we were in the water.
I think maybe I don’t like his house.
“How’s your face?” I ask him.
He runs a hand across his jaw. “My jaw hurts worse than my nose.” He lowers his hand and grips the counter at his sides. “That was nice of your dad.”
“You think him attacking you was nice?”
“No. I thought the way he protected you was nice.”
I hadn’t really thought about that. My father didn’t even think twice when he heard me asking someone to stop. But I’m not sure it’s specifically because it was me. He would have protected anyone in that situation, I’m sure.
“Where do you go when this house gets rented out?” I ask, steering the conversation away from my father.
“We only keep four rented out at a time, so I always have somewhere to stay. This one is the most expensive, so it gets rented the least. I’m here seventy-five percent of the time.”
I glance around me, trying to find something else like the picture that would give me a hint into his past. There’s nothing. “It’s kind of ironic,” I say. “You have five houses, but none of them are actually your home. Your refrigerator is empty. You live out of a backpack. We surprisingly do live very similar lives.”
He doesn’t respond to that. He just watches me. He does that a lot and I like it. I don’t even care what he’s thinking when he stares. I just like that he finds me intriguing enough to stare at, even if his thoughts aren’t entirely positive. It means he sees me. I’m not used to being seen.
“What’s your last name?” I ask him.
He looks amused. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“I told you I was going to.”
“I think it’s my turn now.”
“But I’ve barely gotten anywhere. You’re terrible at answering me.”
He doesn’t disagree, but he also doesn’t answer my question. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he thinks of his own question. “What are you planning on doing with your life, Beyah?”
“That’s a broad one. You sound like a school counselor.”
He releases a small laugh and I feel it in my stomach. “What are you doing after the summer is over?” he clarifies.
I mull over that question. Should I be honest with him? Maybe if I’m honest with him, he’ll be more open with me. “I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell anyone.”
“It’s a secret?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
I trust him. I don’t know why because I don’t trust anyone. I’m either a fool or deeply attracted to him and neither is really okay with me. “I have a full ride to Penn State. I move into my dorm August third.”
His eyebrow lifts slightly. “You got a scholarship?”
“Yeah.”
“What for?”
“Volleyball.”
His eyes do this thing where they roll slowly down my body. Not in a seductive way, but in a curious way. “I can see that.” When his eyes meet mine again, he says, “What part of that is a secret?”
“All of it. I haven’t told anyone. Not even my father.”
“Your own father doesn’t know you received a scholarship?”
“Nope.”
“Why haven’t you told him?”
“Because it would make him feel like he did something right. And I had to work for the scholarship because he did everything wrong.”
He nods, like he can empathize with that. I look away for a moment because my entire body heats up when I stare at him too much. I’m afraid it’s obvious.
“Is volleyball your passion?”
His question makes me pause. No one has ever asked me that before. “No. I don’t enjoy it all that much to be honest.”
“Why not?”
“I worked hard at it because I knew it was my only way out of the town I grew up in. But no one ever came to watch me play, so the actual sport started feeling depressing to me. All my other teammates had parents at every game cheering them on. I’ve never had anyone, and I think that prevented me from loving it as much as I could have.” I sigh, spilling more of my thoughts out loud. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing the right thing by subjecting myself to four more years of it. Being on a team with people whose lives are so different from my own sometimes makes me feel even lonelier than if I weren’t a part of a team.”
“You aren’t excited to go?”
I shrug. “I’m proud of myself for getting the scholarship. And I was excited to get out of Kentucky. But now that I’m here and I’ve gotten the first break from volleyball I’ve had in years, I don’t think I miss it. I’m starting to wonder if I should just stay here and get a job. Maybe I’ll take a gap year.” I say that last part with a hint of sarcasm, but it’s starting to sound very appealing. I’ve spent the last several years working my ass off to get out of Kentucky. Now that I’m out, I feel like I need to take a breather. Reassess my life.
“You’re thinking about giving up a scholarship to a great school just because the sport that got you there sometimes makes you lonely?”
“It feels more complicated than you make it sound,” I say.
“You want to know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you should wear earplugs at the games and just pretend people are out there cheering you on.”
I laugh. “I thought you were going to say something profound.”
“I thought that was profound,” he says, grinning. I notice when he smiles that his jaw is beginning to bruise. But his smile fades and he tilts his head a little. “Why were you crying on your balcony the night you got here?”
I stiffen at his question. It’s a jarring jump from talking about volleyball. I don’t know how to answer that. Especially in a room this bright. Maybe if it didn’t feel like an interrogation room, I’d be more at ease. “Can you turn off some of these lights?” I ask him.
He looks confused by my request.
“It’s too bright in here. It’s making me uncomfortable.”
Samson walks over to the light switches and turns all of them off except for one. The lights that trim the cabinets stay on, so it’s significantly darker and I relax almost immediately. I can see why he keeps it dark in this house. The assaulting lights and all the white paint make it feel like a psychiatric ward.
He returns to his spot against the counter. “Is that better?”
I nod.
“Why were you crying?”
I blow out a rush of air, then just spit it out before I change my mind and decide to lie to him. “My mother died the night before I came here.”
Samson doesn’t react to that at all. I’ve come to realize that maybe his lack of reaction is how he reacts.
“That’s also a secret,” I say. “I haven’t even told my father yet.”
His expression is solemn. “How’d she die?”
“Overdose. I found her when I got home from work.”
“I’m sorry,” he says with sincerity. “Are you okay?”
I lift a shoulder in uncertainty, and when I do, it feels like some of those feelings that forced me into tears on the balcony attempt to seep back in. I wasn’t prepared to talk about this. I don’t want to talk about it, honestly. It’s not really fair that I don’t know how to not answer his questions, but he doesn’t open up about anything.
I feel like a waterfall around him, just spilling myself and my secrets out all over the floor.
Samson’s expression turns empathetic when he sees my eyes rim with tears.
He pushes off the counter and begins to walk toward me, but I stand up straight and immediately shake my head. I press a hand against his chest, stopping him from touching me.
“Don’t. Don’t hug me. It’ll just feel patronizing now that you know I’ve never been hugged like that.”
Samson shakes his head gently as he stares down at me. “I wasn’t going to hug you, Beyah,” he whispers. His face is so close to mine, his breath grazes my cheek when he speaks. I feel like I’m about to slide to the floor, so I grip the edge of the counter behind me.
He dips his head until his lips catch mine. His mouth is soft, like an apology, and I accept it.
His tongue coaxes my mouth open and I welcome him by fisting both of my hands in his hair, pulling him even closer. Our chests meet and our tongues slide against each other, wet and warm and soft.
I want this kiss, even if it’s only happening because he’s drawn to sad things.
He tugs me away from the counter and into him, and then in one swift move, he lifts me and I’m sitting on his island and he’s standing between my legs. His left hand slides down my leg until his fingers are brushing my outer thigh.
I’m full of things I’m not usually filled with. Warmth and electricity and light.
It scares me.
His kiss scares me.
I’m not impenetrable against his mouth. I’m vulnerable, and I feel my guard lowering. I’d give him all my secrets right now and that isn’t me. His kiss is potent enough to turn me into a girl I don’t recognize. I love it and I loathe it.
As much as I try to remain focused on what’s happening between us, it’s hard for the image of what happened between him and Cadence not to flash through my head. I don’t want to be just another girl he kisses on his kitchen island.
I’m not sure I can handle being a throwaway to Samson like I was with Dakota. I’d rather not be kissed at all than allow that to happen again, only to look out my bedroom window tomorrow night and see someone else in this same spot, feeling the same things he’s making me feel right now.
The same things Dakota made me feel right before he pulled away and ruined the next few years of my life with one gesture.
God, what if Samson pulls away and looks at me like Dakota looked at me that first night in his truck?
The thought makes me nauseous.
I need air. Fresh air. Not air from his lungs or this sterile house.
I end the kiss abruptly, without warning. I push against Samson and slide off the island, leaving him confused. I avoid his eyes as I walk straight for his door. I go outside and grip the balcony railing, gasping for air.
I’ve been through enough in my life that I don’t want a guy to change the things I like about myself the most. I’ve always been proud of my impenetrable resolve, but he somehow infiltrates me like I’m full of holes. Dakota never reached this far inside of me.
I hear Samson walk outside. I don’t turn around to face him. I just inhale another deep breath and then close my eyes. I can feel him next to me, though. Quiet, brooding, sexy, secretive—all my favorite ingredients in a guy, apparently. Why did I stop the kiss, then?
I think maybe Dakota ruined me.
When I open my eyes, Samson’s back is against the railing. He’s staring down at his feet.
Our eyes meet and it’s like I can see my own fears looking back at me. We don’t break our gaze. I’ve never stared at someone without speaking as much as I’ve looked at him. We do a lot of looking and not much talking, but they both feel equally productive. Or unproductive. I don’t even know what to think of what’s been developing between us. Some moments, it feels like something huge and important, and other times it feels like less than nothing.
“That was a really bad moment to choose to kiss you,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
I think a lot of people might agree with him, that kissing a girl right after—or because—she tells you her mother died might be poor timing.
Maybe I’m fucked up, but I thought it was perfect timing. Until it wasn’t.
“That’s not why I came outside.”
“What is it, then?”
I blow out a quiet rush of air while I work out how to answer that. I don’t want to bring up how I fear that deep down, he’s no better than Dakota. I don’t want to bring up Cadence, or the fact that he’s only with girls who are here for the weekend. He doesn’t owe me anything. I’m the one who showed up at his front door wanting this to happen.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to answer that.”
He turns around until we’re both leaning over the railing. He picks at a piece of chipped paint, pulling at it until it reveals an inch of bare wood. He flicks the chipped paint over the railing and we watch as it flutters to the ground.
“My mother died when I was five,” he says. “We were swimming about half a mile from here when she got caught in a rip current. By the time they pulled her out of the water, it was too late.”
He glances at me, probably to gauge my reaction. But he’s not the only one who can hide his emotions well.
I get the feeling he hasn’t told a lot of people that. A secret for a secret. Maybe that’s how this will go. Maybe that’s how Samson’s layers are peeled back—by peeling my own layers back first.
“I hate that for you,” I whisper. I keep my arms folded over the railing, but I lean slightly toward him. I press my mouth against his shoulder. I kiss him there, just like he did me in the water.
When I pull away, he lifts a hand to the side of my face. His thumb brushes my cheekbone, but then he dips his head to try to kiss me again and I immediately pull away from him.
I wince because I’m embarrassed by my own indecisiveness.
He pushes off the railing and runs a hand through his hair, and then looks at me for guidance. I know I’m throwing all kinds of mixed signals his way, but it’s a reflection of what’s going on inside of me. I feel stirred up and confused, like my current feelings and past experiences were just thrown together in a blender and turned on high.
“I’m sorry,” I say, frustrated with myself. “I haven’t had the best experience with guys so I just feel…”
“Hesitant?” he suggests.
I nod. “Yeah. And confused.”
He begins picking at the same spot on the wood. “What’s been your experience with guys?”
I laugh half-heartedly. “Guys is overshooting it. There was only one.”
“I thought you said you’ve never had your heart broken.”
“I haven’t. It wasn’t that kind of experience.”
Samson gives me a sidelong glance, waiting for me to elaborate. There’s no way I’m elaborating on that.
“Did he force you to do something you didn’t want to do?” Samson’s jaw is hard when he asks that, like he’s already angry on my behalf.
“No,” I say quickly, wanting him to get that thought out of his head. But then I think back on my life in Kentucky and the times I spent with Dakota, and now that I’m no longer in that situation, I look at it differently.
Dakota never forced me to do anything. But he certainly wasn’t making it easy for me. We were in no way equals when it came to who got taken advantage of.
Thinking about it is stirring up dark thoughts. Dark feelings. Tears begin to sting my eyes, and when I suck in a breath to fight them back, Samson notices. He turns and presses his back against the railing so he can see my face better.
“What happened to you, Beyah?”
I laugh, because it’s absurd I’m even thinking about this right now. I’m good at not thinking about most of the time. I feel a tear skate down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away. “This isn’t fair,” I whisper.
“What?”
“Why do I end up wanting to answer every single question you ask me?”
“You don’t have to tell me what happened.”
I make eye contact with him. “I want to, though.”
“Then tell me,” he says gently.
My eyes focus on everything but him. I look at the roof of the balcony, then at the floor, then at the ocean over Samson’s shoulder.
“His name was Dakota,” I say. “I was fifteen. A freshman. He was a senior. The guy every girl in the school wanted to date. The guy every other guy wanted to be. I had a mild crush on him like everyone else. Wasn’t anything serious. But then one night he saw me walking home after a volleyball game, so he offered me a ride. I told him no because I was embarrassed for him to see where I lived, even though everyone knew. He convinced me to get in the truck anyway.” I somehow bring my gaze back to Samson’s. His jaw is hard again, like he’s expecting this story to go the way he assumed earlier. But it doesn’t.
I don’t know why I’m telling him. Maybe I’m subconsciously hoping that after he hears this, he’ll leave me alone for the rest of the summer and I won’t have this intense and constant distraction.
Or maybe I’m hoping he’ll tell me that what I did was okay.
“He drove me home and for the next half hour, we talked. He sat in my driveway and didn’t judge me. He listened to me. We talked about music and volleyball and how he hated being the son of the police chief. And then…he kissed me. And it was perfect. For a moment, I thought maybe the things I assumed people thought of me weren’t true.”
Samson’s eyebrows draw apart. “Why just for a moment? What happened after he kissed you?”
I smile, but not because it’s a fond memory. I smile because the memory makes me feel ignorant. Like I should have expected it. “He pulled two twenties out of his wallet and handed them to me. Then he unzipped his jeans.”
Samson’s expression is vacant. To most people, they would assume that was the end of the story. They would assume I threw the money back at Dakota and got out of the truck. But I can tell by the way Samson is looking at me that he knows that’s not where the story ends.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Forty dollars was a lot of money,” I say as another tear slides down my cheek. It curves at the last minute and lands on my lip. I can taste the saltiness of it as I wipe it away. “He gave me a ride home at least once a month after that. He never spoke to me in public. But I didn’t expect him to. I wasn’t the kind of girl he could parade around town. I was the kind of girl he wouldn’t even tell his closest friends about.”
I wish Samson would say something because when he just stares at me, I keep rambling. “So to answer your question, no, he didn’t force me to do anything. And to be honest, he never even threw it in my face. He was actually a decent guy compared to—”
Samson immediately interrupts me. “You were fifteen the first time it happened, Beyah. Do not call that guy decent.”
The rest of my sentence gets stuck in my throat, so I swallow it.
“A decent guy would have offered you money with no return expectations. What he did was just…” Samson looks like he’s filled with disgust. I’m not sure if that’s aimed at Dakota or me. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “That day on the ferry when I handed you money…that’s why you thought…”
“Yeah,” I say quietly.
“You know that’s not what I was doing, right?”
I nod. “I know that now. But even knowing that…I still feared it when you kissed me. That’s why I came outside. I was scared you would look at me like Dakota did. I’d rather not be kissed at all than risk feeling that worthless again.”
“I kissed you because I like you.”
I wonder how true that is. Are his words accurate or convenient? Has he said them before? “You like Cadence, too?” I ask him. “And all the other girls you’ve made out with?”
I’m not trying to throw it in his face. I’m genuinely curious. What do people feel when they kiss other people as often as he does?
Samson doesn’t look like he takes offense to my question, but it does look like I’ve made him uncomfortable. His posture stiffens a bit. “I’m attracted to them. But it’s different with you. A different kind of attraction.”
“Better or worse?”
He thinks on this for a moment and settles on, “Scarier.”
I release a quick laugh. I probably shouldn’t take that as a compliment, but I do, because that means he’s getting a taste of my own fear when we’re together.
“Do you think the girls you’re with enjoy being with you?” I ask. “What are they getting out of it by just having a weekend fling?”
“The same thing I get from them.”
“Which is what?”
He’s definitely uncomfortable now. He sighs and leans over the railing again. “Did you not like it when we kissed earlier?”
“I did,” I say. “But I also didn’t.”
I find a comfort in his non-judgmental presence, and it’s confusing, because if I’m comfortable around him and I’m attracted to him, why did I start to panic when he was kissing me?
“Dakota took something you’re supposed to enjoy and he made you feel ashamed of it. It’s not like that for all girls. The girls I’ve been with—they enjoy it as much as I do. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t allow it to happen.”
“I enjoyed it a little bit,” I admit. “Just not the whole time. But that’s not your fault, obviously.”
“It isn’t yours, either,” he says. “And I won’t kiss you again. Not unless you ask me to.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t understand why that feels like both a punishment and a chivalrous gift.
He smiles gently. “Won’t kiss you, won’t hug you, won’t make you get back in the ocean.”
“My God, I’m just a ball of fun,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“You probably are. Hell, I might be, too. We just have too much piled on top of us to know what we’re like when we’re not under pressure.”
I nod in complete agreement. “Sara and Marcos are fun. But me and you? We’re just…depressing.”
Samson laughs. “Not depressing. We’re deep. There’s a difference.”
“If you say so.”
I don’t know how we possibly ended this night and this conversation with both of us smiling. But I’m afraid if I don’t walk away now, one of us will say something to ruin this moment. I back a step away from him. “See you tomorrow?”
His smile falters. “Yeah. Good night, Beyah.”
“Good night.”
I slip away from him, toward the stairs. Pepper Jack Cheese stands up and follows me down. When we reach the stilt level of my house, I spin around and look up at him. Samson hasn’t gone back inside yet. He’s leaning over the balcony, watching me. I walk backward a couple of feet, until I’m under the house and can’t see him anymore.
When he’s out of my line of sight, I stop walking and lean against a pillar. I close my eyes and run my hands down my face. There’s no way I can be around him all summer and not want to be consumed by him. But I also don’t want to be consumed by someone I’m just going to have to say goodbye to eventually.
I might feel invincible sometimes, but I’m not Wonder Woman.
Alana is awake and in the kitchen when I walk back into the house. She’s at the counter, leaning over a bowl of ice cream. She takes a spoon out of her mouth and smiles at me. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah. Thank you.”
“What about Samson? Is he okay?”
I nod. “He’s fine. He said Dad doesn’t hit all that hard.”
Alana laughs. “I’m surprised your father hit him. I didn’t know he had it in him.” She points at her ice cream. “You want a bowl?”
Ice cream actually sounds like heaven right now. I need something to cool me down. “I’d love some.”
Alana pulls a bowl out of the cabinet and I take a seat at the bar. She takes ice cream out of the freezer and begins scooping it into the bowl. “I’m sorry if we embarrassed you earlier.”
“It’s okay.”
Alana pushes the bowl of ice cream across the counter. I take a bite and it’s so good, I want to groan. But I stay quiet and eat it like ice cream has always been something I had access to. In reality, we never had it at our house. I learned not to keep much frozen stuff because when the power gets cut due to lack of payment, cleaning out a freezer of melted and rotten food is never fun.
“Can I ask you something?” Alana says.
I nod but keep the spoon in my mouth. I’m nervous for whatever it is she’s going to ask me. I just hope she doesn’t ask me about my mother. Alana seems nice and I’m not sure I can lie to her, but I certainly don’t want to tell her the truth right now.
“Are you Catholic?”
That’s not what I was expecting her to ask. “No. Why?”
She flicks a hand toward the ceiling. “Saw the picture of Mother Teresa in your room.”
“Oh. No. It’s just…it’s more like a souvenir.”
She nods, and then says, “So you aren’t religiously opposed to birth control?”
There it is. I look away from her, down to my ice cream. “No. But I’m not currently taking it. I’m not…you know.”
“Sexually active?” She says it so casually.
“Yeah. Not anymore, anyway.”
“Well,” she says. “That’s good to hear. But if you think you might find yourself in a situation this summer where that might change, it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. I can make you an appointment.”
I take another bite of my ice cream to stall my response. She can probably see the flush in my cheeks.
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Beyah.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m just not used to talking about things like this with people.”
Alana casually drops her spoon in her empty bowl and walks it to the sink. “Your mother never talks to you about this stuff?”
I stab at my ice cream. “No.”
She turns around and looks at me quietly for a moment. “What’s she like?”
“My mother?”
Alana nods. “Yeah. Your father never knew her that well and I’ve been curious. She seems to have done a good job with you.”
I laugh.
I wish I wouldn’t have laughed because I can tell my reaction just filled Alana with a dozen more questions. I take a bite of my ice cream and shrug. “She’s nothing like you.”
I meant that as a compliment, but Alana seems confused by my answer. I hope she didn’t take it as an insult, but I don’t really want to get into it even deeper or I’ll end up telling her the truth. I want to save the news about my mother for my father. I feel like I should tell him before I tell Alana.
I definitely should have told him before I told Samson. But I can’t seem to control my secrets around Samson for some reason.
I push the half-eaten bowl of ice cream away from me. “I do want to get on the pill. Not that Samson and I are…” I look up at the ceiling and blow out a breath. “You know what I mean. I’d like to be safe, just in case.” God, this is hard to talk about. Especially with a woman who is essentially a stranger to me.
Alana smiles. “I’ll set up an appointment tomorrow. No biggie.”
“Thank you.”
Alana turns around to wash my bowl. I use the moment to escape to privacy upstairs. I’m about to walk into my bedroom when I hear Sara say, “Hold up, Beyah. I need a detailed report.”
I pause and look into her bedroom. Her door is open, and she and Marcos are sitting on her bed. She looks at Marcos and waves him away. “You can go home now.”
He looks like he isn’t used to being dismissed. “Okay, then.” He stands up, but leans over and kisses Sara. “Love you, even though you’re kicking me out.”
She smiles. “Love you too, but I have a sister now, so you have to share me.” She pats the mattress where Marcos was sitting and looks at me. “Come here.”
Marcos salutes me as he’s walking out of Sara’s bedroom.
“Close the door,” Sara says to Marcos.
I walk to her bed and sit on it. She pauses the television and then repositions herself on the bed so that she’s facing me.
“How’d it go?”
I lean against the headboard. “Your mother trapped me in the kitchen with ice cream and then talked to me about my sex life.”
Sara rolls her eyes. “Never fall for the ice cream trick. She uses it on me all the time. But I’m not referring to that and you know it. I saw you walking over to Samson’s house earlier.”
I debate telling Sara that we kissed, but that seems like something I should keep private for now. At least until I figure out if I want it to happen again.
“Nothing happened.”
She deflates, falling onto her back. “Ugh. I wanted juicy details.”
“There are none. Sorry.”
“Did you even try to flirt with him?” she asks, sitting back up. “It doesn’t take much for Samson to put his mouth on a girl. If it has boobs and it’s breathing, it’s good enough for him.”
My stomach catapults to the floor with that comment. “Is that supposed to make me want him more? Because it doesn’t.”
“I’m exaggerating,” she says. “He’s hot and he’s rich, so girls just tend to throw themselves at him and sometimes he catches them. What guy wouldn’t?”
“I don’t throw myself at people. I avoid people.”
“But you went to his house.”
I raise an eyebrow, but say nothing.
Sara smiles, like that’s enough for her to work with. “Maybe we should go on a double date tomorrow night.”
I don’t want to encourage her, but I’m also not sure I’m opposed to that idea.
“I take your silence as a yes,” she says.
I laugh. Then I groan and cover my face with my hands. “Ugh. This is all so confusing.” I drop my arms and slide down until I’m staring up at her ceiling. “I feel like I’m giving it too much thought. I’m trying to think of all the reasons why it isn’t a good idea.”
“Name a few,” Sara suggests.
“I’m not good at relationships.”
“Neither is Samson.”
“I’m leaving in August.”
“So is Samson.”
“What if it hurts when we end things?”
“It probably will.”
“Then why would I want to subject myself to that?”
“Because most of the time, the fun you have that leads to the pain is worth the pain.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had fun.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” she says. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
I turn my head and look at Sara. She’s on her side, her head held up by her hand. “I’ve never had feelings for anyone before. If that happens, how bad is it going to hurt when summer is over?”
Sara shakes her head. “Stop it. You’re thinking too far ahead. Summers are for thinking about today and today only. Not tomorrow. Not yesterday. Today. So what do you want right now?”
“Right now?” I ask.
“Yes. What do you want right now?”
“Another bowl of ice cream.”
Sara sits up and grins. “Dammit, I love having a sister.”
And I love that Sara didn’t even flinch when I mentioned ice cream. Maybe I’m not as bad for her as I thought. I might not be as bubbly and as happy as she is, but knowing she’s starting to enjoy food and doesn’t seem as worried about her weight as she did when I arrived makes me think I might actually have something to offer in this friendship.
This is a new feeling—the idea that maybe I’m worth having around.