THIRTEEN
The alarm on my phone goes off before the sun is even up.
I should probably cancel the damn thing, but there’s something exciting about watching the sunrise and getting a possible glimpse of Samson while it happens.
I crawl out of bed wearing the T-shirt I slept in last night. I pull on a pair of shorts just in case Samson is awake and on his balcony outside.
I’ve been awake for ten seconds and I’ve already thought of him twice. Denying him last night doesn’t seem to be working out for me.
I unlock my balcony door and slide it open.
Then I scream.
“Shh,” Samson says, laughing. “It’s just me.”
He’s sitting on the wicker outdoor couch with his legs propped up in front of him on the railing. I press my hand to my chest and blow out a calming breath.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” he says casually.
“How did you even get over here?”
“I jumped.” He holds up his arm, showing me his elbow. It’s smeared with blood. “It was farther than it looked from my railing, but I made it.”
“Are you insane?”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have fallen very far if I didn’t make it. I would have just landed on the balcony roof below us.”
That’s true. He wouldn’t have fallen to the ground because of the way this house sits, but still. There’s about three feet with nothing below him when he’s in the air between houses.
I sit down next to him. The seat is meant for two, but it’s still small, so our sides touch. I think that was his goal, though, or he would have chosen any of the single chairs on the balcony.
I lean my head against the back of the chair. I end up somehow leaning even more into him than I had intended, and my head is now resting against his upper arm, but it doesn’t feel unnatural.
We’re both staring out over the water at the small sliver of sun peeking up at the world.
We spend the next several minutes in silence, watching the sunrise together. I have to say, it feels better watching it with Samson on my balcony than when he’s on his own.
Samson rests his chin on top of my head. It’s a tiny move, but even that slight and silent display of affection feels like an explosion somehow. I don’t know how everything inside of me can feel so loud while this part of the world is still asleep.
The sun is three quarters of the way visible now. The bottom half still looks like it’s dipped in the sea.
“I need to leave; I’m helping a guy repair a dune crossing on the island. We want to get it done before it gets too hot. What are your plans?”
“I’ll probably go back to bed and sleep until noon. I think Sara wants to go to the beach after that.”
He moves his arm from the back of the chair. My eyes crawl up his body as he stands. Before he leaves, he looks down at me and says, “Did you tell Sara we kissed?”
“No. Is it something we’re trying to hide from them?”
“No,” he says. “I was just curious if you told her. Didn’t know if Marcos was going to bring it up today. I wanted our stories to align.”
“I didn’t tell her.”
He nods and heads toward the railing, but then turns back again. “I don’t care if you tell her. That’s not why I asked.”
“Stop worrying about my feelings, Samson.”
He pushes the hair back from his forehead. “I can’t help it.” He walks backward, slowly.
“What are you doing? Are you about to jump again?”
“It’s not that far. I’ll make it.”
I roll my eyes. “Everyone is still asleep. Just go downstairs and use the front door before you break your arm.”
He looks at the blood covering his elbow. “Yeah, maybe I should.”
I stand up and walk into my bedroom with him. We’re heading for the door when he pauses and looks at the picture of Mother Teresa on my dresser.
“Are you Catholic?” he asks.
“No. Just oddly sentimental.”
“I wouldn’t have taken you for sentimental.”
“That’s why I prefaced it with oddly.”
He laughs and follows me out the door. When we make it to the bottom of the stairs, we both pause.
My father is standing in the kitchen in front of a coffee pot. He drags his eyes to the stairwell and sees me standing here with Samson. I suddenly feel like a child who has been caught in a lie. I’ve never really had to deal with parental punishment before. My mother didn’t pay enough attention to me to care, so I don’t know what’s about to happen. I’m a little nervous, considering my father does not look pleased. He looks past me, at Samson.
“Yeah, this isn’t okay,” my father says.
Samson steps in front of me and holds up his hands in defense. “I didn’t stay the night. Please don’t punch me again.”
My father looks at me for an explanation.
“He just got here fifteen minutes ago. We watched the sunrise on the balcony together.”
My father focuses his attention on Samson now. “I’ve been in this kitchen for a lot longer than fifteen minutes. If you just got here fifteen minutes ago, how did you get in?”
Samson scratches the back of his neck. “I uh…jumped?” He lifts his arm to show my father his bloody elbow. “Barely made it.”
My father stares at him for a moment, then he shakes his head. “You’re an idiot,” he mutters. He fills his coffee cup and then says, “Either of you want some coffee?”
Huh. He got over that fast.
“I’m good,” Samson says, easing his way toward the door. He looks at me. “See you later?”
I nod and Samson lifts a brow, sending me a look. I’m smiling and staring at the door for several seconds after he leaves. My father clears his throat and it sucks me back into the moment. I look at him, hoping that’s the end of this conversation. “I’ll take some coffee,” I say, trying to divert his attention to something else.
My father grabs a mug out of the cabinet and pours me a cup. “You take it black?”
“No. As much cream and sugar as you can fit in there.” I sit in one of the chairs at the kitchen bar while my father mixes my coffee.
He slides it toward me and says, “I don’t know how I feel about what just happened.”
I stare at my coffee as I sip from it, just so I don’t have to stare at my father. When I set the mug back on the counter, I cup my hands around it. “I’m not lying to you. He didn’t spend the night.”
“Yet,” my father says. “I was a teenager once. His bedroom balcony and yours are feet apart. Today might have just been a sunrise, but you’re here for an entire summer. Alana and I don’t allow Sara to have boys spend the night. It’s only fair if the same rules apply to you.”
I nod. “Okay.”
My father is looking at me like he’s not sure if I’m agreeing to appease him or if I’m actually agreeing. To be honest, I don’t even know.
He leans against the counter and takes a sip of his coffee. “Do you always wake up this early?” he asks.
“No. Samson wanted me to watch the sunrise, so he set an alarm on my phone.”
My father waves toward the door Samson walked out of earlier. “So is he…are you two dating?”
“No. I’m moving to Pennsylvania in August, I don’t want a boyfriend.”
My father narrows his eyes at me. “Pennsylvania?”
Shit.
That slipped out.
I immediately look down at my coffee. My throat feels thick with nerves. I blow out a slow breath. “Yeah,” I say. I leave it at that. Maybe he won’t pry.
“Why are you moving to Pennsylvania? When did you decide this? What’s in Pennsylvania?”
I grip my mug even tighter. “I was going to tell you. I just…I was waiting for the right moment.” I’m lying. I had no intentions of telling him, but I’m in it now. “I got a volleyball scholarship to Penn State.”
My father stares at me blankly. No surprise, no excitement, no anger. Just a blank, unreadable stare before he says, “Are you serious?”
I nod. “Yeah. Full ride. I move in on August third.”
Still, his expression is blank. “When did you find out?”
I swallow and take a slow sip of my coffee, trying to decide if I should tell him the truth. It might just make him angry. “Junior year,” I say quietly.
He chokes on air.
He looks very surprised. Or offended. I can’t tell.
He quietly pushes off the counter and walks to the windows. He stares out at the ocean with his back to me. After about thirty seconds of silence, he turns and faces me again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Beyah, this is huge.” He’s walking toward me now. “You should have told me.” Before he reaches me, he pauses. I can see confusion seeping in. “If you got a full ride last year, why did your mother tell me you needed tuition for community college?”
I blow out a steady breath, gripping the back of my neck. I press my elbows against the counter and give myself a moment to figure out how to respond to that.
“Beyah?” he asks.
I shake my head, needing him to be quiet for a second. I squeeze my forehead. “She lied to you,” I say. I stand up and walk my cup to the sink. “I didn’t even know she asked you for tuition money. She didn’t know about the scholarship, either, but I can guarantee whatever you sent her for tuition was never meant for me to begin with.”
I pour my coffee into the sink and rinse the cup out. When I turn around and face him, he looks dejected. Confused. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but then he closes it and shakes his head.
I’m sure it’s a lot to process for him. We don’t talk about my mother. This is probably the first time I’ve ever spoken negatively about her to him. And while I would love to tell him just how much of a mother she never was, it’s six thirty in the morning and I can’t have this conversation right now.
“I’m going back to bed,” I say, heading toward the stairs.
“Beyah, wait.”
I pause on the second step and slowly turn to face him. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, looking at me intently. “I’m proud of you.”
I nod, but as soon as I turn around and walk back up the stairs, I feel the ball of anger tightening inside of me.
I don’t want him to be proud of me.
It’s precisely why I didn’t tell him.
And even though it seems like he’s trying to make an effort with me now, I can’t help but feel full of resentment that I went most of my life without him in it.
I will not allow his words to make me feel good, nor will I allow them to excuse his second-rate parenting.
Of course you’re proud of me, Brian. But you should only be proud of me because I miraculously survived childhood all on my own.