Heart Bones(43)

“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.





FOURTEEN


I couldn’t go back to sleep after Samson left this morning, no matter how hard I tried. Maybe it was the conversation with my father that made sleep difficult.

Sara set up loungers and an umbrella on the beach after lunch and I must have finally fallen asleep in my lounger at some point, because I just woke up. There’s drool on my arm.

I’m on my stomach, facing away from Sara’s lounge chair when I open my eyes. I wipe my arm and push myself up enough so that I can roll over onto my back.

When I get situated, I look over at Sara, but it’s not Sara I’m looking at.

It’s Samson.

He’s asleep in her lounge chair.

I sit up and look out at the water. Sara and Marcos are on paddle boards a good ways out in the ocean.

I grab my phone and look at the time. It’s four o’clock. I slept for an hour and a half.

I lie back down and glance over at Samson while he sleeps. He’s on his stomach, his head resting on his arms. He’s got a ball cap on turned backward and he’s wearing a pair of sunglasses. No shirt, but that’s not a bad thing.

I roll onto my side and rest my head on my arm, and I stare at him for a while. I know very little about the pieces that make him up as a whole, but I feel like I know what kind of person all those pieces have made him.

Maybe you don’t have to know a person’s history to realize who they are in the present. And who I’ve started to realize he is on the inside makes him even more attractive on the outside. Attractive enough that I think about him almost every waking second.

I find myself focusing my attention on his mouth. I don’t know why I freaked out while he was kissing me last night. Maybe because I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that this past week has been real.

It’s a lot at once and it seemed to all culminate and scream at me during our kiss last night. It makes me wonder if he kissed me again tonight, would I react the same way? Or would I allow myself to actually see it through and enjoy the entire kiss like I enjoyed the first few seconds of it?

I stare at his lips, convincing myself that it’s worth a second try. And a third and maybe a fourth. Maybe if I kiss him enough, it’ll eventually only feel perfect.

“You realize my eyes are open, right?”

Shit.

I thought he was asleep. I cover my face with my hand. There’s no hiding my embarrassment.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice hoarse, like it’s scratching its way up his throat. “I’ve been staring at you the whole time you’ve been sleeping.” He reaches out and touches my elbow with his finger. “How’d you get this scar?”

I turn onto my side and face him again. “During a volleyball game.” His lounge chair is only about a foot from mine, but it seems like a mile away when he stops touching my arm.

“How good was your team?”

“We won our state championship twice,” I say. “Did you play any sports in high school?”

“No. I didn’t go to a typical school.”

“What kind of school did you go to?”

Samson shakes his head, indicating he’s not going to answer that.

I roll my eyes. “Why do you do that? Why do you ask me questions and then I ask you the same thing and you refuse to answer?”

“I’ve told you more than I’ve told anyone. Ever,” he says. “Don’t be greedy.”

“Then stop asking me questions you aren’t willing to answer yourself.”

He grins. “Stop answering my questions.”

“You think me knowing where you went to high school is somehow more personal than you having your tongue in my mouth? Or me telling you about Dakota? Or you telling me about your mother?” I pull my arms up behind my head and close my eyes. “Your logic is quite stupid, Samson.”

There’s really no point in trying to have a conversation with him if all he’s going to do is dance around every topic like he’s some kind of ballerina.

“I went to boarding school in New York,” he finally says. “And I hated every second of it.”

I smile, feeling like I won this battle somehow, but inside I’m kind of saddened by that answer. Boarding school doesn’t sound fun. No wonder he didn’t want to talk about it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I swivel my head and look at him. He’s removed his sunglasses and the reflection of the sun makes his eyes look almost clear. It doesn’t seem like someone with eyes as transparent as his could be as closed off as he is.