“My parents’ divorce was really hard for me,” she says.
“What’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you?”
She grins. “Marcos.”
“How long have you two been together?”
“Since spring break.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, just a few months. But I would bet my life we’re gonna get married someday.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t marry him?” she asks, rolling onto her stomach.
“Don’t bet your life on it. You’ve only known him a few months.”
She grins. “Oh, I don’t mean anytime soon. We’ll wait until after college.” She’s still smiling dreamily when she says, “I’m transferring schools so I can be closer to him.”
“Is he in college, too?”
“Yeah, he’s a fashion major at U of H. Minoring in business.”
“He’s a fashion major?”
She nods. “He wants to start a clothing line called HisPanic.”
“That explains the shirts.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty clever. He was born in Chiapas, so he plans to donate some of the income to help fight poverty there, if his clothing line ever takes off. He already has five thousand followers on Instagram.”
“Is that good? I don’t know a lot about social media.”
“It’s better than not having five thousand followers.” She sits up on the bed and crosses her legs. She moves so much. I wish I had half her energy. “Can I ask you a question?”
I nod. “I’ve asked you about ten, so it’s only fair.”
“What makes you happy?” Her expression is full of genuine curiosity.
I have to look away before she sees that expression on my own face, because honestly…I don’t know what makes me happy. I’m kind of curious about it too. I’ve spent my whole life just trying to survive; I’ve never really thought about the things that lie beyond that.
Getting a meal used to make me happy. Nights when my mother didn’t bring home strange men used to make me happy. Paydays at McDonald’s used to make me happy.
I’m not sure why her question triggers so much in me, but I realize for the first time since I got here that the same things that used to make me happy aren’t even issues in my life anymore.
What does make me happy?
“I don’t know.” I look out the window at the water and feel a sense of calmness come over me. “The ocean, I guess.”
“Then you should enjoy the ocean while you have it. Don’t get a summer job. You have the rest of your life to work. Make this summer all about you. It sounds to me like you deserve to be a little selfish for once.”
I nod in agreement. “I do deserve it.”
She smiles. “I’m glad you realize that.” She pushes herself off the bed. “I promised Marcos I’d go with him to get his hair cut and grab a late lunch. You can come with us if you want.”
“No, I need to shower. I might go for a walk on the beach later.”
Sara backs out of my room. “Okay. We’ll be back in a couple hours. Don’t eat dinner, we’re cooking out on the beach tonight.”
Sara mentioned how there’s a large part of Bolivar Peninsula referred to as Zoo Beach. Vehicles are allowed on the sand, as well as golf carts, so it’s constant traffic and a constant party.
The area where Sara lives still sees some of that traffic, but it isn’t nearly as busy as certain parts of the peninsula. But just a couple miles down from Sara’s house begins a whole different world. Not necessarily a better one. I guess that would depend on the mood you’re in, but my mood right now certainly isn’t loud music and toxic masculinity.
I turn around to walk back before I get too far into the crowded area. There are a couple of guys sitting on the back of their truck, coaxing a dog over with a hamburger.
The dog’s ribcage is visible through his fur. I watch as the dog slowly makes its way toward the two guys in the back of the truck, as if he knows there’s a price he’ll have to pay for the food he’s about to get.
I immediately empathize with the dog.
“That’s it,” one of the guys says, holding his hamburger out. “Just a little closer.”
When the dog is within reach of him, the guy pulls his food away and the other guy quickly steps over the dog and captures it between his knees. They’re laughing as he pulls a headband over the dog’s eyes and lets him loose. The dog begins to stumble around, unable to see.
I rush over to the dog as he tries to claw the headband off with his foot. I remove it from around his head and he looks up at me, scared, then scurries off.
“Come on!” one of the guys says. “We’re just having fun with him.”
I throw the headband at them. “Stupid fucks.” The dog is running away now. I walk over and grab the hamburger out of the guy’s hand and follow after the dog.
“Bitch,” I hear one of them mutter.
I walk back in the direction I came from, away from the crowd and toward the dog. The poor thing hides behind a blue trash can and hunkers down. I walk slowly toward him until I’m a few feet away and then I gently toss the burger in his direction.
The dog sniffs it for a second, and then begins eating it. I continue walking, angry now. I don’t understand humans sometimes. I hate it, because I find myself wishing that the entirety of humanity would suffer just a tiny amount more than they do. Maybe if everyone tasted a bit of what that dog has lived through, they would be more hesitant to be assholes.
I’m halfway home before I realize the dog has been following me. He must think I have more burgers.
I stop and the dog stops.
We stare each other down, sizing one another up.
“I don’t have any more food.”
I start walking again, and the dog continues to follow me. Every now and then he’ll get sidetracked by something, but then he’ll look up and find me and run to catch up with me. He’s still on my heels when I finally reach the house.
I’m positive I’m not allowed to take a dog this filthy inside with me, but I can at least get him some food. When I reach the bottom steps, I turn and point at him. “Stay.”
The dog sits right where I point. It surprises me. At least he listens well.
I grab some slices of turkey out of the refrigerator and make a bowl of water and take it down to the dog. I sit on the bottom step and rub his head while he eats. I don’t know if feeding him here at the house is a bad move. He’ll probably hang around now that I’ve fed him, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I could use the company of something that doesn’t judge me.
“Beyah!”
The dog’s ears perk up at the sound of my name. I look up and around, trying to locate the person who just yelled, but I don’t see anyone.
“Up here!”
I look at the house catty-cornered to this one on the second row behind a vacant beachfront lot. There’s a guy standing on the edge of an extremely high roof. He’s so high up, it takes me a few seconds before I realize the guy is Samson.
He waves me over, and like an idiot, I look around to make sure he’s talking to me, even though he specifically said my name.
“Come here!” he yells.
Samson is shirtless. I feel as pathetic and as hungry as this dog when I immediately stand up.
I look down at the dog. “I’ll be right back. Stay here.”
As soon as I start to walk across the street, the dog follows me.
I walk into the yard that contains the house Samson is standing on top of. He’s dangerously close to the edge of the roof now, looking down. “Take the stairs to the front door. Then take the first door on the left in the hallway. It leads to the roof access. I want to show you something.”
I can see the sweat glistening on his skin from down here, so I look at my feet for a second, trying to figure out what to do. I haven’t necessarily had the best interactions with him. Why would I expose myself to more of that?
“I’m
scared of heights!” I say loudly, looking up at him.
Samson laughs. “You aren’t scared of anything, get up here.”
I don’t like how he says that with such confidence, like he knows me. But he’s right. I’m not scared of much. I turn to the dog and point next to the stairs. “Stay.” The dog walks over to the spot I pointed at and sits. “Damn, dog. You are so smart.”
I head up the stairs to the front door. Should I knock? I do, but no one answers.
I’m assuming Samson is the only one here or he would have come down to let me in himself.
I push the door open and feel extremely weird being in an unfamiliar house. I quickly head for the door on the left and open it. It’s a stairwell that leads all the way up to a small, enclosed circular seating area at the top of the stairs. It’s shaped like the top of a lighthouse and is situated in the center of the house. It’s encased in windows with a 360-degree view.
It’s stunning. I don’t know why every house doesn’t have one of these. I’d come up here every night and read a book.
One of the windows opens onto the roof and Samson is waiting for me, holding it open.
“This is really cool,” I say, looking out. It takes me a moment to work up courage before I can step onto the roof. I’m not actually afraid of heights like I said earlier, but this house is on stilts, and there are two floors on top of those stilts.
Samson takes my hand and helps me out and onto the roof before closing the window.
I inhale a shaky breath when I get situated because I didn’t realize how high up we were until this moment. I don’t dare look down.
Everything looks different from up here. Because of the height of this roof, all the other houses seem small in comparison.
There are loose shingles lying in a pile next to a toolbox at Samson’s feet. “Is this one of your five rent houses?”
“No. Just helping my friend Marjorie. She’s got a leak.” The roof up here has two levels, one just a couple of feet higher than the other. Samson steps onto the second level and puts his hands on his hips. “Come here.”
Once I’m standing next to him, he points in the opposite direction of the ocean. “You can see the sunset over the bay from up here.”
I look in the direction he’s pointing and the sky is ablaze on the other side of the peninsula. Reds and purples and pinks and blues, all swirled together.
“Marjorie has the tallest house in the neighborhood. You can see the entire peninsula.”
I spin in a slow circle, admiring the view. The bay is lit up with splashes of colors so bright, it looks like a filter. I can see the entire beach as far as my eyes allow.
“It’s beautiful.”
Samson stares at the sunset for a moment, then hops down to the lower part of the split-level roof. He walks over to the toolbox, kneeling down next to it. He places a shingle on the roof and begins tacking it on.
Witnessing how he just moves about on this roof like he’s on level ground makes me unsteady on my own feet. I sit down.
“That’s all I wanted,” he says. “I know you like the sunrises, so I wanted you to see the sunset from up here.”
“Today’s sunrise actually depressed me.”
He nods, as if he knows exactly what I mean by that. “Yeah. Sometimes things are so pretty, it makes everything else a little less impressive.”
I watch him in silence for a while. He secures about five shingles in place while the sky eats up most of his light. He knows I’m watching him, but for some reason it doesn’t feel embarrassing to stare at him this time. It’s like he prefers me to be here than not. Kind of how it feels in the mornings when we sit on our respective balconies and don’t speak.
His hair is wet from sweat, so it’s a darker blond than normal. There’s a necklace hanging around his neck and every now and then when he moves, I can see a flash of a tan line beneath it. He must never take it off. It’s a piece of wood hanging from a thin black braided cord.
“Does your necklace have meaning?”
He nods, but doesn’t explain what that meaning is. He just keeps working.
“Are you going to tell me what it means?”
He shakes his head.
Okay, then.
I sigh. What am I even doing trying to have a conversation with him? I forgot what it’s like.
“Did you get a dog today?” he asks.
“I went for a walk. He followed me home.”
“I saw you feed him. He’s not leaving now.”
“I don’t mind.”
Samson eyes me for a moment, then wipes sweat away from his forehead with his arm. “What are Sara and Marcos doing tonight?”
I shrug. “She said something about a cookout.”
“Good. I’m starving.” He goes back to tacking shingles onto the roof.
“Who is Marjorie?” I ask.
“She owns this house. Her husband died a couple of years ago, so I help her out every now and then.”
I wonder how many people he knows in this neighborhood. Did he grow up in Texas? Where did he go to school? Why is he going to the Air Force? I have so many questions.
“How long have you had houses here?”
“I don’t have houses here,” he says. “My father does.”
“How long has your father had houses here?”
Samson takes a second to answer. “I don’t want to talk about my father’s houses.”
I chew on my lip. It seems like a lot of questions are off-limits with him. I hate it because it makes me even more curious. I don’t come across people who hoard secrets like I do. Most people want a listener. Someone they can spill everything to. Samson doesn’t want a listener. Neither do I. Which probably explains why conversations between us feel different than conversations I have with other people.
Our conversations feel splotchy. Like globs of ink and lots of white space.
Samson begins putting all his tools back in his toolbox. It’s still light out, but it won’t be for much longer. He stands up and comes back up to the top level, then sits down next to me on the roof.
I can feel the heat from his body, he’s so close.
He rests his elbows on his knees. He really is a beautiful person. It’s hard not to stare at people like him. But I think his charisma comes more from the way he carries himself than how he looks. He may have an artistic side.
There’s definitely a quiet aspect to him that makes him seem introspective. Or maybe he’s just guarded.
Whatever it is that makes him up as a whole, I find myself viewing him as a project I want to take on. A challenge. I want to crack him open and see what’s inside him that makes him the only person on the planet I’m genuinely curious about.
Samson runs a thumb across his bottom lip, so naturally I’m already staring at his mouth when he begins to speak. “There was this fisherman who used to come around a lot,” he says. “His name was Rake. He lived on his boat and would go up and down the coast from here to South Padre. Sometimes he’d anchor his boat right out there and swim up to the beach and join random people at their cookouts. I don’t remember a whole lot about him, but I remember he used to write poems on scraps of paper and give them to people. I think that’s what fascinated me the most about him. He was this fearless fisherman who wrote poetry.” He smiles when he says that. “I remember thinking he was some kind of untouchable mythical creature.” Samson’s smile fades, and he pauses for a moment. “Hurricane Ike hit in 2008. It destroyed most of the island. I was helping with the cleanup and I found Rake’s boat toward the end of the peninsula in Gilchrist. It was in shreds.” He fingers his necklace, looking down at it. “I took a piece of the boat and made this necklace out of it.”
He keeps his fingers on his necklace and looks back out at the ocean, sliding the piece of wood back and forth through the cord.
“What happened to Rake?”
Samson faces me. “I don’t know. He wasn’t technically a resident of the area, so he wasn’t counted among t
he missing or dead. But he never would have abandoned that boat, even during a hurricane. I don’t know that people actively searched for him, to be honest. I’m not even sure anyone noticed he was missing after the hurricane.”
“You noticed.”
Samson’s expression changes when I say that. There’s a sadness in him and a little bit of it seeps out. I don’t like it because apparently sadness is what I connect with. I feel like he’s tugging at my soul with that look.
Samson isn’t at all who I thought he was when I met him. I don’t know how to process that. Admitting he’s nothing like I assumed he was makes me disappointed in myself. I’ve never looked at myself as judgmental, but I think I am. I judged him. I judged Sara.
I look away from Samson and stand up. I step down onto the lower level of the roof and turn around when I reach the window. We exchange a stare that lasts for about five silent seconds. “I was wrong about you.”
Samson nods, holding my gaze. “It’s okay.”
He says that with sincerity, like he doesn’t hold it against me at all.
I don’t come across people very often that I think I can learn something from, but he might actually have me figured out more than I have him figured out. I find that attractive.
Which is why I exit the roof and walk down the stairs feeling a lot heavier than when I walked up them.
The dog is still in the same spot when I make it back outside. He’s looking at me excitedly—his tail wagging when I reach the bottom step. “Look at you, being all obedient.” I bend down and pet him. His hair is all matted. The poor unloved thing reminds me so much of myself.
“Is that your dog?”
I follow the voice until I see a woman seated at a picnic table beneath the first level of the house. She’s messing with a bag of something sitting on her lap. She’s older, maybe in her seventies. She must be Marjorie.
“I don’t know,” I say, looking down at the dog. “We just met.”
I walk closer to the picnic table. The dog follows me.
“You a friend of Samson’s?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, repeating myself. “We just met, too.”
She laughs. “Well. If you figure him out, let me know. He’s a mystery, that one.”
Heart Bones Page 8
