Heart Bones

by Hoover, Colleen

  “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 witho
ut 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.

  We stare at each other, much like we always do, but it’s different this time. Now we know what each other tastes like. He knows my darkest secret, yet he’s still looking at me like I’m the most interesting thing on this peninsula.

  He drops his gaze and looks down between our chairs. He drags a finger in the sand. “How do you spell your name?”

  “B-e-y-a-h.”

  I watch as he writes my name in the sand. When he finishes, he drags a finger across it and strikes it out, then wipes his whole hand across it until my name disappears.

  I don’t know how I could possibly feel that beneath my skin, but I did.

  Samson glances toward the water. “Sara and Marcos are coming back.” He puts his shades on and then hops up.

  I keep my hands behind my head, pretending to be relaxed, despite feeling like I’ve just been electrocuted. Samson walks to Sara, who is struggling with her board. He takes over and drags it the rest of the way out of the water for her.

  Sara pulls at her ponytail when she reaches me and takes a seat on the lounge chair Samson was just lying on. She squeezes water out of her hair.

  “You have a good nap?” Sara asks.

  “Yeah. I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

  “You snore,” she says, laughing. “Did you ask Samson if he wants to double date tonight?”

  “No. It didn’t come up.”

  Marcos and Samson are walking the paddle boards toward us. “Samson, we’re all going on a double date,” Sara says to him. “Be ready at six.”

  Samson doesn’t miss a beat in his response. “Who’s my date?”

  “Beyah. Idiot.”

  Samson looks at me like he’s considering it. “Is this like a friend date?”

  “It’s food,” Marcos says. “Don’t let Sara put a label on it.”

  “We doing seafood?” Samson asks him.

  “Would you even allow us to eat anything else?”

  Samson looks back at me. “You like shrimp, Beyah?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever had it.”

  Samson tilts his head. “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”

  “I’m from Kentucky. We don’t have a lot of affordable seafood restaurants.”

  “You’ve never even been to a Red Lobster?” Marcos asks me.

  “Y’all forget things like Red Lobster are fancy to a lot of people.”

  “I’ll order for you, then,” Samson says.

  “How very chauvinistic of you,” I tease.

  Sara pulls on her bathing suit cover-up and stands. “Come on, let’s go get ready.”

  “Now? We aren’t leaving for another two hours.”

  “Yeah, but we have a lot to do to get you ready.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m giving you a makeover.”

  I shake my head. “No. Please, no.”

  She nods. “Yes. I’m doing your hair, your nails, your makeup.” She grabs my hand and pulls me out of the lounger. She points at all the stuff we brought to the beach earlier. “You two strapping men take care of this, will ya?”

  We get halfway to the house and she says, “He’s into you. I can tell. He doesn’t look at girls like he looks
at you.”

  I don’t respond to her because I get a text in the middle of her comment. I rarely get texts. Not many people have my phone number.

  I look at my phone as Sara starts walking up the stairs. The text is from Samson.

  Look at us going on a spontaneous date. Maybe we ARE fun.

  “You coming?” Sara asks.

  I wipe the grin off my face and follow her inside.

  FIFTEEN

  They’re all staring at me, waiting for me to take a bite. Even our waiter.

  Talk about pressure.

  “Dip it in cocktail sauce first,” Marcos suggests.

  Samson pushes the cocktail sauce away from me. “Are you crazy? That’ll make her puke.” He pushes tartar sauce toward me. “Here, use this.”

  Sara rolls her eyes as she stacks up three of the menus. She and Marcos just ordered, but Samson and I haven’t yet because he wanted to make sure I liked shrimp first. The waiter was amused I’d never had shrimp, so he brought me a piece to try and now he’s sticking around to watch my reaction.

  It’s grilled shrimp without a shell or a tail. I’m not a huge fan of fish, so I’m not expecting much, but the pressure is real as I dip it into the tartar sauce.

  “Y’all are acting like her reaction is going to be life or death,” Sara says. “I’m getting hangry.”

  “It’ll only be life or death if she’s allergic to shellfish,” the waiter says.

  I pause before taking the bite. “What exactly falls under the definition of shellfish?”

  Samson says, “Lobster. Shrimp. Things in shells.”

  “Crab. Crawfish. Turtles,” Marcos says.

  “Turtles aren’t a fish,” Sara says, rolling her eyes.

  “It was a joke,” Marcos says.

  “Have you ever had lobster or crab?” Samson asks me.

  “I’ve had crab.”

  “You should be fine, then.”

  “For Pete’s sake, just eat it before I do,” Sara says. “I’m starving.”

  I bite down on the shrimp, only eating half of it. Everyone is watching me chew, even Sara. It’s got a decent flavor. It’s not the greatest thing I’ve ever had, but it’s good. “Not bad.” I pop the rest of it in my mouth.