Heart Bones

by Hoover, Colleen

  I look around, wondering where this is going to happen. How it’s going to happen. It feels a little weird knowing what’s coming. I prefer spontaneity over plans when it comes to sex. Dakota treated me like I was on a strict, rotating schedule.

  “You thirsty?” Samson asks.

  I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

  He tosses my backpack against the wall next to his backpack. He grabs my hand and twists my wrist so that he can see my tattoo. It’s been a week since we got them and both of ours healed well. It kind of makes me want another one, but I feel like I need to wait until I have a reason. Getting one with Samson felt important. I’ll wait for another important life moment before getting a second one.

  “It turned out really good,” he says, running his finger over it.

  “You never actually said if you liked yours.”

  “I told you I loved it the night I got it. I just didn’t say it with words.” He slides his fingers through mine and leads me up a set of stairs. When he opens the door to his room, he lets me walk in first.

  The balcony doors are open and there’s a breeze blowing the sheer curtains into the room. The bed is perfectly made, and I still can’t get over how clean he keeps everything. Samson flips on a lamp by the bed.

  “It’s pretty,” I say, walking toward the balcony. I step outside and glance over at my bedroom. I accidentally left the light on, so I have a clear view of my bed. “You can see straight into my room.”

  Samson is next to me now. “Yeah, I know. You don’t leave that light on nearly enough.”

  I look at him and he’s grinning. I shove him playfully in the shoulder and walk back into the bedroom. I make my way over to the bed and sit on the edge of the mattress.

  I remove my shoes and then lie down on his bed and watch him. He walks slowly around the bed, staring at me from every angle.

  “I feel like I’m being circled like I’m prey,” I say.

  “Well, I don’t want to be the shark in this scenario.” Samson plops down next to me on the bed, holding his head up with his hand. “There. Now I’m plankton.”

  “Better,” I say, smiling.

  He brushes a strand of hair over my ear with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Are you nervous?”

  “No. I feel comfortable with you.”

  That sentence causes concern to briefly fall over his features—almost as if he finds it uncomfortable that I feel comfortable with him. But the look disappears as soon as it appeared.

  “I saw that thought,” I say quietly.

  “What thought?”

  “The negative thought you just had.” I bring a finger to the spot between his eyebrows. “It was right here.”

  He’s quiet as he digests my words. “For someone who doesn’t know a lot about me, you sure know a lot about me.”

  “All the stuff you’ve kept secret from me isn’t really stuff that counts.”

  “How do you know if you don’t know what secrets I’m keeping from you?” he asks.

  “I don’t have to know anything about your past to know you’re a good person. I can tell by your actions. I can tell by the way you treat me. Why would it matter what kind of family you have, or how rich you are, or what the people in your past meant to you before I showed up?” That negative thought is back, so I take my finger and smooth out the wrinkles in his forehead. “Stop,” I whisper. “You’re too hard on yourself.”

  Samson falls onto his back and brings his hands to his chest. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, so I scoot closer to him and lift my head up, resting it on my hand. I touch his necklace, then walk my fingers up his neck and begin tracing his lips.

  He tilts his face toward mine. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this?”

  His words are more of a question, so I immediately shake my head. “I want to.”

  “It’s not fair to you.”

  “Why? Because I don’t know everything about you?”

  He nods. “I’m worried you wouldn’t be saying yes right now if you knew the whole truth about me.”

  I press my lips to his, but only briefly. “You’re being dramatic.”

  “I’m actually not,” he says. “I’ve just lived a dramatic life and you might not like it.”

  “Same thing. We’re both dramatic because we have dramatic parents and dramatic pasts. We could be having dramatic sex right now if you’d stop feeling so guilty.”

  He smiles. I sit up and take off my shirt. The worry in his eyes disappears as he slides me onto him so that I’m straddling him. He already feels ready, but he brings a hand up and traces a finger slowly over the lace edges of my bra like he’s in no hurry at all.

  “I’ve only ever had sex in Dakota’s truck,” I say. “This will be my first time in a bed.”

  Samson drags his finger down my stomach, stopping at the button on my shorts. “This will be my first time with a girl I have feelings for.”

  I try to stay as stoic as him when he makes that declaration, but his words move through me so hard, I frown.

  He brings his hand up to my mouth, sliding his fingers across it. “Why did that make you sad?”

  I debate shaking my head to avoid answering that question, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned this summer, it’s that secrets aren’t really as valuable as I used to think they were. I go with honesty. “When you say things like that, it makes me dread when we have to say goodbye. I wasn’t expecting to end the summer with a broken heart.”

  Samson tilts his head, looking at me with complete candor. “Don’t worry. Hearts don’t have bones. They can’t actually break.”

  Samson rolls me onto my back and takes off his shirt, and that’s enough to appease me for about two seconds, but then my thoughts are right back to where they were before he got half naked.

  He lowers himself on top of me, but before we kiss again, I say, “If there’s nothing inside a heart that can break, why does it feel like mine is going to snap in half when it’s time for me to move next month? Does your heart not feel like that?”

  Samson’s eyes scroll over my face for a moment. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It does. Maybe we both grew heart bones.”

  As soon as he says that, I grip the back of his neck and pull him to my mouth. I want to catch as many of those words as possible and trap them inside of me. His sentence lingers in pieces, like his words are floating around us, between us, and absorbing into me as we kiss.

  He might be right. Maybe we did grow heart bones. But what if the only way of knowing you grew a heart bone is by feeling the agony caused by the break?

  I try not to think about our impending goodbye, but it’s hard to experience something that feels this perfect without being acutely aware it’s about to be taken away.

  Samson sits up on his knees. He fingers the button on my shorts until it pops open. He keeps his eyes on mine as he pulls down the zipper and begins to slide my shorts off me. I lift my hips and then my legs to help him get rid of them. He throws them aside and then takes a moment to soak up the sight of me. I like seeing myself through his expressions. He makes me feel prettier than I probably am.

  He pulls the covers over us and lies down next to me while he removes his own shorts. It’s not uncomfortable in any way, so I have absolutely no hesitation when I remove my bra and panties. There’s a level of ease with him, like we’ve done this with each other a dozen times, but I’m filled with the anticipation of someone who has never experienced this at all.

  When we’re completely naked under the covers, we face each other, both of us on our sides. Samson brings a hand to my cheek and rests it there softly. “You still seem sad.”

  “I am.”

  He runs his hand down my neck and over my shoulder. His eyes follow his hand, so he isn’t looking directly at me when he says, “Me, too.”

  “Then why do we have to say goodbye? I can go to college and you can go to the Air Force Academy, but we can stay in touch and visit each other and—”

  “We can’t, Bey
ah.” His eyes are back on mine when he says that, but then they flicker away and fixate on something else. “I’m not going to the Air Force. I was never going to the Air Force.”

  His words and the expression on his face make my heart feel like it’s already starting to fracture. I want to ask him what he means but I’m too scared to know the truth, so the question never forms.

  Samson sighs heavily and leans toward me. His grip on my arm tightens as he presses his lips to my shoulder. I squeeze my eyes shut when I feel his breath against my skin. I want so much from him right now. I want his honesty, but I also want his silence and his touch and his kiss. Something tells me I can’t have all of it. It’s either this moment or the truth.

  He tucks his face in the crook of my neck. “Please don’t ask me what I mean by that, because if you do, I’ll be honest with you. I can’t lie to you anymore. But I want this night with you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”

  His words roll over me like a wave, crashing against me with so much force, I wince. I run my hand through his hair and tilt my face until we’re looking at each other. “Will you be honest with me when we wake up tomorrow?”

  Samson nods. He doesn’t even say yes out loud, but I believe him.

  I believe him because he looks like he’s scared he might lose me. And he might. But he has me tonight and that’s all I really care about.

  I kiss him to let him know the truth can wait until tomorrow. Right now, I just want to feel what I’ve always deserved to feel during sex—like my body is respected, and my touch has more than just a monetary value.

  Samson pulls away long enough to grab a condom out of the bedside table drawer. He puts it on beneath the covers and then rolls back on top of me. He’s patient as he kisses me, waiting for just the right moment to push himself inside of me.

  When it finally happens, he’s staring down at me, watching the expression on my face. I gasp, holding in all my breaths until we’re as connected as we can possibly be. He sighs shakily. Then, as he begins to pull out of me as slowly as he entered me, he rests his mouth against mine.

  I moan when he pushes into me again, amazed at how new Samson makes this feel for me. There isn’t even a piece of me that doesn’t want to be here right now, and that makes all the difference in the world.

  Samson rests his head against mine. “Does this feel okay?”

  I shake my head. “It’s so much better than okay.”

  I feel his laugh against my neck. “I agree.” His voice sounds strained, like he might be holding back because he’s scared I’ll break.

  I press my mouth to his ear, dragging my fingers through his hair. “You don’t have to be careful with me.” I wrap my legs around him and kiss his neck until his skin breaks out in chills against my tongue.

  My words make him groan, and then it’s like he suddenly comes to life. His mouth finds mine and he kisses me like he’s hungry and touches me like his hands are starving.

  It somehow gets better with every passing minute. We find a rhythm with our bodies, a tempo with our kiss, and a cadence in our collective moans. It becomes everything I’ve never experienced during sex.

  It becomes love.

  Whatever tomorrow brings with his truth, I already know it won’t change what I feel for him, even though he’s convinced it will. I’m not sure he knows how much he means to me. Knowing I’m finally going to learn the full truth about him doesn’t feel threatening.

  Samson makes me wonder if there’s a difference between a liar and a person who tells lies to protect someone from the truth.

  Samson doesn’t feel like a liar to me. He feels protective, not dishonest.

  And in this moment, Samson is being more honest than he’s ever been, and he’s not uttering a single word.

  I’ve never felt more appreciated than I feel right now. Not only appreciated, but savored. Respected. Wanted.

  Maybe even loved.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Samson’s words feel like concrete moving through me. I haven’t even opened my eyes yet, but his voice sounded more regretful than any sound I’ve ever heard.

  Was it a dream?

  A nightmare?

  I reach to his pillow and open my eyes, but find nothing. I fell asleep wrapped around him, but now he’s gone and my arms are empty. When I roll over and look toward his bedroom door, I see him. His hands are behind his back. There’s a police officer gripping his arm, shoving him out of the bedroom.

  I sit up immediately. “Samson?”

  It isn’t until I say his name that I see another officer on the other side of the bed, her hand on her hip, touching her gun. I pull the covers up over my chest. She can see the fear in my eyes, so she raises a hand. “You can get dressed, but move slowly.”

  My pulse is racing as I try to make sense of what’s happening. The officer reaches to the floor and tosses me my shirt. My hands are shaking as I try to put it on under the covers. “What’s going on?”

  “I need you to come downstairs with me,” the officer says.

  Oh my God, what is happening? How can the night go from us making love to Samson being handcuffed? This has to be some kind of mistake. Or a cruel joke. It can’t be real.

  “We didn’t do anything wrong.” I get out of the bed and look for my shorts. I can’t even remember where they are, but I don’t have time to look for them. I need to stop them from taking Samson.

  I rush to the door and the officer says, “Stop!”

  I pause and look back at her.

  “You need to finish getting dressed. There are other people downstairs.”

  Other people?

  Maybe there was a break-in. Maybe they’re confusing Samson for someone else. Or maybe someone found out what he did with Rake’s remains.

  Is that what this is about?

  That thought makes me panic, because I was there. I saw what he did and I failed to report it, which makes me just as guilty as Samson.

  The officer exits the bedroom while I’m pulling on my shorts. She waits and then walks behind me while I head for the stairs. When I emerge into the living room, there are two more police officers standing in Samson’s living room.

  “What is happening?” I whisper to myself. I look outside and the sun hasn’t even risen yet, which means it’s still the middle of the night. Samson and I fell asleep after midnight.

  I glance at the clock on the wall. It reads 2:30 in the morning.

  “Have a seat,” the female officer says.

  “Am I being arrested?”

  “No. We just have some questions.”

  I’m scared now. I don’t know where they took Samson. “I want my father. We live in the house next door. Can someone please tell him what’s going on?”

  She nods at one of the officers and he exits the house.

  “Where is Samson?” I ask.

  “Is that the name he gave you?” The officer pulls out a notepad and writes something down.

  “Yes. Shawn Samson. This is his house and you just took him out of his own bed in the middle of the night.”

  The front door opens and a different officer walks in, followed by a man holding a child. The man is followed by a woman. It must be his wife, because she clings to him as soon as they get inside.

  Why are there so many people here?

  The woman looks familiar, but I can’t place her. She looks like she’s been crying. The man is eyeing me suspiciously as he hands his child over to his wife.

  “How long have you been staying here?” the officer asks.

  I shake my head. “I don’t. I live next door.”

  “How are you and the young man acquainted?”

  I feel dizzy and scared, and I wish my father would hurry up. I don’t like these questions. I want to know where Samson is. Do I need a lawyer? Does Samson?

  “How did you get in?” This question comes from the man who was holding the child.

  “Get in?”


  “Our house,” he says.

  His house?

  I look at his wife. I look at the child. I immediately look at the picture frame by the door. That picture is of her. And the little boy in the picture is in her arms.

  “This is your house?” I ask the man.

  “Yes.”

  “You own it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Samson your son?”

  The man shakes his head. “We don’t know him.”

  I look back at the picture. The one Samson said was of him and his mother. Did he lie about that, too?

  I’m shaking my head in complete and utter confusion when my father rushes through the door. “Beyah?” He glides across the room, but comes to a halt when one of the officers puts a hand on his shoulder and steps between us.

  “Can you wait outside the door, please?”

  “What happened?” my father asks. “Why are they being arrested?”

  “Your daughter isn’t being arrested. We don’t believe she had a part in this.”

  “A part in what?” I ask.

  The female officer inhales a slow breath like she doesn’t want to say what she’s about to say. “This house belongs to this family,” she says, motioning in the direction of the man, woman, and child. “Your friend didn’t have permission to be here. He’s being charged with breaking and entering.”

  “Son of a bitch,” my father says through clenched teeth.

  I can feel the tears burning behind my eyes. “That can’t be right,” I whisper. This is Samson’s father’s house. He even set the alarm last night. You can’t break into a house when you know the alarm code. “This has to be some kind of mistake.”

  “It’s not a mistake,” the officer says. She puts her notepad in her back pocket. “Do you mind coming with us to the station? We’ll need to file a report and we have a lot of questions.”

  I nod and stand up. They might have questions for me, but I certainly don’t have answers.

  My father steps forward, waving a hand in my direction. “She had no idea this wasn’t his house. I’m the one who allowed her to stay here last night.”