Heart Bones

by Hoover, Colleen

  “Where do you keep your food?”

  He motions toward a closet near the stairs that lead to the top floor. “We keep the stuff we don’t want renters to have access to in that closet. There’s a small fridge in it.” He points to a backpack next to the door. “Everything else I own I keep in that backpack. The less I have, the easier it is for me to move between our properties.”

  I’ve seen him with the backpack a couple of times but thought nothing of it. It’s kind of ironic that we both carry our lives around in a backpack, despite the vast difference of wealth between us.

  I glance up near the door, at a picture on the wall. It’s the only thing in the house that has any character. I walk over to it. It’s a photo of a young boy, about three years old, walking on the beach. A woman is behind him, wearing a flowy white dress. She’s smiling at whoever is taking the photo. “Is this your mother?” It reminds me of those perfect sample photos they place in frames before they’re purchased.

  Samson nods.

  “So that’s you? As a toddler?”

  He nods again.

  His hair is so blond in the picture, it’s almost white. It’s darkened since he was a child, but I’d still consider his hair blond. I don’t know if it’s this blond in the winter, though. It seems to be the kind of hair that changes color with the seasons.

  I wonder what Samson’s father looks like, but there aren’t any photos of him. This is the only photo in this section of the house.

  I have so many more questions as I stare at the picture. His mother seems happy. He seems happy. I wonder what happened to him to make him so private and withdrawn? Did his mother die? I doubt he’d elaborate on anything if I were to ask him.

  Samson flips on more lights and leans against his kitchen counter. I don’t know how he can appear so casual when all of my muscles are tight with tension. “Your leg feel better?” he asks.

  I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about the picture or his mother or anything else that would be another layer deep. I walk into the kitchen and stand across from him, leaning against the large center island. It’s the kitchen island Cadence was sitting on a few nights ago when I watched him kiss her.

  I push that thought out of my head. “It feels a little better. I doubt I’ll get in the water again, though.”

  “You’ll be fine,” he says. “Rarely happens.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you said earlier, and then it happened.”

  He smiles.

  It makes me want our moment back. I want to feel how I felt when he pulled me to him and kissed my shoulder. I don’t know how to get there, though. It’s so bright in here. The atmosphere is different than it was when we were in the water.

  I think maybe I don’t like his house.

  “How’s your face?” I ask him.

  He runs a hand across his jaw. “My jaw hurts worse than my nose.” He lowers his hand and grips the counter at his sides. “That was nice of your dad.”

  “You think him attacking you was nice?”

  “No. I thought the way he protected you was nice.”

  I hadn’t really thought about that. My father didn’t even think twice when he heard me asking someone to stop. But I’m not sure it’s specifically because it was me. He would have protected anyone in that situation, I’m sure.

  “Where do you go when this house gets rented out?” I ask, steering the conversation away from my father.

  “We only keep four rented out at a time, so I always have somewhere to stay. This one is the most expensive, so it gets rented the least. I’m here seventy-five percent of the time.”

  I glance around me, trying to find something else like the picture that would give me a hint into his past. There’s nothing. “It’s kind of ironic,” I say. “You have five houses, but none of them are actually your home. Your refrigerator is empty. You live out of a backpack. We surprisingly do live very similar lives.”

  He doesn’t respond to that. He just watches me. He does that a lot and I like it. I don’t even care what he’s thinking when he stares. I just like that he finds me intriguing enough to stare at, even if his thoughts aren’t entirely positive. It means he sees me. I’m not used to being seen.

  “What’s your last name?” I ask him.

  He looks amused. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “I told you I was going to.”

  “I think it’s my turn now.”

  “But I’ve barely gotten anywhere. You’re terrible at answering me.”

  He doesn’t disagree, but he also doesn’t answer my question. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he thinks of his own question. “What are you planning on doing with your life, Beyah?”

  “That’s a broad one. You sound like a school counselor.”

  He releases a small laugh and I feel it in my stomach. “What are you doing after the summer is over?” he clarifies.

  I mull over that question. Should I be honest with him? Maybe if I’m honest with him, he’ll be more open with me. “I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell anyone.”

  “It’s a secret?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “I won’t tell anyone.”

  I trust him. I don’t know why because I don’t trust anyone. I’m either a fool or deeply attracted to him and neither is really okay with me. “I have a full ride to Penn State. I move into my dorm August third.”

  His eyebrow lifts slightly. “You got a scholarship?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What for?”

  “Volleyball.”

  His eyes do this thing where they roll slowly down my body. Not in a seductive way, but in a curious way. “I can see that.” When his eyes meet mine again, he says, “What part of that is a secret?”

  “All of it. I haven’t told anyone. Not even my father.”

  “Your own father doesn’t know you received a scholarship?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why haven’t you told him?”

  “Because it would make him feel like he did something right. And I had to work for the scholarship because he did everything wrong.”

  He nods, like he can empathize with that. I look away for a moment because my entire body heats up when I stare at him too much. I’m afraid it’s obvious.

  “Is volleyball your passion?”

  His question makes me pause. No one has ever asked me that before. “No. I don’t enjoy it all that much to be honest.”

  “Why not?”

  “I worked hard at it because I knew it was my only way out of the town I grew up in. But no one ever came to watch me play, so the actual sport started feeling depressing to me. All my other teammates had parents at every game cheering them on. I’ve never had anyone, and I think that prevented me from loving it as much as I could have.” I sigh, spilling more of my thoughts out loud. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing the right thing by subjecting myself to four more years of it. Being on a team with people whose lives are so different from my own sometimes makes me feel even lonelier than if I weren’t a part of a team.”

  “You aren’t excited to go?”

  I shrug. “I’m proud of myself for getting the scholarship. And I was excited to get out of Kentucky. But now that I’m here and I’ve gotten the first break from volleyball I’ve had in years, I don’t think I miss it. I’m starting to wonder if I should just stay here and get a job. Maybe I’ll take a gap year.” I say that last part with a hint of sarcasm, but it’s starting to sound very appealing. I’ve spent the last several years working my ass off to get out of Kentucky. Now that I’m out, I feel like I need to take a breather. Reassess my life.

  “You’re thinking about giving up a scholarship to a great school just because the sport that got you there sometimes makes you lonely?”

  “It feels more complicated than you make it sound,” I say.

  “You want to know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think you should wear earplugs at the games and just pretend people are out th
ere cheering you on.”

  I laugh. “I thought you were going to say something profound.”

  “I thought that was profound,” he says, grinning. I notice when he smiles that his jaw is beginning to bruise. But his smile fades and he tilts his head a little. “Why were you crying on your balcony the night you got here?”

  I stiffen at his question. It’s a jarring jump from talking about volleyball. I don’t know how to answer that. Especially in a room this bright. Maybe if it didn’t feel like an interrogation room, I’d be more at ease. “Can you turn off some of these lights?” I ask him.

  He looks confused by my request.

  “It’s too bright in here. It’s making me uncomfortable.”

  Samson walks over to the light switches and turns all of them off except for one. The lights that trim the cabinets stay on, so it’s significantly darker and I relax almost immediately. I can see why he keeps it dark in this house. The assaulting lights and all the white paint make it feel like a psychiatric ward.

  He returns to his spot against the counter. “Is that better?”

  I nod.

  “Why were you crying?”

  I blow out a rush of air, then just spit it out before I change my mind and decide to lie to him. “My mother died the night before I came here.”

  Samson doesn’t react to that at all. I’ve come to realize that maybe his lack of reaction is how he reacts.

  “That’s also a secret,” I say. “I haven’t even told my father yet.”

  His expression is solemn. “How’d she die?”

  “Overdose. I found her when I got home from work.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says with sincerity. “Are you okay?”

  I lift a shoulder in uncertainty, and when I do, it feels like some of those feelings that forced me into tears on the balcony attempt to seep back in. I wasn’t prepared to talk about this. I don’t want to talk about it, honestly. It’s not really fair that I don’t know how to not answer his questions, but he doesn’t open up about anything.

  I feel like a waterfall around him, just spilling myself and my secrets out all over the floor.

  Samson’s expression turns empathetic when he sees my eyes rim with tears.

  He pushes off the counter and begins to walk toward me, but I stand up straight and immediately shake my head. I press a hand against his chest, stopping him from touching me.

  “Don’t. Don’t hug me. It’ll just feel patronizing now that you know I’ve never been hugged like that.”

  Samson shakes his head gently as he stares down at me. “I wasn’t going to hug you, Beyah,” he whispers. His face is so close to mine, his breath grazes my cheek when he speaks. I feel like I’m about to slide to the floor, so I grip the edge of the counter behind me.

  He dips his head until his lips catch mine. His mouth is soft, like an apology, and I accept it.

  His tongue coaxes my mouth open and I welcome him by fisting both of my hands in his hair, pulling him even closer. Our chests meet and our tongues slide against each other, wet and warm and soft.

  I want this kiss, even if it’s only happening because he’s drawn to sad things.

  He tugs me away from the counter and into him, and then in one swift move, he lifts me and I’m sitting on his island and he’s standing between my legs. His left hand slides down my leg until his fingers are brushing my outer thigh.

  I’m full of things I’m not usually filled with. Warmth and electricity and light.

  It scares me.

  His kiss scares me.

  I’m not impenetrable against his mouth. I’m vulnerable, and I feel my guard lowering. I’d give him all my secrets right now and that isn’t me. His kiss is potent enough to turn me into a girl I don’t recognize. I love it and I loathe it.

  As much as I try to remain focused on what’s happening between us, it’s hard for the image of what happened between him and Cadence not to flash through my head. I don’t want to be just another girl he kisses on his kitchen island.

  I’m not sure I can handle being a throwaway to Samson like I was with Dakota. I’d rather not be kissed at all than allow that to happen again, only to look out my bedroom window tomorrow night and see someone else in this same spot, feeling the same things he’s making me feel right now.

  The same things Dakota made me feel right before he pulled away and ruined the next few years of my life with one gesture.

  God, what if Samson pulls away and looks at me like Dakota looked at me that first night in his truck?

  The thought makes me nauseous.

  I need air. Fresh air. Not air from his lungs or this sterile house.

  I end the kiss abruptly, without warning. I push against Samson and slide off the island, leaving him confused. I avoid his eyes as I walk straight for his door. I go outside and grip the balcony railing, gasping for air.

  I’ve been through enough in my life that I don’t want a guy to change the things I like about myself the most. I’ve always been proud of my impenetrable resolve, but he somehow infiltrates me like I’m full of holes. Dakota never reached this far inside of me.

  I hear Samson walk outside. I don’t turn around to face him. I just inhale another deep breath and then close my eyes. I can feel him next to me, though. Quiet, brooding, sexy, secretive—all my favorite ingredients in a guy, apparently. Why did I stop the kiss, then?

  I think maybe Dakota ruined me.

  When I open my eyes, Samson’s back is against the railing. He’s staring down at his feet.

  Our eyes meet and it’s like I can see my own fears looking back at me. We don’t break our gaze. I’ve never stared at someone without speaking as much as I’ve looked at him. We do a lot of looking and not much talking, but they both feel equally productive. Or unproductive. I don’t even know what to think of what’s been developing between us. Some moments, it feels like something huge and important, and other times it feels like less than nothing.

  “That was a really bad moment to choose to kiss you,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  I think a lot of people might agree with him, that kissing a girl right after—or because—she tells you her mother died might be poor timing.

  Maybe I’m fucked up, but I thought it was perfect timing. Until it wasn’t.

  “That’s not why I came outside.”

  “What is it, then?”

  I blow out a quiet rush of air while I work out how to answer that. I don’t want to bring up how I fear that deep down, he’s no better than Dakota. I don’t want to bring up Cadence, or the fact that he’s only with girls who are here for the weekend. He doesn’t owe me anything. I’m the one who showed up at his front door wanting this to happen.

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to answer that.”

  He turns around until we’re both leaning over the railing. He picks at a piece of chipped paint, pulling at it until it reveals an inch of bare wood. He flicks the chipped paint over the railing and we watch as it flutters to the ground.

  “My mother died when I was five,” he says. “We were swimming about half a mile from here when she got caught in a rip current. By the time they pulled her out of the water, it was too late.”

  He glances at me, probably to gauge my reaction. But he’s not the only one who can hide his emotions well.

  I get the feeling he hasn’t told a lot of people that. A secret for a secret. Maybe that’s how this will go. Maybe that’s how Samson’s layers are peeled back—by peeling my own layers back first.

  “I hate that for you,” I whisper. I keep my arms folded over the railing, but I lean slightly toward him. I press my mouth against his shoulder. I kiss him there, just like he did me in the water.

  When I pull away, he lifts a hand to the side of my face. His thumb brushes my cheekbone, but then he dips his head to try to kiss me again and I immediately pull away from him.

  I wince because I’m embarrassed by my own indecisiveness.

  He pushes off the railing and runs a hand throug
h his hair, and then looks at me for guidance. I know I’m throwing all kinds of mixed signals his way, but it’s a reflection of what’s going on inside of me. I feel stirred up and confused, like my current feelings and past experiences were just thrown together in a blender and turned on high.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, frustrated with myself. “I haven’t had the best experience with guys so I just feel…”

  “Hesitant?” he suggests.

  I nod. “Yeah. And confused.”

  He begins picking at the same spot on the wood. “What’s been your experience with guys?”

  I laugh half-heartedly. “Guys is overshooting it. There was only one.”

  “I thought you said you’ve never had your heart broken.”

  “I haven’t. It wasn’t that kind of experience.”

  Samson gives me a sidelong glance, waiting for me to elaborate. There’s no way I’m elaborating on that.

  “Did he force you to do something you didn’t want to do?” Samson’s jaw is hard when he asks that, like he’s already angry on my behalf.

  “No,” I say quickly, wanting him to get that thought out of his head. But then I think back on my life in Kentucky and the times I spent with Dakota, and now that I’m no longer in that situation, I look at it differently.

  Dakota never forced me to do anything. But he certainly wasn’t making it easy for me. We were in no way equals when it came to who got taken advantage of.

  Thinking about it is stirring up dark thoughts. Dark feelings. Tears begin to sting my eyes, and when I suck in a breath to fight them back, Samson notices. He turns and presses his back against the railing so he can see my face better.

  “What happened to you, Beyah?”

  I laugh, because it’s absurd I’m even thinking about this right now. I’m good at not thinking about most of the time. I feel a tear skate down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away. “This isn’t fair,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  “Why do I end up wanting to answer every single question you ask me?”