Heart Bones

by Hoover, Colleen

  Samson smiles and hands the menu to the waiter. “We’ll both have the shrimp platter.”

  The waiter writes it down and walks away. Sara scrunches her nose up. “He really did just order for you. I can’t tell if that’s cute or disgusting.”

  “I tried ordering for you once and you elbowed me in the side,” Marcos says.

  Sara nods. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s disgusting.” She takes a sip of her drink. “I feel like doing something touristy this weekend.”

  “Like what?” Marcos asks.

  “The water park? Or a duck tour?” She looks at me and Samson. “You two want to come?”

  “I’m free after lunch every day. Except Friday. I’m finishing Marjorie’s roof.”

  Well that kind of melts my heart a little.

  “Shawn?”

  All four of us look in the direction of the voice. A guy is approaching our table, looking at Samson. The guy is tall and skinny with arms covered in tattoos. I’m staring at one on his forearm of a lighthouse when I feel Samson stiffen.

  “Holy shit,” the guy says. “It is you. How are you, man?”

  “Hey,” Samson says. He doesn’t sound very excited to see this guy. Also...why did the guy call him Shawn?

  Samson taps my leg, wanting out of the booth. I stand up to let him out and he gives the guy a hug. I take my seat and the three of us aren’t even hiding the fact that we’re eavesdropping on their conversation.

  “Dude,” the guy says to Samson. “When did you get out?”

  Get out?

  Samson looks over at our table. There’s a discomfort to him now. He puts his hand on the guy’s back and walks him away from the table so we can’t hear what they’re saying.

  I look at Sara and Marcos to see what their reactions are. Marcos is taking a drink, but Sara’s head is tilted in curiosity as she stares at Samson. She falls back against the booth and says, “That was weird. Why did that guy call him Shawn?”

  Marcos shrugs.

  “Maybe Samson is his middle name,” I say, more to myself than to Sara or Marcos. I wonder why I didn’t demand he tell me his full name last night when I asked. This is weird, knowing I didn’t even know the guy’s first name. But I guess he doesn’t know that my last name is Grim. Or maybe he does, since I have the same last name as my father.

  “Why did that guy ask him when he got out?” Sara says. “Got out of where? Jail? Prison?”

  Marcos shrugs again. “Could have been referring to rehab.”

  “He was in rehab?” Sara asks.

  “I have no idea, I’ve known the guy as long as you have,” he says.

  Samson reappears at our table moments later, sans friend. I stand up and he slides back into the booth. He says nothing. Offers no explanation. That doesn’t matter because Sara won’t let this slide. I can tell by the way she’s staring at him.

  “Why did that guy call you Shawn?”

  Samson stares at her a moment, then releases a quiet laugh. “What?”

  She waves her hand toward the direction the guy went. “He called you Shawn! And then he asked you when you got out. Where have you been? Jail?”

  For some reason, Samson looks at me. I say nothing because I’m waiting for the same answers Sara is waiting for.

  He looks back at Sara and says, “That’s my name. Shawn Samson.” He waves a hand at Marcos. “He called me Samson when we met, and it just stuck with you guys. Everyone else calls me Shawn.”

  Marcos brings his straw to his mouth. “Sounds vaguely familiar now that I think about it.”

  Shawn? His name is Shawn?

  I’m so used to calling him Samson, I’m not sure I can call him Shawn.

  “Okay,” Sara says. “But where’d you get out of? Jail? Were you in jail?”

  Samson sighs and I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  “Leave him alone,” Marcos says, also recognizing Samson’s discomfort.

  Sara waves a defensive hand toward me. “I’m trying to set my stepsister up with him, I think we deserve to know if he’s some kind of criminal.”

  “It’s fine,” Samson says. “He was talking about getting out of the city. We went to boarding school together and he knew how much I hated New York.”

  I can see the slow roll of his throat after he says that, as if he’s swallowing a lie. What are the chances he’d run into a guy from New York on a peninsula in Texas?

  Very slim, but is it really Sara’s business? Is it mine? None of us owe each other our past.

  I don’t know why I feel protective of him right now, but I know he hates talking about himself. Maybe that’s something Sara doesn’t know about him.

  I’ll get the truth out of him later. But right now, I just want the awkwardness to disappear, so I say, “I’ve never been to New York. Texas is only the third state I’ve ever been to.”

  “Seriously?” Sara says.

  I nod. “Yep. Only ever left Kentucky when I’d fly to Washington to see my father. I had no idea Texas was this hot. I’m not sure I like it.”

  Marcos laughs.

  The waiter shows up with the appetizers Sara ordered. He takes my glass to get me a refill and Samson reaches for a piece of calamari, popping it into his mouth. “You ever tasted calamari, Beyah?”

  I take a piece from him. “Nope.”

  Marcos rolls his head. “It’s like you were raised on a different planet.”

  Sara doesn’t wait for me to start eating this time. She makes herself a plate of appetizers and begins eating. This small moment may not seem like a big deal to anyone at the table, but I’m relieved to know Sara isn’t putting as much pressure on herself as she was the night I showed up.

  Sara starts asking me questions about what else I’ve never tried, and the conversation moves from being only about Samson to being unrelated to Samson.

  After a few minutes, Samson reaches under the table and grabs my hand. He gives it a squeeze before releasing it. When I look at him, he’s saying a silent thank you.

  I barely know the guy, but I can somehow communicate better with him by not using words than I’ve ever been able to communicate verbally with anyone else.

  He gives me one look and it’s proof that I don’t need to know more. Not right now, anyway.

  I’ll peel his layers back on his time.

  SIXTEEN

  There weren’t two seats next to each other when we made it to our nightly bonfire, so Samson is sitting across from me.

  Sadly, Beau is in the one next to me.

  I’ve noticed Samson eyeing Beau every time he speaks to me. I’m trying to make it very clear that I’m not interested, but Beau isn’t taking the hint. Guys like him never do. They’re used to getting what they want, so they can’t recognize when what they want doesn’t want them. It’s an unfathomable thought to Beau, I’m sure.

  “Oh, God,” Sara mutters.

  I glance at her and she points a hand at the dune crossing about fifty feet from our site.

  Cadence is walking over the dune.

  “I thought she left,” I say.

  “I thought so, too,” Sara says.

  I watch with a knot in my stomach as Cadence approaches us. Samson’s back is to her so he doesn’t know she’s walking up.

  When she reaches him, she wraps her hands around Samson’s head and covers his eyes. He pulls her hands away and leans his head back, looking up at her.

  Before he can even react, she says, “Surprise!” Then she leans down and kisses him on the mouth. “We came back for another week.”

  The blood in my body feels like it just turned to lava.

  Samson’s eyes immediately find mine when she pulls away. I’m not displaying the jealousy on my face, but it sure is running through my body.

  Samson stands up and turns to Cadence. I can’t hear what he says to her, but he glances at me for a split second before he puts his hand on Cadence’s lower back and points at the water. They start walking in that direction and all I can do is look d
own at my lap.

  I hope he’s walking away from all of us so he can let her down gently. Or ungently, I don’t care.

  Not that he owes me anything. I’m the one who stopped the kiss last night.

  “You okay?” Sara asks, noticing the change in my demeanor.

  I blow out a steady breath. “What are they doing?”

  “Who? Cadence and Samson?”

  I nod.

  “Walking,” she says. She narrows her eyes at me in suspicion. “What’s up with the two of you?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing is up.”

  Sara leans back in her chair. “I know you’re private about a lot of things, Beyah. I can deal with that, but if Samson kisses you this summer, will you please just give me a sign? You don’t even have to say it out loud. Just high-five me or something.”

  I assure her with a nod, then glance over at Samson and Cadence. They’re standing at least two feet apart. Her arms are folded tightly over her chest. She looks angry.

  I train my gaze back on the fire, but a few seconds later, there’s a collective gasp.

  “Holy shit,” Marcos says, laughing. I look at him, but he’s looking at Samson, who is now walking back to the fire. He’s alone, rubbing his cheek.

  “She slapped him,” Sara whispers. When Samson reaches his seat, she says, “What did you say to her?”

  “Nothing she wanted to hear.”

  “Did you just turn her down?” Beau asks. “Why the fuck would you do that? She’s hot.”

  Samson looks at Beau with a deadpan expression. He waves in the direction Cadence just stomped away in. “She’s fair game, Beau. Shoot your shot.”

  Beau shakes his head. “Nah, I’m only interested in this shot right here,” he says, indicating a hand toward me.

  “Not gonna happen, Beau,” I say.

  Beau grins at me, and I have no idea how my flat-out refusal of him makes him think I mean anything other than the words I’m speaking to him. He stands up and grabs my hand. He tries to pull me up, but I don’t budge.

  “Come swimming with me,” he says.

  I shake my head. “I’ve told you no twice already.”

  He tries to pick me up, but I kick him in the knee just as Samson jumps out of his seat and stalks over to us. He stands between us, facing Beau. “She said no.”

  Beau looks at Samson, and then around him, at me. He flicks a finger between us. “Oh. I get it. You two are a thing now.”

  “It has nothing to do with me,” Samson says. “I’ve listened to her ask you to leave her alone several times. Take a fucking hint.”

  Samson is angry. I don’t know if it’s stemming from jealousy or the simple fact that Beau is an asshole.

  I expect that to be the end of it, but Beau apparently doesn’t like being yelled at. He swings at Samson, hitting him in the face. Then Beau puts up both fists like he’s ready for a fight, but Samson brings a hand up to his jaw and stares hard at Beau. “Are you fucking serious?”

  “Yeah, I’m fucking serious,” Beau responds, still in his fighting stance.

  Marcos is standing now, ready to defend Samson, but Samson doesn’t look like he cares to entertain Beau.

  “Go home, Beau,” Marcos says, stepping between Beau and Samson.

  Beau looks at Marcos. “How do you say asshole in Mexican?”

  The only thing I hate more than a douche is a racist douche. “It’s Spanish, not Mexican,” I say. “And I think Beau is the correct translation for asshole.”

  Samson lets out a small laugh when I say that. It pisses Beau off.

  “Fuck you, you little rich prick. All of you can go to hell.” Beau’s face is red with rage.

  “We’re in hell every time you show up,” Sara says flatly.

  Beau points at Sara. “Fuck you.” He points at me. “And fuck you.”

  I guess that’s where Samson draws the line. He doesn’t hit Beau, but he moves toward him fast enough to make Beau jump back. Then Beau spins around and grabs his stuff from his chair and leaves.

  It’s a beautiful sight.

  Samson falls into the chair, gripping his jaw. “I’ve been slapped by a girl and punched by two guys since you showed up.”

  “Then stop taking my side.”

  Samson looks at me with a small grin, almost as if he’s saying, “That’s not gonna happen.”

  “You’re bleeding.” I grab a nearby towel and wipe his jaw. He’s got a small gash across his jawbone. Beau must have been wearing a ring. “You should put a bandage on that.”

  Samson’s eyes change as he stares back at me. “I have some at the house.” He pushes out of his chair and walks around the fire, heading home.

  He doesn’t even invite me or wait on me, but I could tell from his expression he wants me to follow him. I press a palm against my neck, feeling the heat rising to my skin. I stand up. I glance at Sara before I walk away.

  “Remember,” she whispers. “A signal. A high five.”

  I laugh and then follow Samson to his house. He’s several yards ahead of me, but he leaves his door open when he goes inside, so he knows I’m following him.

  When I reach the top of the stairs, I blow out a calming breath. I don’t know why I’m nervous. We kissed last night. The hardest part is over.

  I close the door when I walk inside. Samson is at the sink, wetting a paper towel. I walk into the kitchen and notice he didn’t turn any of the lights on. The only lights in the house are coming from the appliances and the moon shining through the windows.

  I lean against the counter to get a look at his cut. He tilts his head so that I can inspect it. “Is it still bleeding?” he asks.

  “A little.” I pull back and watch him as he presses the wet napkin against his jaw again.

  “I don’t have any bandages,” he says. “I was lying.”

  I nod. “I know. You don’t have shit in this house.”

  His mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but there’s something heavy weighing his smile down. Whatever that heaviness is weighs me down.

  He pulls the napkin away and tosses it on the counter, then he grips the edges of the counter like he’s having to hold himself back.

  He’s not going to make the first move this time, no matter how much he seems like he wants to. And as nervous as I am, I want to experience a whole kiss with him, from beginning to end.

  Samson’s stare is like a magnetic pull, coaxing me toward him. I step closer, my movements timid. No matter how nervous I seem, he doesn’t push it. He just waits. My heart is pounding in my chest when it’s clear to both of us that I’m about to kiss him.

  It feels different than last night. It feels more significant since we’ve both spent the last day thinking about it and have obviously come to the conclusion that we both want it to happen again.

  We maintain eye contact as I lift onto my toes and lightly press my lips to his. He inhales while my mouth is still against his, as if he’s summoning up patience that no longer exists inside of him.

  I pull back a fraction, needing to see his reaction. His pointed gaze and parted lips are a promising hint for whatever might happen next. I don’t feel like I’ll end up running out of this kitchen again now that I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours regretting that move.

  Samson lowers his forehead to mine. I squeeze my eyes shut when he wraps a hand around the back of my head. He keeps his forehead pressed against mine and I imagine his eyes are closed, too. It’s like he wants to be close to me, but he knows he can’t hug me and he doesn’t know if he should kiss me.

  I tilt my head back on instinct, wanting his lips against mine again. He accepts the silent invitation by kissing the corner of my mouth, then the center of it. He releases a shaky breath, like he’s savoring what’s coming.

  His hand that’s wrapped in my hair angles my head back even more, and then he kisses me with confidence.

  It’s slow and deep, like he might not survive if he doesn’t swallow a little bit of my soul in this kiss. He taste
s like saltwater and my blood feels like the sea, raging and crashing through my veins.

  I want to live in this feeling. Sleep in it. Wake up in it.

  I don’t want the kiss to end yet, but when he starts to slow it down, I like how he does it. Gradual, careful, difficult, like he’s coming to a halt about as slow as a train could.

  When we’re no longer kissing, he releases me, but I don’t move away. I’m still pressed against him, but he’s gripping the counter again on either side of himself rather than gripping me. I appreciate that he isn’t wrapping me in his arms right now.

  Kissing I’ve proved I can handle tonight. Being held is something I’m not quite ready for, and he already knows how I feel about it.

  I press my forehead against his shoulder and close my eyes.

  I can hear his breaths, labored and deep as he rests his head lightly against mine.

  We stay like this for a while and I don’t know what to feel or what to think. I don’t know if it’s normal to feel a thousand pounds heavier after you kiss someone.

  I feel like I’m doing this all wrong, but at the same time, it feels like maybe Samson and I are the only people who are doing this right in the whole world.

  “Beyah,” he whispers. His mouth is right over my ear, so when he says my name, goosebumps run down my neck and arms. I keep my forehead pressed against him and my eyes closed.

  “What?”

  There’s a pause that feels way longer than it actually is. “I’m leaving in August.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. It was only four words, but he drew a very deep line in the sand with those four words. A line I knew would eventually come.

  “Me too,” I say.

  I lift my head and my eyes are drawn to his necklace. I touch it, running my finger across the wood. He’s looking down at me like maybe he wants to kiss me again. I would take a thousand more of those tonight. I didn’t feel anything negative this time. It was all good, yet chilling. It’s as if he kissed me backward, from the inside out—the same way I think he looks at me sometimes. Like he sees the inside of me before he notices what’s outside.

  He tilts my chin up with a finger and presses his lips to mine again, this time with his eyes open, soaking me in. He pulls back, but not very far. All his words seem to seep into my mouth when he speaks. “If we do this, it stays in the shallow end.”