Heart Bones

But even if he isn’t, I think enough time has passed that my heart bone has healed. There’s still a crack in it. I sometimes feel it aching. Mostly when it’s late at night and I’m unable to sleep.

It’s been well over four years since the last time I saw him, and my thoughts of him continue to separate further apart by stretches of thoughts that don’t involve Samson. But I don’t know if that’s because I’m trying to protect myself from what could potentially happen today or if it’s because Samson really was just one summer fling in a life filled with other seasons.

That’s the worst outcome I can imagine—that all the moments we shared that left such a lasting impact on me, weren’t profound for him at all.

I’ve thought about saving myself the potential embarrassment. He might see me out here waiting on him and barely remember me. Or worse—he could feel sorry for the girl who hung on after all this time.

Either of those options are worth the risk, because the idea of him walking out those doors to no one sounds like the saddest outcome of all. I’d rather be here and him not want me here than not be here when he hopes I am.

Kevin called last week and said Samson was approved for early release. I knew that’s what he was going to tell me before I even answered his phone call because Kevin never calls me. I’m the one who calls him to check if there are updates. I call him so much, I’m probably more annoying to him than a telemarketer.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the hood, eating an apple I just pulled out of my bag. I’ve been here going on four hours now.

There’s a man in the car next to me who is also waiting on someone to be released. He gets out to stretch his legs and then leans against his car. “Who are you here for?” he asks.

I don’t know how to answer that, so I shrug. “An old friend who may not even want me here.”

He kicks at a rock. “I’m here for my brother. Third time picking him up. Hopefully this will be his last go.”

“Hopefully,” I say. But I doubt it. I’ve learned enough about the prison system during my time in college that I have very little faith in the system’s ability to properly rehabilitate offenders.

It’s why I’m in law school now. I’m convinced Samson wouldn’t be in the position he’s in if he would have had better access to resources when he was released the first time. Even if I don’t end up with Samson by the end of this, I’ve ended up with a new passion because of it.

“What time do they usually open the doors?” I ask the man.

The guy looks at his watch. “I figured it would be before lunch. They’re running behind today.”

I reach into my bag that’s sitting on the hood next to me. “You hungry? I have chips.”

He holds up his hands, so I toss them at him. “Thanks,” he says, opening the bag. He pops one into his mouth. “Good luck with your friend.”

I smile. “Good luck to your brother.”

I take another bite of my apple and lean back onto my windshield. I lift my arm and run my fingers over my pinwheel tattoo.

I hated this tattoo after Samson was arrested. It was supposed to bring me good luck, but instead it felt like my world became worse than before I moved to Texas. It took at least a year for me to fully appreciate this tattoo.

Aside from everything that happened with Samson being arrested, every other aspect of my life improved after getting this tattoo. I became closer to my father and his new family. Sara is not only my sister now, but my absolute best friend in the world.

I got accepted to law school. I never would have thought when I picked up a volleyball for the first time as a kid that it would lead to me becoming a lawyer. Me. The lonely girl who once had to do unthinkable things to feed herself is going to be a damn lawyer.

I think maybe this tattoo really did turn my luck around in the end. Not in the way I expected it to in that moment, but now that I’m at this point in my life, I can see all the good things that came from that summer. Samson being one of those good things, no matter who he is today. I’m at a point in my life where the outcome of my future won’t be determined by the outcome of any potential relationship.

Do I want him to be who I’ve always believed him to be? Absolutely.

Will I crumble if he isn’t? Not at all.

I am still made of steel. Come at me, world. You can’t damage the impermeable.