Heart Bones

I think it might be mine for allowing myself to get embarrassed by him. You can’t really be embarrassed in the presence of someone whose opinion you don’t give two shits about. That has to mean that somewhere inside me, I give a shit what he thinks.

Samson pushes off the railing and stands up straight. I’m tall for a girl. Five-ten. But even at my height, he towers over me. He has to be at least six-three. “Friends it is, then,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

I unintentionally let out a dry laugh. “People like you aren’t friends with people like me.”

He tilts his head a little. “That’s a bit presumptuous.”

“Says the guy who assumed I was homeless.”

“You ate bread off the ground.”

“I was hungry. You’re rich, you wouldn’t understand.”

His eyes narrow a bit, then he looks out at the ocean again. He stares so hard at it, it’s like it’s speaking to him. Giving him silent answers to all his silent questions.

Samson eventually looks away from both me and the water. “I’m going back to the car.”

I watch him disappear down the stairs.

I don’t know why I’m so defensive around him. After all, if he really did think I was homeless, he didn’t ignore that. He offered me money. There must be a soul in there somewhere.

Maybe I’m the soulless one in this situation.

SIX

To say I was relieved when Marcos and Samson split apart from us when we arrived at the store is an understatement. I’ve only been in Texas for a few hours and too much of that time has been spent in Samson’s presence.

“What else do you need besides clothes?” Sara asks me as we walk through the health and beauty section.

“Pretty much everything,” I say. “Shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste. All the things I used to steal off maid carts every Saturday.”

Sara pauses and stares at me. “Is that a joke? I don’t know your humor yet.”

I shake my head. “We couldn’t afford necessities.” I don’t know why I’m being so blunt with her. “Sometimes, when you’re poor, you have to get creative.” I turn down the next aisle and Sara takes a moment to catch up to me.

“But didn’t Brian pay child support?”

“My mother was an addict. I never saw a penny of that money.”

Sara is walking next to me now. I’m trying not to look at her because I feel like my truth is stripping away her innocence. But maybe she needs a dose of reality.

“Did you ever tell your father that?”

“No. He hasn’t seen my mother since I was four. She wasn’t an addict back then.”

“You should have told him. He would have done something about it.”

I drop a can of deodorant in the cart. “I never felt it was my duty to let him know what my living conditions were. A father should be more aware of what’s going on in his child’s life.”

I can tell that comment bothers Sara. She obviously has a different perspective of my father than I do, so maybe planting that one little seed is enough to get her to see outside her protective little beach house bubble.

“Let’s go look at the clothes,” I say, changing the subject. She’s quiet as we make our way through the clothing section. I grab several things, but I’m honestly not sure what will fit me. We make our way to the dressing rooms.

“You’ll need a bathing suit, too,” Sara says. “A couple, actually. We spend almost every day on the beach.”

The swimsuit section is near the dressing rooms, so I grab a couple and head into a stall with the rest of my clothes.

“Come out after you change, I want to see how everything fits,” Sara says.

Is that what girls do when they shop? Pose for each other?

I put on the bikini first. The top is a little big, but I hear the boobs are the first place you gain weight, and I’m sure I’ll be gaining weight this summer. I walk out of the stall and stand in front of the mirror. Sara is sitting on a bench looking at her phone. She glances up at me and her eyes widen. “Wow. You could probably even go down a size.”

I shake my head. “No, I plan on gaining weight this summer.”

“Why? I’d kill to have a body like yours.”

I hate that comment.

She’s staring at me in a pouty way. It makes me think she’s internally comparing our bodies, pointing out things about herself she deems as flaws.

“Your thighs don’t even touch,” she whispers, almost wistfully. “I’ve always wanted a thigh gap.”

I shake my head and walk back into the stall. I put on the second bathing suit and pull a pair of jean shorts over it to make sure they fit. When I walk out, Sara groans.

“My God, you could pull off anything.” She stands up and positions herself next to me. She stares at our reflections in the mirror. She’s only about two inches shorter than I am, fairly tall herself. Sara turns to the side and rests her hand on her shirt, right over her stomach. “How much do you weigh?”