Heart Bones

“I don’t care, Dad. Really. We all tell lies to get out of things we don’t want to do.”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to be there,” he says. “I just…I didn’t think you wanted me there.”

“Why wouldn’t I have wanted you there?”

“I just got the impression that you’ve been avoiding me for the past couple of years. And I don’t blame you. I don’t feel like I’ve been a very good father to you.”

I look down into my bag of chips and shake them around. “You haven’t been.” I casually eat another chip like I didn’t just deliver the worst insult a child could hand to a parent.

My father’s expression falls into a frown, and he opens his mouth to respond, but Sara spills out of the stairwell and into the kitchen with way too much energy for this time of night.

“Beyah, go put on your bathing suit, we’re going to the beach.”

My father looks relieved by the interruption. He gives his attention to his computer. I stand up and pop another chip in my mouth. “What’s at the beach?”

Sara laughs. “The beach is at the beach. That’s all you need.” She’s back in her bikini top and shorts again.

“I’m really tired,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “Just for an hour and then you can go to bed.”

When we make it past the dunes, I deflate. I was hoping more people would be out here so I could be invisible, but it seems the crowd that was here earlier dissipated and the only two people remaining are Samson and Marcos. Plus a couple of people out in the water swimming.

Marcos is sitting by the fire, but Samson is sitting alone in the sand several feet away, staring out at the dark ocean. I know he hears us approaching, but he doesn’t turn around to look at us. He’s either lost in thought or making a concerted effort to ignore me.

I’m going to have to figure out a way to be at ease in his presence if this is how the summer is going to go—him always being around.

There are six seats set up around the fire, but two of them have towels draped over them and beers on the armrests, so they appear to be taken. Sara sits next to Marcos, so I take one of the last two empty chairs.

Sara looks out at the water, at the two people swimming. “Is that Cadence out there with Beau?”

“Yep,” Marcos says flatly. “I think she’s leaving tomorrow.”

Sara rolls her eyes. “Can’t wait. I wish she’d take Beau with her.”

I don’t know who Beau and Cadence are, but it doesn’t sound like Sara and Marcos are big fans.

I try not to stare at Samson, but it’s hard. He’s about ten feet away, sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, watching the waves claw at the sand. I hate that I’m wondering what he’s thinking about, but he has to be thinking about something. That’s what staring at the ocean produces. Thoughts. Lots of them.

“Let’s go swimming,” Sara says as she stands up and shimmies out of her shorts. She looks at me. “Wanna come?”

I shake my head. “I already showered tonight.”

Sara grabs Marcos’s hand and pulls him out of the chair. He swoops her up in his arms and runs toward the water. Sara’s squeal breaks Samson out of whatever trance he was in. He stands up and wipes sand away from his shorts. He turns to walk back to the fire, but I notice the pause when he sees I’m sitting over here alone.

I keep my eyes on Sara and Marcos, if only because I don’t know what else to look at. I certainly don’t want to look at Samson as he walks over here. I still feel embarrassed by the part of my conversation he overheard earlier. I don’t want him to think I hate Sara because I don’t. I just don’t know her all that well. But what he heard probably sounded worse than what it was.

He quietly takes his seat and stares at the fire, making no effort to speak to me. I look around us, at the incredible amount of space there is on this beach, and wonder how I can possibly feel like I’m suffocating right now.

I inhale a slow breath, then release it carefully before I speak. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier. About Sara.”

Samson looks over at me with a stoic expression. “Good.”

That’s all he says.

I shake my head and look away, but not before he sees me roll my eyes at his response. I don’t know why, but even when he’s defending his friends, he comes off as an asshole.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I lean back in my chair and look up at the sky. “Everything,” I whisper to myself.

Samson grabs a stick that’s sitting in the sand by his chair. He starts poking at the fire, but says nothing else. I lean my head to the right and look at the houses that line the beach. Samson’s is by far the nicest one. It’s more modern. It’s stark white with deep black trim, boxy with lots of glass. But it seems cold compared to Alana and my father’s house.