Samson begins putting all his tools back in his toolbox. It’s still light out, but it won’t be for much longer. He stands up and comes back up to the top level, then sits down next to me on the roof.

I can feel the heat from his body, he’s so close.

He rests his elbows on his knees. He really is a beautiful person. It’s hard not to stare at people like him. But I think his charisma comes more from the way he carries himself than how he looks. He may have an artistic side.

There’s definitely a quiet aspect to him that makes him seem introspective. Or maybe he’s just guarded.

Whatever it is that makes him up as a whole, I find myself viewing him as a project I want to take on. A challenge. I want to crack him open and see what’s inside him that makes him the only person on the planet I’m genuinely curious about.

Samson runs a thumb across his bottom lip, so naturally I’m already staring at his mouth when he begins to speak. “There was this fisherman who used to come around a lot,” he says. “His name was Rake. He lived on his boat and would go up and down the coast from here to South Padre. Sometimes he’d anchor his boat right out there and swim up to the beach and join random people at their cookouts. I don’t remember a whole lot about him, but I remember he used to write poems on scraps of paper and give them to people. I think that’s what fascinated me the most about him. He was this fearless fisherman who wrote poetry.” He smiles when he says that. “I remember thinking he was some kind of untouchable mythical creature.” Samson’s smile fades, and he pauses for a moment. “Hurricane Ike hit in 2008. It destroyed most of the island. I was helping with the cleanup and I found Rake’s boat toward the end of the peninsula in Gilchrist. It was in shreds.” He fingers his necklace, looking down at it. “I took a piece of the boat and made this necklace out of it.”

He keeps his fingers on his necklace and looks back out at the ocean, sliding the piece of wood back and forth through the cord.

“What happened to Rake?”

Samson faces me. “I don’t know. He wasn’t technically a resident of the area, so he wasn’t counted among the missing or dead. But he never would have abandoned that boat, even during a hurricane. I don’t know that people actively searched for him, to be honest. I’m not even sure anyone noticed he was missing after the hurricane.”

“You noticed.”

Samson’s expression changes when I say that. There’s a sadness in him and a little bit of it seeps out. I don’t like it because apparently sadness is what I connect with. I feel like he’s tugging at my soul with that look.

Samson isn’t at all who I thought he was when I met him. I don’t know how to process that. Admitting he’s nothing like I assumed he was makes me disappointed in myself. I’ve never looked at myself as judgmental, but I think I am. I judged him. I judged Sara.

I look away from Samson and stand up. I step down onto the lower level of the roof and turn around when I reach the window. We exchange a stare that lasts for about five silent seconds. “I was wrong about you.”

Samson nods, holding my gaze. “It’s okay.”

He says that with sincerity, like he doesn’t hold it against me at all.

I don’t come across people very often that I think I can learn something from, but he might actually have me figured out more than I have him figured out. I find that attractive.

Which is why I exit the roof and walk down the stairs feeling a lot heavier than when I walked up them.

The dog is still in the same spot when I make it back outside. He’s looking at me excitedly—his tail wagging when I reach the bottom step. “Look at you, being all obedient.” I bend down and pet him. His hair is all matted. The poor unloved thing reminds me so much of myself.

“Is that your dog?”

I follow the voice until I see a woman seated at a picnic table beneath the first level of the house. She’s messing with a bag of something sitting on her lap. She’s older, maybe in her seventies. She must be Marjorie.

“I don’t know,” I say, looking down at the dog. “We just met.”

I walk closer to the picnic table. The dog follows me.

“You a friend of Samson’s?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, repeating myself. “We just met, too.”

She laughs. “Well. If you figure him out, let me know. He’s a mystery, that one.”

I guess I’m not the only one who thinks that about him.

“He wanted me to see the view from your roof. It’s gorgeous.” Now that I’m closer, I can see she’s cracking pecans. I lean against one of the stilts holding her house up. “How long have you known Samson?” I ask her.

She lifts her chin in thought. “Since the beginning of the year, I guess. I had a heart attack in February. Can’t get around like I used to, so he comes over every now and then and I put him to work. He doesn’t complain. He also doesn’t charge me, so I’m not sure what he’s getting out of it.”

I smile. I like that he doesn’t take money from her. Not that she can’t afford to pay someone to help her. She’s sitting in the tallest house in what’s probably the nicest neighborhood on this peninsula. It’s not the most modern. It’s actually kind of dated, but it has character. It feels lived in, unlike a lot of these other houses that are rent-ready and identical. “I really like your house,” I say, looking around. “What do you call this level?”

“The stilt level,” she says. She points above her head. “We consider that the first floor.”

I glance around at the other houses. Some of them have enclosed their stilt levels. Some have made them parking spaces. I like Marjorie’s. She’s got a tiki bar, a picnic table and a couple of hammocks hanging between some of the stilts.

“Some people like to turn their stilt levels into extra rooms,” she says. “The new idiots next door enclosed an entire guest room on their stilt level. Not too bright, but they didn’t want my opinion. They’ll figure it out soon enough. Some days the ocean is our neighbor, but some days the ocean is our roommate.” She motions for me to come closer. “Here. Take these.” She hands me a gallon-sized bag of shelled pecans.

“You don’t have to give me these,” I say, trying to hand them back to her.

She waves me away. “Keep them. I have too many.”

I have no idea what I’m going to do with a pound of pecans. I’ll give them to Alana, I guess. “Thank you.”

Marjorie nods her head at the dog. “Have you named him yet?”

“No.”

“You should call him Pepper Jack Cheese.”

I laugh. “Why?”

“Why not?”

I look down at the dog. He doesn’t look like a piece of cheese. I’m not sure any dog looks like cheese. “Pepper Jack,” I say, trying the name out on him. “Do you feel like a Pepper Jack?”

“Pepper Jack Cheese,” Marjorie corrects. “He deserves the full name.”

I like Marjorie. She’s odd. “Thanks for the pecans.” I look down at the dog. “Let’s go home, Pepper Jack Cheese.”