“I thought you said you’ve never had your heart broken.”

“I haven’t. It wasn’t that kind of experience.”

Samson gives me a sidelong glance, waiting for me to elaborate. There’s no way I’m elaborating on that.

“Did he force you to do something you didn’t want to do?” Samson’s jaw is hard when he asks that, like he’s already angry on my behalf.

“No,” I say quickly, wanting him to get that thought out of his head. But then I think back on my life in Kentucky and the times I spent with Dakota, and now that I’m no longer in that situation, I look at it differently.

Dakota never forced me to do anything. But he certainly wasn’t making it easy for me. We were in no way equals when it came to who got taken advantage of.

Thinking about it is stirring up dark thoughts. Dark feelings. Tears begin to sting my eyes, and when I suck in a breath to fight them back, Samson notices. He turns and presses his back against the railing so he can see my face better.

“What happened to you, Beyah?”

I laugh, because it’s absurd I’m even thinking about this right now. I’m good at not thinking about most of the time. I feel a tear skate down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away. “This isn’t fair,” I whisper.

“What?”

“Why do I end up wanting to answer every single question you ask me?”

“You don’t have to tell me what happened.”

I make eye contact with him. “I want to, though.”

“Then tell me,” he says gently.

My eyes focus on everything but him. I look at the roof of the balcony, then at the floor, then at the ocean over Samson’s shoulder.

“His name was Dakota,” I say. “I was fifteen. A freshman. He was a senior. The guy every girl in the school wanted to date. The guy every other guy wanted to be. I had a mild crush on him like everyone else. Wasn’t anything serious. But then one night he saw me walking home after a volleyball game, so he offered me a ride. I told him no because I was embarrassed for him to see where I lived, even though everyone knew. He convinced me to get in the truck anyway.” I somehow bring my gaze back to Samson’s. His jaw is hard again, like he’s expecting this story to go the way he assumed earlier. But it doesn’t.

I don’t know why I’m telling him. Maybe I’m subconsciously hoping that after he hears this, he’ll leave me alone for the rest of the summer and I won’t have this intense and constant distraction.

Or maybe I’m hoping he’ll tell me that what I did was okay.

“He drove me home and for the next half hour, we talked. He sat in my driveway and didn’t judge me. He listened to me. We talked about music and volleyball and how he hated being the son of the police chief. And then…he kissed me. And it was perfect. For a moment, I thought maybe the things I assumed people thought of me weren’t true.”

Samson’s eyebrows draw apart. “Why just for a moment? What happened after he kissed you?”

I smile, but not because it’s a fond memory. I smile because the memory makes me feel ignorant. Like I should have expected it. “He pulled two twenties out of his wallet and handed them to me. Then he unzipped his jeans.”

Samson’s expression is vacant. To most people, they would assume that was the end of the story. They would assume I threw the money back at Dakota and got out of the truck. But I can tell by the way Samson is looking at me that he knows that’s not where the story ends.

I fold my arms across my chest. “Forty dollars was a lot of money,” I say as another tear slides down my cheek. It curves at the last minute and lands on my lip. I can taste the saltiness of it as I wipe it away. “He gave me a ride home at least once a month after that. He never spoke to me in public. But I didn’t expect him to. I wasn’t the kind of girl he could parade around town. I was the kind of girl he wouldn’t even tell his closest friends about.”

I wish Samson would say something because when he just stares at me, I keep rambling. “So to answer your question, no, he didn’t force me to do anything. And to be honest, he never even threw it in my face. He was actually a decent guy compared to—”

Samson immediately interrupts me. “You were fifteen the first time it happened, Beyah. Do not call that guy decent.”

The rest of my sentence gets stuck in my throat, so I swallow it.

“A decent guy would have offered you money with no return expectations. What he did was just…” Samson looks like he’s filled with disgust. I’m not sure if that’s aimed at Dakota or me. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “That day on the ferry when I handed you money…that’s why you thought…”

“Yeah,” I say quietly.

“You know that’s not what I was doing, right?”

I nod. “I know that now. But even knowing that…I still feared it when you kissed me. That’s why I came outside. I was scared you would look at me like Dakota did. I’d rather not be kissed at all than risk feeling that worthless again.”

“I kissed you because I like you.”

I wonder how true that is. Are his words accurate or convenient? Has he said them before? “You like Cadence, too?” I ask him. “And all the other girls you’ve made out with?”

I’m not trying to throw it in his face. I’m genuinely curious. What do people feel when they kiss other people as often as he does?

Samson doesn’t look like he takes offense to my question, but it does look like I’ve made him uncomfortable. His posture stiffens a bit. “I’m attracted to them. But it’s different with you. A different kind of attraction.”

“Better or worse?”

He thinks on this for a moment and settles on, “Scarier.”

I release a quick laugh. I probably shouldn’t take that as a compliment, but I do, because that means he’s getting a taste of my own fear when we’re together.

“Do you think the girls you’re with enjoy being with you?” I ask. “What are they getting out of it by just having a weekend fling?”

“The same thing I get from them.”

“Which is what?”

He’s definitely uncomfortable now. He sighs and leans over the railing again. “Did you not like it when we kissed earlier?”

“I did,” I say. “But I also didn’t.”

I find a comfort in his non-judgmental presence, and it’s confusing, because if I’m comfortable around him and I’m attracted to him, why did I start to panic when he was kissing me?

“Dakota took something you’re supposed to enjoy and he made you feel ashamed of it. It’s not like that for all girls. The girls I’ve been with—they enjoy it as much as I do. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t allow it to happen.”

“I enjoyed it a little bit,” I admit. “Just not the whole time. But that’s not your fault, obviously.”

“It isn’t yours, either,” he says. “And I won’t kiss you again. Not unless you ask me to.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t understand why that feels like both a punishment and a chivalrous gift.

He smiles gently. “Won’t kiss you, won’t hug you, won’t make you get back in the ocean.”