I don’t respond to her because I get a text in the middle of her comment. I rarely get texts. Not many people have my phone number.

I look at my phone as Sara starts walking up the stairs. The text is from Samson.

Look at us going on a spontaneous date. Maybe we ARE fun.

“You coming?” Sara asks.

I wipe the grin off my face and follow her inside.

FIFTEEN

They’re all staring at me, waiting for me to take a bite. Even our waiter.

Talk about pressure.

“Dip it in cocktail sauce first,” Marcos suggests.

Samson pushes the cocktail sauce away from me. “Are you crazy? That’ll make her puke.” He pushes tartar sauce toward me. “Here, use this.”

Sara rolls her eyes as she stacks up three of the menus. She and Marcos just ordered, but Samson and I haven’t yet because he wanted to make sure I liked shrimp first. The waiter was amused I’d never had shrimp, so he brought me a piece to try and now he’s sticking around to watch my reaction.

It’s grilled shrimp without a shell or a tail. I’m not a huge fan of fish, so I’m not expecting much, but the pressure is real as I dip it into the tartar sauce.

“Y’all are acting like her reaction is going to be life or death,” Sara says. “I’m getting hangry.”

“It’ll only be life or death if she’s allergic to shellfish,” the waiter says.

I pause before taking the bite. “What exactly falls under the definition of shellfish?”

Samson says, “Lobster. Shrimp. Things in shells.”

“Crab. Crawfish. Turtles,” Marcos says.

“Turtles aren’t a fish,” Sara says, rolling her eyes.

“It was a joke,” Marcos says.

“Have you ever had lobster or crab?” Samson asks me.

“I’ve had crab.”

“You should be fine, then.”

“For Pete’s sake, just eat it before I do,” Sara says. “I’m starving.”

I bite down on the shrimp, only eating half of it. Everyone is watching me chew, even Sara. It’s got a decent flavor. It’s not the greatest thing I’ve ever had, but it’s good. “Not bad.” I pop the rest of it in my mouth.

Samson smiles and hands the menu to the waiter. “We’ll both have the shrimp platter.”

The waiter writes it down and walks away. Sara scrunches her nose up. “He really did just order for you. I can’t tell if that’s cute or disgusting.”

“I tried ordering for you once and you elbowed me in the side,” Marcos says.

Sara nods. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s disgusting.” She takes a sip of her drink. “I feel like doing something touristy this weekend.”

“Like what?” Marcos asks.

“The water park? Or a duck tour?” She looks at me and Samson. “You two want to come?”

“I’m free after lunch every day. Except Friday. I’m finishing Marjorie’s roof.”

Well that kind of melts my heart a little.

“Shawn?”

All four of us look in the direction of the voice. A guy is approaching our table, looking at Samson. The guy is tall and skinny with arms covered in tattoos. I’m staring at one on his forearm of a lighthouse when I feel Samson stiffen.

“Holy shit,” the guy says. “It is you. How are you, man?”

“Hey,” Samson says. He doesn’t sound very excited to see this guy. Also...why did the guy call him Shawn?

Samson taps my leg, wanting out of the booth. I stand up to let him out and he gives the guy a hug. I take my seat and the three of us aren’t even hiding the fact that we’re eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Dude,” the guy says to Samson. “When did you get out?”

Get out?

Samson looks over at our table. There’s a discomfort to him now. He puts his hand on the guy’s back and walks him away from the table so we can’t hear what they’re saying.

I look at Sara and Marcos to see what their reactions are. Marcos is taking a drink, but Sara’s head is tilted in curiosity as she stares at Samson. She falls back against the booth and says, “That was weird. Why did that guy call him Shawn?”

Marcos shrugs.

“Maybe Samson is his middle name,” I say, more to myself than to Sara or Marcos. I wonder why I didn’t demand he tell me his full name last night when I asked. This is weird, knowing I didn’t even know the guy’s first name. But I guess he doesn’t know that my last name is Grim. Or maybe he does, since I have the same last name as my father.

“Why did that guy ask him when he got out?” Sara says. “Got out of where? Jail? Prison?”

Marcos shrugs again. “Could have been referring to rehab.”

“He was in rehab?” Sara asks.

“I have no idea, I’ve known the guy as long as you have,” he says.

Samson reappears at our table moments later, sans friend. I stand up and he slides back into the booth. He says nothing. Offers no explanation. That doesn’t matter because Sara won’t let this slide. I can tell by the way she’s staring at him.

“Why did that guy call you Shawn?”

Samson stares at her a moment, then releases a quiet laugh. “What?”

She waves her hand toward the direction the guy went. “He called you Shawn! And then he asked you when you got out. Where have you been? Jail?”

For some reason, Samson looks at me. I say nothing because I’m waiting for the same answers Sara is waiting for.

He looks back at Sara and says, “That’s my name. Shawn Samson.” He waves a hand at Marcos. “He called me Samson when we met, and it just stuck with you guys. Everyone else calls me Shawn.”

Marcos brings his straw to his mouth. “Sounds vaguely familiar now that I think about it.”

Shawn? His name is Shawn?

I’m so used to calling him Samson, I’m not sure I can call him Shawn.

“Okay,” Sara says. “But where’d you get out of? Jail? Were you in jail?”

Samson sighs and I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Leave him alone,” Marcos says, also recognizing Samson’s discomfort.

Sara waves a defensive hand toward me. “I’m trying to set my stepsister up with him, I think we deserve to know if he’s some kind of criminal.”

“It’s fine,” Samson says. “He was talking about getting out of the city. We went to boarding school together and he knew how much I hated New York.”

I can see the slow roll of his throat after he says that, as if he’s swallowing a lie. What are the chances he’d run into a guy from New York on a peninsula in Texas?

Very slim, but is it really Sara’s business? Is it mine? None of us owe each other our past.

I don’t know why I feel protective of him right now, but I know he hates talking about himself. Maybe that’s something Sara doesn’t know about him.

I’ll get the truth out of him later. But right now, I just want the awkwardness to disappear, so I say, “I’ve never been to New York. Texas is only the third state I’ve ever been to.”

“Seriously?” Sara says.