“Sure. Sounds fun.” Especially since he said the word secluded. That sounds like an invite to finally be able to spend some alone time with him.

The sun is up now and this is usually when Samson leaves so I can go back to sleep, but instead of standing up, he slides me onto his lap so that I’m straddling him. He leans his head back against the chair, resting his hands on my hips. “We should start watching the sunrise in this position.”

“It would block your view,” I say.

He brings a hand up to my face, and his fingertips against my jaw feel like tiny little fires against my skin. “You’re prettier than the view, Beyah.” He slips his hand behind my head and brings me to his mouth.

Both of his arms wrap around me and he pulls me closer, but I shift a little so that he’ll be reminded not to do that. I don’t like it when both of his arms go around me while we kiss because it makes me think of being held, and being held is something more personal to me than kissing, or even sex.

I like kissing Samson. I like spending time with him. But I don’t like the idea of sharing something so intimate with someone who doesn’t want to share more than a few weeks of themselves with me.

His hands fall to my hips like I’ve trained them to do over the last few days. He kisses my jaw, then the side of my head. “I have to go,” he says. “I have a lot to do today.”

Every day he’s always doing something different. Helping someone repair a roof, rebuilding a dune. Most of it seems like busy work. I don’t know that he actually takes money for the work he does.

I slide off him and watch as he heads back toward the ladder.

He doesn’t make eye contact with me as he descends the ladder and disappears. I lean my head against the back of the chair and pop a grape into my mouth.

I’m sure he wants more than I’m giving him physically, but I can’t give him more if he insists on staying in the shallow end. Hugs and being held might seem like shallow-end stuff to him, but to me, those things are buried somewhere in the Mariana Trench.

I’d rather have casual sex with him than let him hug me.

That’s probably proof that I have some deep shit that needs unpacking by a therapist. But whatever.

Ocean therapy has worked wonders for me so far and it’s free.

Secluded was an understatement.

He brought us so far down the beach, the houses aren’t clustered in neighborhoods anymore. They’re sparse and scattered. There are no people. Just the dunes behind us and the ocean in front of us. If I were going to choose a place to build a house, this would be it.

“Why aren’t there very many houses here? Does the land flood too easily?”

“There used to be a lot of houses here. Hurricane Ike leveled everything.” Samson takes a drink of water. He brought sandwiches, water, and a blanket. He’s considering this our first official date since hanging out with Sara and Marcos doesn’t really count. He even pulled up to my stairs earlier in the golf cart to pick me up.

“Do you think it’ll ever be the same as before the hurricane?”

He shrugs. “Maybe not like it was before. The whole peninsula became gentrified in the rebuild, but it’s thriving more than I thought it would. It’s still a work in progress, though. It’ll take more than just a few years to even come close to what it was like before.” He points to a spot behind us. “That’s where I found Rake’s boat. There are probably still pieces of it buried behind the dune. They haven’t done much work in this area since the hurricane.”

I feed a piece of my bread to P.J. He rode in the back of the golf cart all the way here. “You think this dog belonged to one of the people whose houses were destroyed?”

“I think you’re the only person that dog has ever belonged to.”

I smile when he says that, even though I know I’m not the first person P.J. has ever loved. He knows commands, so someone spent time training him in the past.

I’ve always wanted a dog, but I never had enough food to feed one. I’d take in strays, but they eventually left me for other families who fed them more often.

“What are you going to do with him in August?” Samson asks, leaning across me to scratch P.J. on the head.

“I don’t know. I’m trying not to think about it.”

Samson’s eyes meet mine in that moment, and there’s a flash of contemplation that passes between us.

What will I do with the dog?

What will we do about us?

What’s goodbye going to feel like?

Samson stretches out in the sand. I’m sitting cross-legged, so he lays his head in my lap and stares up at me thoughtfully. I run a hand through his hair, trying not to think about anything beyond or before this moment.

“What do other people think of you?” Samson asks.

“That’s an odd question.”

Samson looks at me expectantly, like he doesn’t care that it’s an odd question. I laugh, looking out at the water while I think.

“I’m not meek, so sometimes my attitude can be misconstrued as being bitchy. But I was lumped in with my mother back home. When you’re judged based on the person who raised you, you can’t be neutral about who you are. You either let it consume you and you become who others think you are, or you fight it with everything in you.” I look down at him. “What do you think people think of you?”

“I don’t think people think of me at all.”

I shake my head in disagreement. “I do. And do you know what I think?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I want to get back in the ocean with you.”

Samson grins. “We’re pretty far from the vinegar.”

“Then make it worth it in case I get stung again.”

Samson hops to his feet and then pulls me up. I slip off my shorts as he removes his shirt. He holds my hand as we work our way through the waves and away from the shore. When the water is up to my chest, we stop walking and we face each other, lowering ourselves until the water is up to both of our necks.

We close the gap between us until we’re kissing.

Every time we kiss, it’s as if we leave more of ourselves inside the other. I wish I knew more about relationships and love and all the things I used to think I was too good for, or maybe not good enough for. I want to know how to make this feeling last. I want to know if a guy like Samson could ever fall in love with a girl like me.

A wave crashes over us, forcing us apart. The water completely soaks my hair. I’m wiping it out of my eyes, laughing, when Samson makes his way back to me. He wraps my legs around his waist but keeps his hands on my hips.

There’s a flicker of happiness in his eye.

It’s the first time I’ve seen it.

I’ve been here almost two weeks and this is the first time he’s looked completely at ease. It makes me feel good that he seems to find that with me, but I’m sad it’s not something he feels all the time.

“What kind of things make you happy, Samson?”

“Rich people are never content,” he says instantaneously. That’s sad he didn’t even have to think about it.

“So the saying is true? Money doesn’t buy happiness?”

“When you’re poor, you have things to reach for. Goals that excite you. Maybe it’s a dream house or a vacation or even a meal at a restaurant on a Friday night. But the more money you have, the harder it is to find things to be excited about. You already have your dream house. You can go anywhere in the world anytime you want to. You could hire a private chef to make you every food you ever crave. People who aren’t rich think all those things are fulfilling, but they aren’t. You can fill your life with nice things, but nice things don’t fill the holes in your soul.”