“Without you?”

He nods, still facing the other direction. “I’ll meet up with you later tonight.”

“I’m not leaving you out here. It’s too far to walk in the dark.”

He turns now, and when he does, he looks like a completely different person than he did ten minutes ago. His features are hardened, and there’s something newly broken inside of him.

He walks toward me and takes my face in his hands. His eyes are red, like he’s on the verge of breaking down. “Please,” he says. “Go. I need to do this alone.”

There’s an ache in his voice. A pain I’m unfamiliar with.

An agony I expected to feel after finding my mother dead, but instead I was left empty and numb.

I have no idea why he needs this, but I can see his need for me to leave this up to him is greater than my need to disagree with him. I just nod, and my voice releases in a whisper when I say, “Okay.”

For the first time in my life, I actually feel an overwhelming need to hug someone, but I don’t. I don’t want our first hug to be attached to such an awkward moment. I climb into the golf cart.

“Take P.J. with you,” he says. I wait while he walks back over the dune to get him. When he returns with P.J., he puts him in the passenger seat of the golf cart. Samson grips the top of the golf cart and his tone is flat when he says, “I’ll be okay, Beyah. I’ll see you later tonight.” He pushes away from the golf cart and walks back toward the dune.

I drive home, leaving Samson with something I know he’ll never explain to me, and likely won’t speak of again.

EIGHTEEN

I’m worried about Samson, obviously. But the longer I sit here and wait for him, I wonder if that worry should be mixed in with anger.

It wasn’t fair of him to ask me to leave that situation, but the look in his eye made it seem like throwing Rake’s remains into the ocean was way more important to him than reporting it was to me.

I’ve seen some disturbing shit in my life. A few bones being moved from a dune and into the ocean is surprisingly not that jarring to me. I don’t know what that says about me. Or Samson, for that matter.

Even though I’m not angry at him, I am concerned. My stomach is in knots. It’s been almost four hours since I got home. I tried to pass the time by showering, eating dinner and having mindless conversation with my father and Alana. But my mind is still back with Samson on the other side of that dune.

I’m sitting out by the bonfire now, staring at Samson’s dark house. Waiting.

“Where is Samson?” Sara asks.

Great question. “Helping someone. He’ll be back soon.” I take a drink of water, washing the lies out of my mouth. Part of me wants to tell Sara the truth, but I know better. How would I even come out and say, Hey, Sara, there are human remains down the beach and Samson is digging them up and throwing all the bones into the ocean.

Yeah, she wouldn’t be able to handle something of that magnitude.

“So? What was the kiss like?” Sara asks.

I look at her and she’s staring at me with hope in her eyes.

I get the feeling she’d probably prefer a stepsister who will gossip with her at night while they brush each other’s hair. I’m sad she didn’t get that. Instead, she got me. No-fun Beyah.

“The kiss was actually kind of depressing.”

“What? Why?”

“I’m not saying it was bad. He’s a great kisser. He’s just…he’s so serious all the time. So am I. It’s difficult to share a fun, sexy kiss when there’s nothing fun about either of us.” I sigh and rest my head against the chair. “Sometimes I wish I could be more like you.”

Sara laughs. “If you were more like me, Samson wouldn’t look at you the way he does.”

That makes me smile. Maybe she’s right. Some people just fit together. I wouldn’t fit with Marcos and she wouldn’t fit with Samson.

I just wish our fall and winter fit as well as our summer.

Sara holds both hands up in the air when the song on the Bluetooth changes to a new song I’ve never heard. “I love this song!” She jumps up and starts dancing. Marcos gets up and dances with her. It’s not a slow song, so they’re stomping and spinning around like their lives weigh nothing.

I watch them dance until the song is over and Sara falls back into her chair, out of breath. She reaches down for a bottle of liquor stuck in the sand. “Here,” she says, handing it to me. “Alcohol makes everyone fun.”

I bring it to my mouth and pretend to take a drink. I’d rather be boring than become my mother, so I have no desire to actually swallow it. But I pretend to for Sara’s sake. I’ve already been enough of a downer tonight, I don’t want to deny the alcohol and make her feel guilty for drinking. I hand the bottle back to her, just as something behind her catches my eye.

Finally. It’s been four hours.

Samson will have to walk past us to get to his house. He’s covered in sand. He looks tired. He even looks a little bit guilty when we make eye contact. He looks away quickly, but then spins as he walks past us. He lifts his eyes again while he walks backward. He nudges his head toward his house and then spins around and disappears into the darkness.

“You’re being summoned,” Sara says.

I remain seated for a moment, not wanting to appear too eager to follow him. “I’m not a dog.”

“Are you two fighting?”

“No.”

“Then go. I like it when Marcos summons me. It always means good things.” She looks at Marcos and says, “Hey, Marcos. Summon me.”

Marcos nods his head once, and Sara jumps out of her chair and walks over to him, falling dramatically into his lap. The chair falls over and spills them out onto the sand. Marcos is still holding his beer up in the air. He didn’t even spill a single drop.

I leave them alone and start walking toward Samson’s house. I can hear the outdoor shower running when I get close. I walk onto the concrete foundation of the stilt level of his house. I haven’t spent any time down here, but it’s nice. Aside from the shower, there’s a bar and a couple of tables. I don’t know why we never spend time here instead of at the beach every night. Samson has the kind of house that would be good for parties, but he doesn’t seem like the type who would want to host one.

I don’t see Samson’s shorts as I approach the shower, which means he’s still dressed. There isn’t a door to the shower. The walls are made of wood and there’s an opening and a left turn I have to make before I see him.

His back is to me. His palms are pressed against the wood and the shower spray is falling over the back of his neck. His head is hanging between his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. He turns and pushes the wet hair off his forehead.

“For what?”

“For putting you in this position. For expecting you to keep secrets when I don’t tell you any of mine.”

“You never asked me not to tell anyone. You just asked me not to call the police.”

He wipes his hand over his face and leans back into the stream of water. “Did you tell anyone?”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”