“You’re thinking about giving up a scholarship to a great school just because the sport that got you there sometimes makes you lonely?”
“It feels more complicated than you make it sound,” I say.
“You want to know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you should wear earplugs at the games and just pretend people are out there cheering you on.”
I laugh. “I thought you were going to say something profound.”
“I thought that was profound,” he says, grinning. I notice when he smiles that his jaw is beginning to bruise. But his smile fades and he tilts his head a little. “Why were you crying on your balcony the night you got here?”
I stiffen at his question. It’s a jarring jump from talking about volleyball. I don’t know how to answer that. Especially in a room this bright. Maybe if it didn’t feel like an interrogation room, I’d be more at ease. “Can you turn off some of these lights?” I ask him.
He looks confused by my request.
“It’s too bright in here. It’s making me uncomfortable.”
Samson walks over to the light switches and turns all of them off except for one. The lights that trim the cabinets stay on, so it’s significantly darker and I relax almost immediately. I can see why he keeps it dark in this house. The assaulting lights and all the white paint make it feel like a psychiatric ward.
He returns to his spot against the counter. “Is that better?”
I nod.
“Why were you crying?”
I blow out a rush of air, then just spit it out before I change my mind and decide to lie to him. “My mother died the night before I came here.”
Samson doesn’t react to that at all. I’ve come to realize that maybe his lack of reaction is how he reacts.
“That’s also a secret,” I say. “I haven’t even told my father yet.”
His expression is solemn. “How’d she die?”
“Overdose. I found her when I got home from work.”
“I’m sorry,” he says with sincerity. “Are you okay?”
I lift a shoulder in uncertainty, and when I do, it feels like some of those feelings that forced me into tears on the balcony attempt to seep back in. I wasn’t prepared to talk about this. I don’t want to talk about it, honestly. It’s not really fair that I don’t know how to not answer his questions, but he doesn’t open up about anything.
I feel like a waterfall around him, just spilling myself and my secrets out all over the floor.
Samson’s expression turns empathetic when he sees my eyes rim with tears.
He pushes off the counter and begins to walk toward me, but I stand up straight and immediately shake my head. I press a hand against his chest, stopping him from touching me.
“Don’t. Don’t hug me. It’ll just feel patronizing now that you know I’ve never been hugged like that.”
Samson shakes his head gently as he stares down at me. “I wasn’t going to hug you, Beyah,” he whispers. His face is so close to mine, his breath grazes my cheek when he speaks. I feel like I’m about to slide to the floor, so I grip the edge of the counter behind me.
He dips his head until his lips catch mine. His mouth is soft, like an apology, and I accept it.
His tongue coaxes my mouth open and I welcome him by fisting both of my hands in his hair, pulling him even closer. Our chests meet and our tongues slide against each other, wet and warm and soft.
I want this kiss, even if it’s only happening because he’s drawn to sad things.
He tugs me away from the counter and into him, and then in one swift move, he lifts me and I’m sitting on his island and he’s standing between my legs. His left hand slides down my leg until his fingers are brushing my outer thigh.
I’m full of things I’m not usually filled with. Warmth and electricity and light.
It scares me.
His kiss scares me.
I’m not impenetrable against his mouth. I’m vulnerable, and I feel my guard lowering. I’d give him all my secrets right now and that isn’t me. His kiss is potent enough to turn me into a girl I don’t recognize. I love it and I loathe it.
As much as I try to remain focused on what’s happening between us, it’s hard for the image of what happened between him and Cadence not to flash through my head. I don’t want to be just another girl he kisses on his kitchen island.
I’m not sure I can handle being a throwaway to Samson like I was with Dakota. I’d rather not be kissed at all than allow that to happen again, only to look out my bedroom window tomorrow night and see someone else in this same spot, feeling the same things he’s making me feel right now.