“You’ll be fine,” he says. “Rarely happens.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said earlier, and then it happened.”

He smiles.

It makes me want our moment back. I want to feel how I felt when he pulled me to him and kissed my shoulder. I don’t know how to get there, though. It’s so bright in here. The atmosphere is different than it was when we were in the water.

I think maybe I don’t like his house.

“How’s your face?” I ask him.

He runs a hand across his jaw. “My jaw hurts worse than my nose.” He lowers his hand and grips the counter at his sides. “That was nice of your dad.”

“You think him attacking you was nice?”

“No. I thought the way he protected you was nice.”

I hadn’t really thought about that. My father didn’t even think twice when he heard me asking someone to stop. But I’m not sure it’s specifically because it was me. He would have protected anyone in that situation, I’m sure.

“Where do you go when this house gets rented out?” I ask, steering the conversation away from my father.

“We only keep four rented out at a time, so I always have somewhere to stay. This one is the most expensive, so it gets rented the least. I’m here seventy-five percent of the time.”

I glance around me, trying to find something else like the picture that would give me a hint into his past. There’s nothing. “It’s kind of ironic,” I say. “You have five houses, but none of them are actually your home. Your refrigerator is empty. You live out of a backpack. We surprisingly do live very similar lives.”

He doesn’t respond to that. He just watches me. He does that a lot and I like it. I don’t even care what he’s thinking when he stares. I just like that he finds me intriguing enough to stare at, even if his thoughts aren’t entirely positive. It means he sees me. I’m not used to being seen.

“What’s your last name?” I ask him.

He looks amused. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“I told you I was going to.”

“I think it’s my turn now.”

“But I’ve barely gotten anywhere. You’re terrible at answering me.”

He doesn’t disagree, but he also doesn’t answer my question. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he thinks of his own question. “What are you planning on doing with your life, Beyah?”

“That’s a broad one. You sound like a school counselor.”

He releases a small laugh and I feel it in my stomach. “What are you doing after the summer is over?” he clarifies.

I mull over that question. Should I be honest with him? Maybe if I’m honest with him, he’ll be more open with me. “I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell anyone.”

“It’s a secret?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

I trust him. I don’t know why because I don’t trust anyone. I’m either a fool or deeply attracted to him and neither is really okay with me. “I have a full ride to Penn State. I move into my dorm August third.”

His eyebrow lifts slightly. “You got a scholarship?”

“Yeah.”

“What for?”

“Volleyball.”

His eyes do this thing where they roll slowly down my body. Not in a seductive way, but in a curious way. “I can see that.” When his eyes meet mine again, he says, “What part of that is a secret?”

“All of it. I haven’t told anyone. Not even my father.”

“Your own father doesn’t know you received a scholarship?”

“Nope.”

“Why haven’t you told him?”

“Because it would make him feel like he did something right. And I had to work for the scholarship because he did everything wrong.”

He nods, like he can empathize with that. I look away for a moment because my entire body heats up when I stare at him too much. I’m afraid it’s obvious.

“Is volleyball your passion?”

His question makes me pause. No one has ever asked me that before. “No. I don’t enjoy it all that much to be honest.”

“Why not?”

“I worked hard at it because I knew it was my only way out of the town I grew up in. But no one ever came to watch me play, so the actual sport started feeling depressing to me. All my other teammates had parents at every game cheering them on. I’ve never had anyone, and I think that prevented me from loving it as much as I could have.” I sigh, spilling more of my thoughts out loud. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing the right thing by subjecting myself to four more years of it. Being on a team with people whose lives are so different from my own sometimes makes me feel even lonelier than if I weren’t a part of a team.”

“You aren’t excited to go?”

I shrug. “I’m proud of myself for getting the scholarship. And I was excited to get out of Kentucky. But now that I’m here and I’ve gotten the first break from volleyball I’ve had in years, I don’t think I miss it. I’m starting to wonder if I should just stay here and get a job. Maybe I’ll take a gap year.” I say that last part with a hint of sarcasm, but it’s starting to sound very appealing. I’ve spent the last several years working my ass off to get out of Kentucky. Now that I’m out, I feel like I need to take a breather. Reassess my life.

“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.