My father is standing in the kitchen in front of a coffee pot. He drags his eyes to the stairwell and sees me standing here with Samson. I suddenly feel like a child who has been caught in a lie. I’ve never really had to deal with parental punishment before. My mother didn’t pay enough attention to me to care, so I don’t know what’s about to happen. I’m a little nervous, considering my father does not look pleased. He looks past me, at Samson.

“Yeah, this isn’t okay,” my father says.

Samson steps in front of me and holds up his hands in defense. “I didn’t stay the night. Please don’t punch me again.”

My father looks at me for an explanation.

“He just got here fifteen minutes ago. We watched the sunrise on the balcony together.”

My father focuses his attention on Samson now. “I’ve been in this kitchen for a lot longer than fifteen minutes. If you just got here fifteen minutes ago, how did you get in?”

Samson scratches the back of his neck. “I uh…jumped?” He lifts his arm to show my father his bloody elbow. “Barely made it.”

My father stares at him for a moment, then he shakes his head. “You’re an idiot,” he mutters. He fills his coffee cup and then says, “Either of you want some coffee?”

Huh. He got over that fast.

“I’m good,” Samson says, easing his way toward the door. He looks at me. “See you later?”

I nod and Samson lifts a brow, sending me a look. I’m smiling and staring at the door for several seconds after he leaves. My father clears his throat and it sucks me back into the moment. I look at him, hoping that’s the end of this conversation. “I’ll take some coffee,” I say, trying to divert his attention to something else.

My father grabs a mug out of the cabinet and pours me a cup. “You take it black?”

“No. As much cream and sugar as you can fit in there.” I sit in one of the chairs at the kitchen bar while my father mixes my coffee.

He slides it toward me and says, “I don’t know how I feel about what just happened.”

I stare at my coffee as I sip from it, just so I don’t have to stare at my father. When I set the mug back on the counter, I cup my hands around it. “I’m not lying to you. He didn’t spend the night.”

“Yet,” my father says. “I was a teenager once. His bedroom balcony and yours are feet apart. Today might have just been a sunrise, but you’re here for an entire summer. Alana and I don’t allow Sara to have boys spend the night. It’s only fair if the same rules apply to you.”

I nod. “Okay.”

My father is looking at me like he’s not sure if I’m agreeing to appease him or if I’m actually agreeing. To be honest, I don’t even know.

He leans against the counter and takes a sip of his coffee. “Do you always wake up this early?” he asks.

“No. Samson wanted me to watch the sunrise, so he set an alarm on my phone.”

My father waves toward the door Samson walked out of earlier. “So is he…are you two dating?”

“No. I’m moving to Pennsylvania in August, I don’t want a boyfriend.”

My father narrows his eyes at me. “Pennsylvania?”

Shit.

That slipped out.

I immediately look down at my coffee. My throat feels thick with nerves. I blow out a slow breath. “Yeah,” I say. I leave it at that. Maybe he won’t pry.

“Why are you moving to Pennsylvania? When did you decide this? What’s in Pennsylvania?”

I grip my mug even tighter. “I was going to tell you. I just…I was waiting for the right moment.” I’m lying. I had no intentions of telling him, but I’m in it now. “I got a volleyball scholarship to Penn State.”

My father stares at me blankly. No surprise, no excitement, no anger. Just a blank, unreadable stare before he says, “Are you serious?”

I nod. “Yeah. Full ride. I move in on August third.”

Still, his expression is blank. “When did you find out?”

I swallow and take a slow sip of my coffee, trying to decide if I should tell him the truth. It might just make him angry. “Junior year,” I say quietly.

He chokes on air.

He looks very surprised. Or offended. I can’t tell.

He quietly pushes off the counter and walks to the windows. He stares out at the ocean with his back to me. After about thirty seconds of silence, he turns and faces me again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Beyah, this is huge.” He’s walking toward me now. “You should have told me.” Before he reaches me, he pauses. I can see confusion seeping in. “If you got a full ride last year, why did your mother tell me you needed tuition for community college?”

I blow out a steady breath, gripping the back of my neck. I press my elbows against the counter and give myself a moment to figure out how to respond to that.

“Beyah?” he asks.

I shake my head, needing him to be quiet for a second. I squeeze my forehead. “She lied to you,” I say. I stand up and walk my cup to the sink. “I didn’t even know she asked you for tuition money. She didn’t know about the scholarship, either, but I can guarantee whatever you sent her for tuition was never meant for me to begin with.”

I pour my coffee into the sink and rinse the cup out. When I turn around and face him, he looks dejected. Confused. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but then he closes it and shakes his head.

I’m sure it’s a lot to process for him. We don’t talk about my mother. This is probably the first time I’ve ever spoken negatively about her to him. And while I would love to tell him just how much of a mother she never was, it’s six thirty in the morning and I can’t have this conversation right now.

“I’m going back to bed,” I say, heading toward the stairs.

“Beyah, wait.”

I pause on the second step and slowly turn to face him. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, looking at me intently. “I’m proud of you.”

I nod, but as soon as I turn around and walk back up the stairs, I feel the ball of anger tightening inside of me.

I don’t want him to be proud of me.

It’s precisely why I didn’t tell him.

And even though it seems like he’s trying to make an effort with me now, I can’t help but feel full of resentment that I went most of my life without him in it.

I will not allow his words to make me feel good, nor will I allow them to excuse his second-rate parenting.

Of course you’re proud of me, Brian. But you should only be proud of me because I miraculously survived childhood all on my own.

FOURTEEN

I couldn’t go back to sleep after Samson left this morning, no matter how hard I tried. Maybe it was the conversation with my father that made sleep difficult.

Sara set up loungers and an umbrella on the beach after lunch and I must have finally fallen asleep in my lounger at some point, because I just woke up. There’s drool on my arm.

I’m on my stomach, facing away from Sara’s lounge chair when I open my eyes. I wipe my arm and push myself up enough so that I can roll over onto my back.