Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
That says a lot about him. I regret reacting how I did when he tried to offer me money on the ferry that day. Samson may actually be a decent human and the pictures on this memory card back that up.
I remove it from the computer and even though I’m still in pain and kind of want to crawl in bed and go to sleep, I head downstairs, outside and across the yard. Samson always uses his back door, so I head in that direction. I walk up the steps and knock.
I wait for a while, but I don’t hear his footsteps and I can’t see the kitchen from this point of view. I hear something behind me, though. When I turn around, P.J. is sitting at the top of the stairs watching me. I smile a little. I like that he’s still around.
Samson eventually opens the door. He’s changed clothes in the time I was watching him from my window to the point of me knocking on his door. He’s wearing one of Marcos’s HisPanic T-shirts, which seem to be the only shirts he wears, if he’s wearing a shirt at all. I like that he’s supportive of Marcos’s vision. Their friendship is kind of adorable.
Samson is barefoot, and I don’t know why I’m staring at his feet. I look back at his face.
“I was just bringing your memory card back.” I hand it to him.
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t delete anything.”
Samson’s mouth curls up on the left side. “I didn’t think you would.”
He steps aside and motions for me to come in. I squeeze between him and the doorframe and enter his dark house. He flips on a light, and I try to hide my gasp, but it’s even bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside.
Everything is white and colorless. The walls, the cabinets, the trim. The floor is a dark wood—almost black. I spin around in a circle, admiring it for what it is, but also recognizing how unlike a home it feels. There isn’t any soul at all.
“It’s kind of...sterile.” As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn’t. He didn’t ask for my opinion on his house, but it’s hard not to notice how unlived-in it feels.
Samson shrugs like my opinion of his house doesn’t bother him. “It’s a rent house. They’re all like this. Very generic.”
“It’s so clean.”
“People sometimes rent at the last minute. It’s easier for me if I keep the houses rent-ready.” Samson walks to his refrigerator and opens it, waving a hand inside. The refrigerator is mostly empty, aside from a few condiments in the door. “Nothing in the fridge. Nothing in the pantry.” He closes the refrigerator door.
“Where do you keep your food?”
He motions toward a closet near the stairs that lead to the top floor. “We keep the stuff we don’t want renters to have access to in that closet. There’s a small fridge in it.” He points to a backpack next to the door. “Everything else I own I keep in that backpack. The less I have, the easier it is for me to move between our properties.”
I’ve seen him with the backpack a couple of times but thought nothing of it. It’s kind of ironic that we both carry our lives around in a backpack, despite the vast difference of wealth between us.
I glance up near the door, at a picture on the wall. It’s the only thing in the house that has any character. I walk over to it. It’s a photo of a young boy, about three years old, walking on the beach. A woman is behind him, wearing a flowy white dress. She’s smiling at whoever is taking the photo. “Is this your mother?” It reminds me of those perfect sample photos they place in frames before they’re purchased.
Samson nods.
“So that’s you? As a toddler?”
He nods again.
His hair is so blond in the picture, it’s almost white. It’s darkened since he was a child, but I’d still consider his hair blond. I don’t know if it’s this blond in the winter, though. It seems to be the kind of hair that changes color with the seasons.
I wonder what Samson’s father looks like, but there aren’t any photos of him. This is the only photo in this section of the house.
I have so many more questions as I stare at the picture. His mother seems happy. He seems happy. I wonder what happened to him to make him so private and withdrawn? Did his mother die? I doubt he’d elaborate on anything if I were to ask him.
Samson flips on more lights and leans against his kitchen counter. I don’t know how he can appear so casual when all of my muscles are tight with tension. “Your leg feel better?” he asks.
I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about the picture or his mother or anything else that would be another layer deep. I walk into the kitchen and stand across from him, leaning against the large center island. It’s the kitchen island Cadence was sitting on a few nights ago when I watched him kiss her.