by R. K. Ryals
Staring out the window, I realized something. If I’d had a pickup truck right then, I would have wanted to drive. All we had was my uncle’s old car, and I didn’t trust it not to break down in the dark. And yet, my mind drove beyond the house. My head was suddenly inside a sunlit meadow, winter wind chapping my cheeks as I grinded Heathcliff’s gears, the tires rushing over grass, timber rattling in the bed.
It seemed wrong that my heart was yearning for love while grieving a loss it feared.
I was in my bedroom later that night when my gaze slid to my bookshelf, my eyes widening, my body shooting upright as I realized there was a book missing. Where my tattered copy of Wuthering Heights had once sat was an empty space, the small hole gawking at me.
Heathcliff had stolen Heathcliff. The irony made me smile. Maybe my uncle was right. It was time for me to spread my broken wings, to let in the fear and the possibility of heartache. My heart knew what it meant to be broken. It wasn’t breaking my heart I was afraid of. It was healing.
Chapter 6
Another day at school, another last period English class full of markers and sneakers.
“Plans today?” his shoe asked.
“No,” mine answered.
“Dinner? My house?”
I hesitated, my thoughts on Uncle Gregor, but there was prepared food in the freezer for unexpected things like this, and I answered with, “Okay.”
The bell rang, and Heathcliff followed me out, his shoes next to mine.
“It’s at my house. The dinner, that is. It’s kind of a special one. It’s for Mams’ birthday. She’s eighty-eight today,” Heathcliff said.
I paused in the hallway. “Are you sure that I should come? Shouldn’t that just be family?”
“Max!” a female voice shouted.
My gaze flew to the hall, to the small group approaching us. Rebecca Martin, Jessica Reeves, and Brian Henry.
Rebecca’s highlights appeared golden in the dim corridor, her sparkling gaze passing over me before finding Heathcliff’s. “Always in such a rush, Max! Did you hear about the party at the creek this Friday? You should come.”
“You really should,” Brian agreed. “Bring that rusted old heap you call a pickup.” He laughed. “We’re going to do some mud ridin’ before it gets dark.”
“After that, it’s all about the beer,” Jessica giggled.
My gaze remained averted, so that I was part of the group but not the conversation.
“I don’t know,” Heathcliff hedged.
“Oh, come on,” Rebecca exclaimed. “You know you want to! Any chance to show off what that old truck of yours can do.” She arched her brows. “There’s a lot of memories in that truck.”
“Dude,” Brian inserted, “she’s right. It’s bring your own beer, but you and your brother never had any trouble getting that.”
“You can even bring your friend here. Hawthorne, right?” Rebecca added.
Brian and Heathcliff’s hands clasped in a brief, familiar shake.
“Yeah,” Heathcliff finally answered. “I’ll see what I’ve got going on.”
“Awesome!” Jessica squealed. “See you two later.” She smiled. “Hope to see you there, Hawthorne.”
They left, leaving Heathcliff and I standing awkwardly, his hands darting to his blue jean pockets.
“Yeah, well,” he cleared his throat, “I really want you to come tonight. Family or no. My Mams really likes your uncle. Talks about him all of the time.”
My silence was long and heavy, the interruption from his friends leaving me uncertain. What was I doing?
“And the party Friday,” he added suddenly. “They’re right. You should come. They’re really okay people just looking to blow off a little steam like the rest of us. And you know,” his feet shifted next to mine, “you should come to it with me. If you want to that is.”
I stared at his shoe. “I’ll come tonight.”
I didn’t mention the party, and he didn’t push it.
“Great,” he replied. “Need a ride home?” My head shook, and he coughed. “Okay, well … pick you up in a few hours?”
He left, and I used the walk home to clear my head, my shoes crackling over brittle leaves and pinecones. The ever present scent of smoke snaked through the air. There was always something burning this time of year, voices rising and tires crunching over gravel. I made it a habit to stay on well-worn paths to avoid hunters.
My uncle was lying on the ground when I stepped into our yard, and I started to rush toward him until I realized his chest was rising and falling, his eyes on something in the trees above him.
His head turned when he heard my shoes. “I could have sworn I saw a new species of bird,” he called out. “Want to join me?”
My mouth twitched. “I’m okay, thanks. I kind of have a dinner date.”
Uncle Gregor sat up, brushing leaves from his shirt. He had a tie around his neck, but it was hanging loose and undone. Dark circles marred his eyes, and I knew his illness was eating away at him. “You remember what we talked about last night right, Hawthorne? Give it a chance.”
Pushing open the door, I paused and turned toward him. “Uncle?”
“Yeah?”
“If you find that bird, name it after me, would you?”
He laughed. “You’ve got it.”
The door shut behind me, my troubled thoughts chasing me to my room, my closet, and my mirror, my reflection peering back at me. I didn’t have much, but I did own a few things that weren’t hand-me-downs, and I pulled on a rose-colored V-neck blouse that offset my wild, strawberry hair.
My fingers touched the glass, sliding down my cheek’s reflection as if it were Heathcliff’s hand instead of mine. Did he think about me like this?
I stepped away from the mirror. This was madness! I felt crazy, my head going around and around in circles but never finding its way to anything sensible. If this was confusion, I’d found it. If it was attraction, then I wasn’t sure I liked it.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stared at the wall, listening as the door opened and closed downstairs, my uncle’s feet carrying him through the house. He was humming an old song, the classic Have a Little Faith in Me, and I grinned. Uncle Gregor had a way of telling me things without ever saying a word.
Outside a truck revved, and I stood, my sweaty palms sliding down the sides of my jeans.
“Hawthorne!” my uncle called.
It was all pretense. He knew and I knew that his playing the protective father was going through the motions for us. Uncle Gregor had always trusted me probably more than he should.
My feet pounded the stairs, my breath coming in pants as I stumbled to a stop at the door. Inhaling, I grabbed the knob, my gaze flying to my uncle. He stood in the hallway, his newspaper tucked beneath his arm, the smell of coffee floating from the kitchen.
“I’m here,” he said.
Those two words were devastating and beautiful. I was living my life in dual emotions. My body felt torn trying to process them all. I had to keep reminding myself that he was here now and that’s what mattered.
Pulling the door open, I murmured, “It’s just dinner.”
Heathcliff was on the walk outside, his shoes headed for the house. I intercepted him, and he paused.
“I could have come to the door,” he said, amused.
“It’s okay.”
Taking my hand, he tugged me toward his truck, the work jacket from before sprawled out across the seat. Taking it, I pushed my arms into the sleeves as I climbed in.
Heathcliff’s door was barely closed when he said, “About school today.” He gripped the steering wheel. “It was kind of awkward after my friends came up, but I just want you to know something.” He looked at me now, but I didn’t meet his eyes. “I know you don’t want to be a part of that scene. I get it, I do, but I don’t want to hide this. I’m interested, okay. I want to know you, Hawthorne. Even if it means taking you out of your comfort zone. I want to know the girl behind the stare.”
My throat worked as I swallowed, my hands clenching the material of his jacket. “I just hope you’re not looking for this really spectacular story. Silence often makes people seem more mysterious than they really are. I’m not really all that mysterious.”
The truck moved, the tires bouncing past the crepe myrtles, my words hanging between us. “No,” he said finally, “you’re not all that mysterious, but you’re a thinker. I like that about you.”
My gaze slid to his profile, to his neck and shoulders, his words making me uncomfortable. “You stole something from me,” I blurted to ease the tension.
He smiled. “You noticed the missing Wuthering Heights.” A chuckle escaped, and he added, “You highlight passages in your books.”
Facing forward, I stared at the road, at the lowering sun and cracked asphalt. “Only stuff that really sticks with me.”
The wind brushed my hair, sending it flying. Heathcliff’s hand shot out, his fingers tangling in the strands before releasing it. “God, it’s like it has a life of its own.” He exhaled. “You want to know what my favorite marked quote was in the book? It was highlighted in neon orange, and said, Honest people don’t hide their deeds. For that to have struck a cord in you, then you must believe it.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked.
He reached for me, his arm falling across the seat as if he wanted me to move closer. I did, but probably not as close as he wished. “That’s why I asked you to come tonight,” he said. “When I saw that quote, I knew I needed you there.”
Startled, I breathed, “Needed?”
He shrugged. “Remember the paper? My family often uses dinners like this to talk about the future. I’m going to be frank here. I’m not good at being honest with my family, my father especially. I don’t want to work here when I finish school. I don’t want to stay here.”
My heart broke. Just like that it shattered. Before I’d even had a chance to explore the idea of a relationship, it was gone. My uncle’s words circled my brain, but the teenage drama queen I liked to pretend didn’t exist in my heart rebelled. She rebelled, she screamed, she punched the insides of my guts, and then she became quiet. She simply quit being anything. My uncle was right. At least I knew before it started that my heart was going to be broken. I either needed to decide that was okay or I needed to walk away.
“You want me there to make it easier for you to tell them you want to leave,” I said.
“Yeah,” he responded. “I do. Do you hate me for that?”
I laughed, the sound harsher than I intended. “I don’t really know you enough to hate you.” A shuddering breath escaped, and with it the rushed words, “Actually, I admire you.” There it was. I was deciding that his leaving was okay, that I could do this even knowing it was going to end. “If you can’t be honest with yourself, then there’s no point, right?”
The arm on the back of the seat was heavy against my shoulders, his fingers suddenly gripping my arm through the jacket. “What I want to do one day doesn’t change this, you know. It doesn’t change the fact that I really do want to know you. That I want to be your friend, maybe even more than that.”
There was a sudden lump in my throat, but I swallowed it away. “We still have time before school ends.”
“You mean that?” he asked, surprised.
My words were more than words, and we both knew it.
Glancing out the window, I replied, “That party Friday … I think I might want to try it.”
Another brief pause. “Hold that thought,” he said. Braking on the side of the road, he stuck his head out of the window and hollered. Startled laughter bubbled up through my chest as he ducked back inside, his feet hitting the gas. “You don’t need a story, Hawthorne!” he cried. “We’re going to make one for you.”
Despite knowing that whatever story he wrote was going to end, I felt light. Like a feather floating on the breeze, wild and free. Maybe Gregor was right. Maybe love could just be a moment, the kind that teaches rather than robs.
Heathcliff pulled the truck into a driveway lined in solar torches, each one placed before a row of azalea bushes. When the season changed, the lane would be aflame with color. The narrow avenue ended in a circle drive, a two-level log cabin resting before it. It wasn’t a huge home, but it wasn’t small either. It was nice, sprawling in places, landscaped yet homey. A barn sat in the back, a wood shop visible from the road.
“From our work on the paper, I know you don’t really know what you want to do …” I said, my words trailing off.
Heathcliff parked and turned the key in the ignition. “Yeah, but that’s the thrill of it. The unknown is exciting. Not knowing what you really want to do is an adventure. It’s a chance to go out there and find out what you want, to learn about yourself. Not everyone has it figured out, you know. The opportunities here are kind of limited.”
My gaze traveled to the house, to the lit windows and shadowy figures moving within. I couldn’t help but wonder what I would have wanted if my life had been different, if my parents had stayed.
“What’s it like?” I asked. “Being a part of a big family?”
Heathcliff stilled, his arm suddenly tugging me to his side of the truck. “There’s nothing else like it. There’s love, and then there’s more. I wouldn’t ask to be a part of any other family. Mine’s amazing. It’s because they’re so wonderful that I’m having such a hard time telling them I want out of this town.”
His embrace felt way better than it should, and my voice lowered. “It wouldn’t be forever though. You’d visit.”
His chin fell near my shoulder, and my breathing hitched. “That’s not the way they’ll see it. You know better than anyone what they’ll think, Hawthorne.”
“That you’re running,” I whispered.
Releasing me, he opened his door, slid out, and then offered me his hand. “I have no idea how to make them see that I’m not.”
My fingers met his palm, and his hand wrapped around mine as I climbed free, our gazes on the house. My heart clenched. It clenched because I knew exactly how to make them see.
“You have to go in sometime,” I said.
Heathcliff sighed and led me to the door, his fingers clutching mine. Grabbing the doorknob, he paused. “Thank you,” he said suddenly. “Thank you for coming with me. Most of all, thank you for not running away knowing I don’t want to stay. My last girlfriend broke it off as soon as she found out. After a year of dating, she couldn’t get out of the truck fast enough. But considering your history, I wouldn’t have blamed you.”
“Can I be honest?” I asked. For the first time since meeting him, my gaze met his. He’d been candid with me, and that earned a lot.
He sucked in a breath, and my head lowered. Releasing my hand, he gripped my chin, his fingers pushing my face up. “Be honest. Please.”
Frowning, I murmured, “I’ve been left. I don’t fear people leaving. I fear the way they’ll go.”
Pulling away from his touch, I placed my hand over his on the knob and twisted it. The door fell in, revealing a country-inspired entryway. Running deer chased each other on rugs covering a rough hewn floor, and a cushioned rocking chair sat before an antique wash basin and mirror. Stairs to the right of the entry led to the second story with a mudroom tucked next to the stairwell. To my left, a large living space opened up, the kitchen and dining room open to the living area. Other than the wooden entry, the floors were brick.
Heathcliff’s family milled around the house. Some of them reclined on dark leather couches while others watched a football game on ESPN on a wide screen television hanging above a large fireplace. Women laughed and called to each other in the kitchen while two children argued over a light-up yo-yo near the dining room, their mischievous gazes darting to the covered plates on the table .
At the sound of the door, his family froze, their gazes lifting.
“Max! Took you long enough!” a middle-aged, merry woman proclaimed, her cheeks flushed from the warm kitchen
. Wiping her hands on an apron around her waist, she moved toward us.
“My mom,” Heathcliff whispered.
For a small-statured woman, she walked fast. “You’re the last one here,” she chided, her gaze sweeping her son’s face before sliding to mine. “Clare Macy,” she breathed. “I’d know that face anywhere.”
She offered me her hand, and I accepted it. “Hawthorne, ma’am. I go by Hawthorne.”
“It’s good to see you again, Hawthorne,” Dusty Vincent greeted. The man I’d met at the hardware store approached us, his large hands in his blue jean pockets. He was freshly shaven, his hair trimmed, a black long sleeve tee with Vincent’s embroidered on a small pocket covering his chest.
“If I’m the last that means we can eat, right?” Heathcliff teased.
His mom swiped his arm playfully. His dad stepped aside so that we could enter, his family’s eyes trailing us. The whispers followed me. “That’s Meg Macy’s daughter, ain’t it?” “Damned if she ain’t a dead ringer of her mother.” “Except that hair. That wild mass definitely came from her daddy.”
Nodding at the two boys still fighting next to the table, Heathcliff said, “My nephews, David and Hayden.”
I smiled, but they barely spared me a glance. The yo-yo definitely trumped the strange girl.
“They’re going to end up strangling each other with that thing,” a woman hissed loudly.
“My aunt,” Heathcliff grimaced.
The rotund, snarling woman grabbed the boys by the ear and escorted them away.
The family filed into the kitchen, each of them taking seats in the dining room. Heathcliff pulled a chair out for me, but before I could sit, blue eyes caught mine from across the table.
“Afraid we don’t see many girls with Max,” a young man laughed. “So you’ll have to excuse the staring.” Standing, he offered me his hand. “I’m Chris, Max’s brother.”
The man was handsome, his tall figure more lithe than muscular, a light goatee covering his chin. He flashed his teeth, and I accepted his hand.
