by R. K. Ryals
“Do you need me to stay home?” I asked.
Uncle Gregor glanced up at me, a weary smile curling his lips. “It’s going to get worse, Hawthorne. Much worse.”
A lump formed in my throat, and I swallowed past it, my hand falling to the table. “I’m here,” I promised.
His grin remained, his hand patting mine. “Always and forever. Now go to school. I’m going to make some phone calls about the care the doctor talked about before I can’t anymore.”
His strength humbled me, his perseverance something I’d forever strive to match.
“For my sake,” he added, saying the three words I’d never be able to say no to. Our words. “Go.”
“Call the school if you need me,” I demanded.
He nodded, and I left, my feet carrying me into the frosty morning, the air crisp and wet. It clung to me, the clean feel of it on my skin and tongue heavy and rejuvenating.
Birds pushed through the trees, their calls a heavy cry in my ears. My feet kept moving forward, never stopping. If I paused, they’d turn back.
My body actually sagged with relief when I caught sight of the school, my thighs and body more sore than I thought they would be, my mind an exhausted mess of emotions. I spied Heathcliff’s truck in the parking lot, my heart jumping at the sight of the dull red vehicle.
“Hey, Hawthorne!” a voice called out as I entered the building.
My head shot up, my eyes meeting Rebecca Martin’s curious gaze.
She fell into step next to me. “So, you and Max, huh?”
“Me and Max?” We’d reached my locker, and I pulled it open, grabbing two books and a binder.
She watched my hands before glancing at my face. “I mean, after he came with you to the creek, we all just assumed—”
“We’re together,” Heathcliff’s voice interrupted. His shadow loomed over me, a protective mountain at my back. “In case anyone was wondering,” he added.
Rebecca’s eyes twinkled. “I thought as much. You know me. Nosy Rosy and all that.” Her gaze flicked from his face to mine. “If you ever get tired of him, you should think about joining me for a trip to the mall or something. It’s kind of nice having someone new around.”
Her words were kind, her eyes equally serious. I kept searching for the malice in her tone but found none.
“Yeah … okay,” I replied.
She grinned. “Well, I’ll see you second period,” she said before glancing at Max, “and you in last.”
Her boots clicked on the floor as she left, an occasional glance over her shoulder the only sign that she had more questions. Lots more.
My gaze went to Max, his clean shaven jaw, damp hair, and clothes a reminder of his upcoming work at the Parker farm that afternoon.
“I figured it’d be easier to go straight from school,” he said when he caught my stare.
A long-sleeve black T-shirt with Vincent’s on the front covered his chest, the top hanging over old, sturdy jeans.
“We’re together?” The question slipped out of my mouth.
His eyes searched mine. “Aren’t we?”
Shifting my books to one arm, I slammed my locker door closed. “I think so?”
“I’d like to be,” he rushed to say.
I stared. “Me, too.”
He grinned. “Good. Are you okay? I mean after … you know.”
Daylight had cut out our tongues, making it harder to be frank.
My cheeks flamed. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Without another word, Heathcliff took my books, gently extracting them from my arms. “What’s your first class?”
It seemed weird that we didn’t know each other’s schedules, our relationship up until now based on our feet, last period, work on the plantation, and the illnesses in our families.
“French.”
“French?” he asked, surprised.
I shrugged. “It’s my second year taking it. I have a thing for languages. I have a collection of CDs at home, each one teaching a different one.”
“Really?” he asked as we walked.
I smiled. “Want me to speak to you in Italian or Portuguese?”
He laughed. “No, I’m good thanks. It’s cool though. That you’re learning them, I mean.”
The door to my first class was fast approaching, and I glanced at him. “What do you do? Something not many people know about?”
He eyed me. “You really want to know?” I nodded, and he threw a look down the hall before meeting my gaze. “Ditch school with me at lunch, and I’ll show you.”
“Okay.”
With a wink, he left me at the door. Curious looks glanced off of me as students passed. The stares didn’t matter. Not now. Too much in my life was changing. Too fast. Some of the changes filled me with an indescribable need for speed. Some of them made me wish there were more hours in a day, more months in a year. Others made me wish time would stop altogether. Time was a friend and an enemy.
My distracted thoughts followed me into French, my gaze on the clock, the things running through my head keeping me from focusing. Excited anticipation carried me through the hour to my second class, the one I shared with Rebecca. It was then my preoccupation hurt me, the distraction causing me to say yes to things she asked that I’d probably regret later. There were some murmured words about a trip to town that ended with a slip of paper and my home phone number.
“You don’t have a cell?” she asked, startled. My head shook, and she gaped at me. “Everyone has a cell phone. Aren’t land lines like mostly extinct?” I’d shrugged, relief flooding me when the bell rang.
The next three classes were a blissful blur, and I rushed from fifth period only to stumble into Heathcliff.
He steadied me with a laugh. “Going somewhere? Not in a hurry are you?”
Taking my books, he deposited them into my locker before leading me to his truck. My stomach churned as I climbed in, mainly because I’d never done anything like this, brash and unexpected.
He climbed behind the wheel, his tires squealing as he backed up and tore out of the parking lot. Wind rushed into my face through the open windows, ripping through my hair and clearing my head.
Heathcliff threw me a grin, his teeth flashing as he sped over blacktop, turning down the nearest back road, the concrete below transforming into dirt. His speed increased, his truck taking turns that had me lost in minutes.
I was on the verge of asking where we were going when he pulled into a short drive, the only thing in front of us a small storage building.
“It used to belong to my grandfather,” Heathcliff told me as he switched off the engine. “His hooch, he called it. Some type of military slang. When he passed, Mams gave me permission to use it.” Throwing open his door, he climbed out and rounded the truck, his gaze meeting mine as he helped me out. “This was Paps’ escape, just a place to go when he needed to get away or wanted a place to play a little poker with his friends.”
Overgrown, brown grass rustled against our jeans as we walked to the structure. It was a good size, larger than most sheds, but way smaller than any house. Heathcliff pulled a key from his pocket, using it to undo a padlock before throwing open the door. He hit a light switch inside, a dim glow filling the space, and I gasped.
A lone bulb illuminated a clean room, the building housing an odd one bedroom apartment. On one side was an incredibly small kitchen, a two burner camp stove resting next to a shining, steel sink. Cabinets lined the wall behind it, curtains hanging over the spaces in place of cabinet doors. A tiny, two chair table separated the kitchen area from a small living space. There was a threadbare couch, the kind that turned into a bed, clean sheets stacked on top of it.
“My house is actually just a quick walk through the woods,” Heathcliff informed me. “This is all on my family’s property. The hooch was Paps’ man cave.” He laughed. “Mine now, I guess. No one else uses it.”
Using a concrete block, we stepped into the building, my eyes landing on a stack of interesting
machinery stacked against a wall housing a gas heater and a small window, an air conditioner shoved into it. The smell of sawdust, oil, and cleanser assaulted my nostrils. It was an oddly nice odor.
“There it is,” Heathcliff said, gesturing at the machinery. “Doesn’t look like much, but I like taking extra parts from busted equipment and turning them into something useful. That small one there,” he pointed to an odd scrap of metal that had been welded together and turned into something eerily familiar, “is a toaster. Works great, too.”
I glanced at Heathcliff. “This is incredible,” I breathed.
He snorted. “Not really. I just like working with parts the same way my dad and uncles like working with wood.”
“It’s incredible,” I insisted, my gaze falling to the couch. The place was clean and well taken care of, the sheets fresh. “You stay here?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes. Started my junior year, and as long as I kept my work up and didn’t disappear too often, my parents didn’t care. I come here, do a little work with the parts, and walk through the woods to shower in the morning. It’s not every night, just off and on. All boys should have a hobby, my Mams says.”
My gaze remained on the couch. “That’s how you’ve gotten away with coming to the plantation.”
He shifted awkwardly, and I realized he’d ditched his hobby a lot lately to spend time with me.
Touching his arm, I asked, “Could I come here sometimes and watch you work?”
“Really?” His gaze found mine.
“Sure. I could bring a few books.”
He smiled. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Releasing him, I moved further into the room, my gaze alighting on an object leaning against the couch cushions.
“Is that a guitar?”
Heathcliff stepped next to me, his hands going to his pockets. “Another habit I picked up from my grandfather. I’m really not all that good, but I like picking at it.”
For some reason, the idea that he played music intrigued me. “You’ll have to teach me.”
His eyes brightened. “I’d like that, too.” Pausing, he stared at me, his gaze roaming over my face. “Thank you,” he waved at the building, “for being interested in this. Or pretending you are anyway.”
“No,” I blurted, “I really am.”
Leaning close, he captured me by the waist. “You could bring those foreign language CDs. Probably wouldn’t hurt for me to learn some culture.”
A laugh rose up in my throat, the sound cut off by his lips. I should be getting used to his kisses by now, but they kept stealing my breath, turning my insides to liquid lava. My world narrowed to his lips, his tongue, and the feel of his arms clutching me.
When we broke apart, I gasped, “I think we’re getting better at this.”
“You know what they say about practice.”
Heat pooled in places too sore to even consider what his words implied, and I grimaced despite the wave of desire.
Heathcliff’s lips brushed my forehead. “No hurry, remember. We have to get back.”
Stepping free of the building, we stopped just long enough for him to switch off the light and lock the door before climbing back into the truck. We sped down the back roads toward the school, the wind a beast inside the vehicle, tearing at us as if it were trying to keep us in the woods. I didn’t want to go back. Going back meant returning to reality. It meant facing the future. I wanted to give in to the wind, let it pull me backward.
The walls of my heart were caving in, and they were going to crush me.
Chapter 15
Life is made up of a bunch of hurdles and a lot of routines. It’s getting up in the morning to redo what you did the day before. Occasionally, there are changes or obstacles, but mostly it’s the same. Love stories usually focus on the hurdles, leaving out the repetition because repeating something over and over again doesn’t seem necessary or entertaining enough to mention.
My relationship with Heathcliff fell into a routine, a comfortable one. He worked a lot, doing things for his father or taking jobs at the farms nearby. The only real time I had with him was at night, some afternoons, and on the weekends when we alternated between his family, the plantation, and the small building on his family’s property. But we made the most of it.
Days fell into each other, blurring into one, my time with my uncle growing shorter and shorter. He started losing weight, his bright eyes growing dull and full of pain. Each day was a battle for him, but he wouldn’t quit fighting. Every morning, he woke up, took his coffee to the kitchen, and sat down with me to talk about life, school, and the many ways he could beat Heathcliff at their next game of checkers. He needed the conversation, and I needed to talk.
I’d gotten better at talking. I’d even gotten better at making friends. Rebecca Martin particularly. For all of her looks and popularity, she was a lonely girl.
“I’m looking for a genuine friendship,” she told me one morning, her eyes glowing as she leaned back in her chair. “Something that doesn’t involve pageants, surgery, and clothes. You get that, right?”
I’d nodded and that had been enough. After that, she’d found ways to catch up with me in between classes and after school when Heathcliff was working. One nod, and we were suddenly friends, as if she’d decided telling me she wanted a genuine person in her life was an invisible contract of comradeship.
“You need a mentor,” she said. “Someone who can teach you something about hair. Makeup, too, if you want. And let’s be honest, I need you because the only time I get to cheat on this ridiculous diet my mother always has me on is when I’m somewhere she can’t watch me.”
With Rebecca, I never had to do a lot of talking, just a lot of nodding, smiles, and car trips to places I didn’t care a whole lot about. The mall for one. And yet, being around Rebecca felt good. She made me smile and filled a lonely place in me I’d never realized was missing.
“Skinny jeans. That’s where it is. You need skinny jeans,” she murmured one afternoon.
No matter how many times I told Rebecca no, she found a way around it. Clothes appeared in my locker, coupons appeared on my desk, and packages appeared at my house. I kept trying to return them, and Rebecca kept bringing them back. It was a never ending cycle that concluded with me telling her I couldn’t take anymore, and her agreeing to stop if I kept what she’d already sent.
Truth was, I began to count on her need to be there. Rebecca was living a lie, and I was living in the shadow of death. Somehow, we met in that strange place between the two, clinging to the companionship we found there.
She drove me home after school every afternoon, coming in to meet my uncle before sitting in the kitchen nibbling on whatever I’d baked that week. I came to depend on her and on her friendship. It was nice, really, being close to someone who didn’t share any interests with you, but who enjoyed being in the same room with you anyway.
“When you become a chef, I’ll totally help you open a place,” Rebecca said. She loved to eat as much as I loved to cook. It worked, our friendship.
Strangely enough, I had Heathcliff to thank for Rebecca. I had Heathcliff to thank for all of it. He was the reason my life was changing. In a quiet, almost imperceptible way, he was repairing my relationship with the town and with me. He was taking me places, encouraging me to talk, and helping me grow. He was teaching me to trust myself and to trust others. He was teaching me to be a part of something and yet still be unique.
Every spare moment we had, Heathcliff and I spent it together, his building in the woods our favorite destination. It was the only place not filled with grief and the threat of graduation. There among the trees, there was only love and long conversations.
One afternoon, he pulled out his guitar. His couch had been turned into a bed, and I was reclined on it, reading. Heathcliff had been working on a new “parts” project, turning a bunch of scrap metal into a grill for the creek. The parties there were few and far between in the winter, but they grew more frequent
with warm weather. There wasn’t much to do in our small town other than crowding together in fields, barns, or at the creek, the pickups circled and the tailgates down.
“You can’t laugh,” he said as he sat opposite me, tugging the instrument across his lap.
I set my book aside. “I won’t.”
Taking a pick, he strummed the guitar, testing the strings before falling into a familiar rhythm. He didn’t sing, he just played, the tune a mix of blues and country. Outside the sun grew lower in the sky, but it didn’t matter.
The music waned, and I leaned forward. “I didn’t take you for a country music guy.”
He shrugged. “I’m not really. I listen to a little bit of everything, but when I play … well, country is kind of in the blood whether I want it to be or not. All that crap about love, drinking, pickup trucks, and hard living is the way it is here.”
“I like country,” I offered. “Some of it better than others. A lot of it’s sad.”
He picked at the guitar again. “There’s a lot of truth in sadness.”
My gaze searched his face, my chest tightening. Time was my enemy. Like with Uncle Gregor, I was losing Heathcliff, the far off look in his eyes full of dreams he’d never be able to fulfill here. January had melted into February and March, the weather outside warmer than it had been, green foliage starting to sprout among the brown.
“Do you ever sing?” I asked.
He grinned. “Sometimes. Mostly, I just play.” He motioned for me to join him, and I slid toward him. “We could write a song,” he suggested. “Put a twist on Callahan’s assignment.”
I laughed. “We could, or we could just write a paper.”
“There’s that, too.” Laying the guitar aside, he reached for me, pulling me into his embrace, my back against his chest, his lips finding my neck.
Our relationship wasn’t based on sex, but I won’t lie and say we didn’t spend a lot of time making love. We spent more time talking, driving the back roads, and visiting with family, but there was also sex. There was an underlying current of heat that drew us together, simmering just beneath the surface, a strong need to be as close as we could to each other.
