by R. K. Ryals
“Well, you’re full of surprises.” He snorted. “So if I can’t have that first, how about a dance?”
Grabbing my beer and setting it on the ground with his, he nodded at the sand, his hand tugging me gently. I followed because I couldn’t think of a reason not to.
“I don’t really know how to dance,” I admitted.
He smiled down at me. “You don’t have to know how. Just follow me.”
He pulled me into his embrace, the gesture more like a hug than a dance, my body flush with his.
My blood filled with fire as his hands slid inside the work jacket, his fingers splaying against my back.
He bent, his head lowering, his lips finding my ear. “I won’t lie. I was kind of hopin’ this was your first beer.” He laughed, his breath fanning my neck, and I shivered. “Better yet, I would love to see you smashed.”
His head lifted, and my eyes met his. “I think I’m drunk now,” I whispered.
There were other ways to be inebriated other than alcohol. I certainly felt unsteady.
“Oh, God,” Heathcliff groaned. “Don’t look at me that way, Hawthorne.”
We were so close now that I could feel his heart beating against me. His hands slid beneath the hem of my shirt, his chilly fingers caressing my back.
The slow song ended, a faster one replacing it, but instead of quickening his pace, Heathcliff pulled me aside, tugging me into the darkness just beyond the circle of headlights. My back was suddenly touching someone’s truck, Heathcliff’s hands falling to seize my hips.
He didn’t kiss me. That was the first thing that surprised me. The second was the feelings that swamped me when he lifted me, using his hands to guide my legs around his hips. His breath mingled with mine as he pressed against me, awareness building as our hips danced.
My eyes adjusted to the dimness, my gaze meeting his. His face was only inches away from mine, but his head didn’t lower. He simply stared, one of his hands remaining at my hip while the other swept into my hair. This seemed more intimate somehow than kissing, his eyes on my eyes, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. My gasps were swallowed by laughter and loud music. My hands didn’t know what to do with themselves. My fingers had a sudden mind of their own, finding different parts of Heathcliff’s body to grip and then release; his waist, his arms, and his shirt.
My world became our winded breathing and his bright eyes. Everything else was temporarily gone; school, my uncle’s cancer, his grandmother’s cirrhosis, and an impending summer I didn’t want to think about.
Heathcliff’s forehead fell against mine. “Be alive, Hawthorne,” he insisted. “Just be alive.”
Our lips hovered but never touched, his hips grinding against mine, the movement creating sensations that seemed mildly pleasant at first before turning into something desperate and reaching.
“Let it come,” he whispered.
I broke, the sensations so strong they tore my body apart, his lips suddenly crashing down onto mine to capture the scream that would have followed. His hips stopped moving, and his body trapped mine against the truck, the hand that had been in my hair resting now against the side of the pickup, his fingers gripping the vehicle. There was desperation in his kiss.
I wiggled, and his lips tore away from mine, his hand tightening on my hip. “Don’t move. For God’s sake, don’t move, Hawthorne.” He laughed, the sound tense. “I can’t. Not here.” His forehead fell against mine once more. “If you were thinking about anything other than that right here right now, then your mind is decidedly more busy than mine.”
On an exhale, I breathed, “I’m flying.”
There was nothing else I could have said in that moment. Maybe another girl could have come up with something less revealing. Maybe she could have teased him, enticed him with her flirting wit, but I had nothing. Nothing except blunt honesty.
He chuckled, the sound so low I felt it rather than heard it. “I’m right there with you.”
My feet hit the soft ground as he suddenly released me, his hands finding my waist, his fingers tracing the waistband of my jeans, dipping below them just enough to entice but not enough to startle.
Voices tore us apart, laughter rising as feet stumbled into the trees. “Try aiming your piss at the ground, dude,” a guy hollered.
“Just shut up, man,” a male voice answered.
A third voice, a female one, giggled, “Did you guys see Max Vincent tonight? I can’t believe he managed to drag the Macy girl out here.”
Heathcliff stiffened, his hands gripping my waist.
The pissing boy snorted. “Bound to happen in my opinion. That girl’s been holed up too long.”
“I bet she’s secretly a wild child,” his friend replied. “I mean, you’ve heard the stories about her mom, right?”
My hands found Heathcliff’s on my waist. “I want to go home,” I hissed.
I was pulling away from his hold when another voice stopped me.
“You people don’t know shit,” Rebecca Martin interrupted suddenly, her tone smooth and even despite being high. “I like her. She’s as genuine and patient as molasses. The rest of us certainly can’t say the same. Look in a mirror, dimwits. Or have you even attempted Callahan’s assignment?”
“I like you better when you ain’t lit, Becca,” the unnamed girl complained.
Rebecca laughed. “No, you don’t. Ya’ll like what my looks and my mother’s position in the county can get you.”
“She’s got a point,” Brian Henry called into the darkness. “Stop whining. You ain’t got a chance in hell gettin’ in Vincent’s pants, Kaitlyn. I like the Hawthorne girl, too.”
I wasn’t sure what was more startling. The crudeness of it all, or the fact that I suddenly had friends. People I’d never attempted to get to know who’d noticed me. A moment I thought had been destroyed was suddenly saved.
“Still want to go?” Heathcliff asked against my ear.
I swallowed hard, my hands releasing his. “Maybe one more beer.”
The plane ride when I was ten suddenly invaded my memory. Right now, just like then, I was flying. Even with my feet firmly against the earth, I was soaring high, my eyes on the ground. Everything below me seemed so small, so trivial. There was only my uncle and the time I had left with him, potential friends I’d never thought I’d have, and a young man who was keeping me in the air. He was introducing me to emotions and sensations that seemed too big. Too big but manageable. Because I knew even if this ended now, I wouldn’t regret it. Love could just be a moment, an amazing moment that could teach a person to breathe. It didn’t have to hold a person back.
Chapter 9
Heathcliff and I didn’t speak much on the way to my house after the party. I sat next to him, my head on his shoulder. It wasn’t safe, but it didn’t seem to matter. It was as if having distance between us that night would have been wrong.
We had pulled into the drive, and I was climbing free of the pickup when he said, “Hawthorne … wait.”
Pausing, I glanced at him. His brows furrowed, the words he wanted to speak caught somewhere between his head and his mouth. He didn’t need to say them. I could see them in his eyes.
“I’ll … uh … I’ll be around tomorrow,” he promised.
I smiled because I knew he’d return. I’d wake up to the sound of an ax, a drill, or the smell of fresh paint, and it would become one of my new favorite memories, a new favorite sound and a new favorite scent.
Pulling his jacket off, I threw it into the truck. “Be careful.”
The pickup backed out of the drive, his taillights disappearing into the darkness. He’d come back because I’d seen in his eyes what he’d probably seen in mine. He was going to break my heart. Somehow I knew that, and instead of running, I was waiting for the pain.
The thought followed me into the house, tracked me to the kitchen past the faint scent of chicory, and chased me into the living room. Uncle Gregor was sleeping on the couch, the light switched on next to hi
m, a book resting open on the arm. Pulling an old afghan over his prone form, I checked his breathing, my lips brushing his forehead, before moving up the stairs to my room. One quick glance at my flushed cheeks in the mirror on my dresser, and I was lying on the bed, my gaze on my window. The moon was visible just beyond the bare trees, and I stared at it.
There was no rain outside, but it was coming. It’d be more than a downpour. A hurricane was approaching the plantation, and it was going to rip through my world. I didn’t welcome it, but I also wasn’t running away. I was going to board up my windows and wait it out.
Sleep took me before I made it out of my clothes, restless energy keeping me bound to wakefulness just beyond the world of dreams.
A pounding hammer woke me, the sound pasting a smile on my face. It pulled me out of the bed and into the shower before guiding me downstairs. My feet found Uncle Gregor, Heathcliff standing next to him on the landing, staring at a pail of fresh paint the color of a robin’s egg. The blue reminded me of the sky on a sunny, cloudless day. It was a happy color, full of possibility.
“Well, what do you think?” my uncle asked me.
Glancing up, I found them perusing me. Gregor’s gaze was filled with curiosity while Heathcliff’s was hungry, his intense eyes trailing down my damp hair to the oversized navy blue, button up shirt I wore.
“It’s perfect,” I murmured.
Gregor sipped on a cup of coffee, his gaze falling to the paint. “Well, then. Perfect timing, I suppose. There’s no rain in the forecast for over a week.”
“It’s waiting.” The words escaped before I’d realized I’d said them. My mouth was often as bad as my feet, saying things I’d never meant to say.
Heathcliff’s eyes shot to my face, searching it.
Clearing my throat, I mumbled, “The paint is waiting, I meant. Maybe we should start?”
“We?” Heathcliff asked.
I smiled. “Did you think you’d get to have all of the fun?”
Snorting, he lifted the pail. “Maybe I’ve been looking at painting all wrong. Fun isn’t exactly the word I would have used.”
Gregor laughed. “I’ll stick to coffee, paperwork, and bird watching.” He glanced at me before letting his gaze slide to Heathcliff. “I invited your Mams out to the house this afternoon. She and I have a lot of catching up to do, I think.”
“And she said she’d come?” Heathcliff asked, his startled words surprising us. He shifted uneasily. “I mean, she doesn’t leave home very often these days.”
Gregor winked. “It’s strange how life works, son. We tend to put things off when we know we have plenty of time to do them. Then when there isn’t much time left, we start to realize what we should have already done.”
He left us with those words, whistling as he ambled toward his office.
For a moment, I stared at Heathcliff before letting my gaze fall to the pail in his hand. “The house won’t paint itself.”
Heathcliff watched my uncle’s disappearing figure. “Is he always so perceptive?”
“Eerily so,” I laughed. “Which begs the question, what haven’t you done that you should have done?”
His gaze found my face. “Go to the prom with me.”
The demand was so unexpected I leaned against the foyer wall, my eyes widening. “What?”
“The prom,” Heathcliff repeated. “I’d really like it if you came with me.”
My head spun. “Are you serious?”
Turning toward the door, he smiled and gestured for me to follow. “Were you not expecting to go?”
“More like I wasn’t expecting you to want to.”
Our feet took us outside, to his waiting pickup truck, the bed full of painting supplies and surface preparation tools.
“I hadn’t planned to,” he said. “Until now.” Putting the paint in the truck, he handed me a scraper and a dust mask while he grabbed an arm load of other supplies. “Seems like an appropriate way to end the year.”
My shoes followed his, my eyes on his back. “A proper way to say good-bye, you mean?” He slowed, but I kept walking.
“Hawthorne—”
Pausing next to the house, I glanced back at him. “It’s a good way to say good-bye.” I smiled. “I’d love to go.”
His gaze searched mine, his eyes narrowing. “Really?”
“It’ll be a great farewell,” I emphasized.
“Hawthorne—”
“This house really won’t paint itself.”
I was still smiling, and he took his cue from me, his lips curling upward. “You’re a strange one,” he murmured. Placing his stuff on the ground, he looked up at the house, his gaze searching the exterior before falling back to me. “I didn’t expect you, you know.” His hands found his blue jean pockets. “I mean, I did and I didn’t. I noticed you watching my shoes this year, and it fascinated me. I’ll admit I tested it, moving my feet closer to see what you’d do. You never shied away, but you also never spoke.”
“Until Sylvia Plath,” I supplied.
He chuckled. “Damn poetry. You totally walked into that trap, you know.”
We both stared at the house.
“I didn’t expect you,” he repeated.
Something about his words made my pulse quicken. “I’m guessing no one’s ever told you that some moments don’t have to last forever.” I felt his gaze on me, but I didn’t look at him. “There’s a long road ahead of us in life, Heathcliff. This is just a moment.”
He snorted. “Heathcliff … I’m never going to live that name down.” He stepped closer but didn’t touch me. “What kind of moment are you looking for? I’m only asking because I’m worried I’m going to disappoint.”
“What …” My gaze moved over his face, his expression startling me, and I gasped. “You’re afraid.”
His eyes fell away from me. “Now look who’s being funny.”
“No,” I accused. “You are.” My arm shot out, my hand finding his arm. “You’re afraid I’m going to ask you to stay.”
His jaw tensed. “No, I’m afraid I’m going to feel like I have to.”
My arm dropped back to my side. “Do you want to know what made me look at your face?” I asked. “I finally really looked at you because you told me you wanted to leave this town, and you were honest about it. I didn’t look because I expected you to remain here. I looked because you weren’t afraid to tell me you were going. I’m not looking for a forever moment.”
He leaned forward, his face peering down into mine. “Then what—”
“I want to make love to you,” I blurted, my cheeks reddening.
Heathcliff froze, his lips parting as he stared. “Did you really just say that because I’m pretty sure you did, but I’m also pretty sure I might still be having the same vivid dream that woke me up this morning? Only maybe I didn’t wake up because I’m pretty sure I just heard you say—”
“Make love to me,” I insisted, swallowing hard.
I was being forward, and I knew it. Uncle Gregor’s illness was changing me. In some ways, it was an oddly good change. In others, I was simply confused, afraid that life would end before I even had a chance to live it. I felt desperate to do, feel, and see it all. It helped that Heathcliff’s words confirmed he thought about me the same way I did him when we weren’t together.
Heathcliff’s hand lifted, his fingers running through his hair, mussing it. “You really said it.” He studied me, his gaze searching mine. “That’s an awful big leap from marked shoes, poetry, hand holding, and dry humping against a pickup. And yeah, I know I’m being crude, but you do realize you’re asking to have sex with me?”
His hand found his hair again, and I found myself grinning. “I’m pretty sure that’s what I said.”
He laughed, amusement mixed with disbelief. “You’re like this really strange painting. One of those crazy abstract things where someone just threw paint at the canvas using every color known to man. Because there’s no way to pin down just one color, no way to pin
you down. Stare at you too long and a man could lose his mind.”
Swallowing, I whispered, “Yet you keep coming back.”
“My mind’s already gone.”
I was lost in a stormy sea of words where nothing I said next would be right or wrong. It would just be. “I guess I need you right now.”
He ran his hand through his hair yet again, his gaze skirting the house before returning to mine.
I knew what he was thinking—my uncle, the cancer, the impending summer and fall—and I leaned forward. “If it was any other girl standing here in any other situation, would you stop and think about this?”
“No,” he answered honestly.
“Then don’t think.”
Leaning down, I picked up some sandpaper and handed it to him.
He accepted it. “You mention sex, and then ask me not to think.” He laughed. “Hawthorne, you’re going to be awful lucky if I can remember you have a face now.” To prove his point, his gaze fell to my chest.
“Mams will be here soon.”
Heathcliff groaned. “And with those words, I’m reminded of my humanity.”
Together, we approached the wall, the sound of scraping and sanding replacing chaotic thoughts and racing heartbeats, the work becoming more tiring as time passed. The monotonous movements grew into a chant in my head, the mantra working to convince me that I wasn’t being foolish.
Hours had passed, and my muscles were cramping when Heathcliff climbed down from a ladder he’d pulled from our old shed and paused next to me, his shadow looming over mine.
“Do you want to be with me because of your uncle?” he asked.
Standing slowly, I stared up at him. “It’s because of Sylvia Plath,” I answered. “Because when I look into a mirror one day, I don’t want to remember your shoes in English class and wonder why I wasn’t brave enough to be with the person behind them.” I shrugged. “When you leave, do you honestly want to look into a mirror and ask yourself the same thing?”
He frowned. “What makes you think I would?”