Hawthorne & Heathcliff

by R. K. Ryals

  His hands hovered over his blue jean pockets as he sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze coming up to meet mine. “I needed the walk.”

  It was well past midnight, but I didn’t point this out.

  Sitting next to him, I glanced at his hands before letting my gaze trail up to his face. He was watching me, his hazel eyes brown in the dim light. I’d switched on a small lamp, and the soft yellow glow made everything softer, more intimate somehow. I knew by the look in Heathcliff’s eyes that there was a lot on his mind.

  “Did you mean what you said today?” he asked. “About … you know?”

  A lump formed in my throat. “Why? Do you mean now?”

  “God, I don’t know.” The words fell from his mouth, his gaze sharp and uneasy. “Do you have any experience?”

  “No.” It seemed counterproductive to lie and say I did.

  “I should be sticking with beers and racing my truck.” He was speaking to himself, the mumbled words tumbling forth unchecked.

  My brows rose. “Is that what you did? Before you came here, I mean?”

  “Not really ... well, sometimes. With a few people from school. We’ve got bets run, and a makeshift track past Hazard Hill.”

  “Oh,” I managed, deflated. “Do you run the Hill?”

  Heathcliff snorted. “Not since they shut it down after the last accident there.”

  My chin fell, my gaze falling to my lap. “You don’t have to be here.”

  The bed dipped as he shifted, my hip falling against his. “Yeah, I do. I can drive that truck all night long, throw back the beers with Brian and Marshall, and still not feel the understanding I do here. Rough rides are smoother when you’ve got a passenger who understands the road.”

  His hand suddenly cupped my face, and my gaze flew to his.

  “Kiss me, Hawthorne,” he demanded.

  Our lips met, moving in a slow dance that was different from the frenzied passion we’d shared at the creek. He was taking his time, his tongue seeking entrance, his mouth exploring mine. My insides turned to liquid, my pulse quickening.

  Pulling back suddenly, he stared at my kiss-swollen mouth. “Are you sure about this?”

  “No,” I exhaled. “Are we supposed to be sure?”

  He smiled. “No.”

  I backed onto the bed, my eyes locked with his. He followed me, his body hovering just above mine, his arms holding him off of the mattress.

  Slowly and efficiently, he began unbuttoning his work shirt with one hand, his other hand keeping him above me. “I’m not going to make love to you tonight,” he said abruptly.

  His words were like a bucket of cold water, dousing the flames he’d ignited. “What?”

  The last button was undone, and the shirt fell open, revealing a lean body and cut abs, his jeans slung low on his hips despite the black belt at his waist. His body was molded by work, the kind of build I knew would grow even broader and muscular as he got older.

  “Not tonight,” he responded. “Not with your uncle downstairs. Not until you’re a little more comfortable.” He rolled to the side and removed his shirt, throwing it on the floor before kicking his shoes off. “Lay with me.”

  With a deep breath, I sprawled out next to him, our heads sharing the same pillow. The large T-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms I’d put on after the game of checkers with Uncle Gregor felt suddenly inadequate.

  Heathcliff’s hand found mine, his fingers lacing through my fingers, his lips sweeping my forehead before trailing down my nose to my mouth.

  “If you ever looked at me once with what I know is in you, I would be your slave,” he recited suddenly.

  A surprised laugh escaped me. “Quoting Bronte?” My amused gaze swept his features. “You don’t have to be Heathcliff, you know.”

  “Oh, I know.” He grinned. “What I’m wondering is why you didn’t highlight that quote in the book? I kind of dig it.”

  “You dig it?” I laughed again.

  His gaze cooled, his sudden serious expression killing the humor, turning it into something else entirely. “I do,” he let slip. “Your eyes keep bringing me back to you. Like two isolated tornadoes waiting to be unleashed.” His gaze searched mine. “The quote makes sense to me.”

  I swallowed hard. “This feels too big somehow.”

  He must have agreed with me because his eyes fell closed before reopening. “I’m leaving, Hawthorne.”

  I grimaced. “You keep telling me that.”

  “I feel like I have to.”

  Pulling my hand free from his, I touched his chest. “You don’t need to stay. I like the idea that there’s more to you than just this town. It’s like I’m touching the wind.”

  “You say that now,” he huffed, frowning. “This is moving too fast, and I can’t think. I don’t want this to go too far only for us … for you to regret it later.”

  It’s amazing how uncomfortable a person can be with another person until they’ve gotten to know each other. If you’d asked me weeks ago if I thought I’d ever hear the brooding guy sitting next to me in class quoting Bronte, I would have said you were crazy. He’d chosen me to open up to, and now he was afraid that what he wanted to do in the future was going to push me away. Honestly, I didn’t want to let go of this feeling. I hated the idea that he was leaving, but I hated the thought of not feeling this way even more.

  “We’re a lot alike, you and me,” I said. My hand came up to smooth the furrows between his brows. “Maybe we chose a bad time to do this considering what our wants for the future are, but the truth is, we’re here. Now. The later will come. You don’t need to stay.”

  His hand captured mine, his fingers trailing down my arm before skipping to my waist. There, he gripped the hem of my shirt, pulling it up to expose the plain beige bra I wore beneath.

  Inhaling sharply, I rose, letting him remove the shirt. The garment met his on the floor, the room’s chill hitting my bared flesh. Goosebumps dotted my skin.

  “I thought—” I began.

  His mouth cut off my words, his lips slanting over mine, his fingers playing with my ribs before his hand rested against my back, splayed just beneath my bra straps.

  “We’re not,” he murmured against my lips.

  We rolled, his chest pressing against mine, our mouths dancing. His weight should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. It felt safe.

  After a moment, his lips pulled away. “Shit,” he muttered, his forehead falling against mine.

  Inhaling sharply, he rolled us again. He landed on his side and pulled me against him, moving so that my back rested against his chest, his arm falling over my hip.

  He played with the waistband on my pajama bottoms. “I start some work on the Parker farm next week. They’re building a new barn before spring gets here. It’s going to make it hard to come out in the afternoons.”

  I gasped as his fingers ran along my skin. “That sounds promising.”

  “I’ve been saving up for later,” he replied. “For after graduation.” He paused. “Will you be okay? With your uncle and all?”

  I smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

  His fingers dipped beneath my waistband, gripping the material. “I spent more time with my grandmother today than I think I’ve spent with her since I was a kid. She’s more fun than I remember.”

  “She’s definitely one of a kind,” I offered.

  He chuckled. “So is your uncle. You’re lucky to have him, Hawthorne.”

  My heart sank, reality crashing down on me. “I am.” My breath caught, tears choking me. “I’m afraid of watching him die. I’m afraid I won’t be strong enough to let go.”

  Heathcliff froze. “I don’t think you’re meant to be strong in that kind of situation. I think you’re just supposed to be there.”

  “Maybe.”

  Releasing my pants, he touched my bare stomach. “My grandmother told me today that the only thing she wants when her time comes is a quick good-bye, a hug, and a smile. Even if there are tears. Because she
doesn’t want to be sent off with a frown.”

  Smiling softly, I said, “I like your grandmother. I like her honesty.”

  Heathcliff’s gentle fingers spread across my skin, his palm over my belly button. “She likes you, too. That’s saying a lot.” His hand continued to wander. “I want to come back,” he whispered against my ear. “At night when I’m done with work. Here. I can park in the fields and walk the rest of the way.”

  My breath caught, my mind racing. “Won’t your family find out?”

  He leaned closer. “Just tell me you want me to come, and I’ll figure out the rest.”

  There was silence, our breathing loud. After learning of Uncle Gregor’s illness, the dark had become a scary, lonely place full of heartache. I’d begun dreading going to bed. I’d begun dreading being alone. He was offering to fill that void. I was taking a chance if I said yes.

  “I want you to come,” fell from my lips, rushed and low.

  He relaxed behind me, all of the tension leaving his body. Until that moment, until his relieved breath, I hadn’t realized how much he’d needed me to say yes.

  Chapter 12

  The morning brought no Heathcliff, his missing truck a stark reminder that he’d been in my house, my bed, and—I was beginning to suspect—my heart.

  A hasty shower and a quick change, and I was downstairs, my hands hugging a hot mug of cream-filled coffee. Uncle Gregor joined me, his gaze on the yard beyond our kitchen window.

  “Max was here early, I take it?” he asked.

  The mug hid my expression as I sipped my coffee. “Looks like it.”

  “Mmmm,” my uncle mumbled. He took his own sip of coffee. “Do me a favor, Hawthorne. If you’re going to let him stay, at least let him join us for supper occasionally. Don’t suppose he’s any good at checkers?”

  My gaze shot to his. “What?”

  “I’m not sleeping well these days.” He smiled, the grin quickly followed by a grimace. “The pain is worse at night.” He glanced at me. “I might have seen more than one pair of feet disappearing up the stairs last night.”

  The next swallow I took was too large and too hot, but the burn felt good. “You know, you make it awful hard to be … I don’t know … a teenager!”

  He chuckled. “That’s the point, dear Hawthorne.”

  “You really aren’t angry?” I stared. “No lectures? No plans to buy me a chastity belt?”

  Uncle Gregor choked on his coffee. “A chastity belt?” Patting his chest, he threw me a look as he fought to recover. “We really need to get a TV. I think you may be reading too much.”

  My brows rose. “Seriously, you aren’t angry?”

  He grinned. “Honestly, I think you two are good for each other right now. That doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be careful. I just think people are often brought into our lives for a reason, and I’d rather you have someone you can lean on when I go.”

  His easy manner should have comforted me, but a wave of unexpected anger swept over me instead, cross words tumbling out of my mouth. “How can you be so nonchalant about it all? You’re dying! Shouldn’t you be angry! Something! Anything!”

  My tirade surprised me, and I froze, the words shocking me, my heart swirling with emotions.

  Uncle Gregor’s mug paused halfway to his mouth. “Angry,” he said slowly, his eyes falling to his coffee. “I can’t allow myself to be angry, Hawthorne. Or sad.”

  “Why?”

  He sighed. “Because I’m afraid if I get angry, I won’t be able to get out of that place.”

  Tears trekked down my cheeks. “I’ll be angry for you.” The whispered words were broken by sobs.

  I hated myself for the tears, hated myself for the anger. I didn’t want to be that person, the one who broke down when she needed to stay strong. The one who didn’t even know she was angry in the first place, the one who exploded in moments when she shouldn’t.

  My body shook, so I set the coffee mug down, my fingers trembling.

  Uncle Gregor’s hand found my back. “Do you think I haven’t railed? Do you think I haven’t yelled at the skies, haven’t cried and asked myself why?”

  My tears came harder. “You should have told me sooner.”

  “And there’s the crux of it,” Uncle Gregor whispered. “That’s what you’re really angry at, Hawthorne. Not the illness. You’re mad at me because I haven’t let you carry it with me, but I didn’t want you to stop living.”

  I couldn’t remain standing any more. My feet simply couldn’t hold me up. I fell into a chair near the kitchen table, my nose and eyes running, my chest burning with the pain.

  “I would have liked to try.”

  Uncle Gregor sat in the chair across from me. “Look at me and yell. Scream at the top of your lungs. Be angry. Grieve. Do it all, Hawthorne.”

  He was dying, and yet despite the fact that it was his body suffering, his body racked by pain, he was giving me permission to be upset about it.

  “What would that help?” I sniffed.

  “It won’t,” he answered. “It won’t help, but it gives you a voice. That’s the hardest part about all of this. Cancer is a silent enemy, but the people affected don’t have to be quiet.”

  “You are.”

  My hand rested on the table, and his hand came up to cover it. “Because I’m okay living the rest of my life watching you be happy.”

  Some tears can’t be held back. Some tears destroy you. My tears were a flood, never ending. My chest heaved, each intake of breath harder than the last.

  “This is okay,” Uncle Gregor promised. “It’s just hitting you, and that’s okay.”

  My swollen, red eyes met his clear ones. “It’s okay that I yell?”

  He squeezed my hand. “Yell, Hawthorne. Yell loud.”

  I did. I screamed and screamed, the shrill, eerie sound tearing through the empty house. It was a shaky yell full of tears, a rage-filled shriek releasing all of the anger, frustration, and fear I’d been holding in without realizing it. The scream tore me apart.

  A door opened and shut, but my uncle and I didn’t move.

  Pounding feet tore through the house, stopping just short of the kitchen alcove where we sat. “I heard screaming—” Heathcliff’s winded voice began.

  “There’s nothing we can do, is there?” I asked.

  Uncle Gregor shook his head. “Nothing except yell, rail, and shake our fists, releasing all of the anger so that we can move past it to something different.”

  My gaze remained locked on his. There was a whole world in my uncle’s eyes. So many memories etched into his skin. He’d walked me through so much in my life, through so many firsts, through so many emotions. Each tear that trickled down my face was a memory. A tear. Eight years old. It was twilight, and Gregor was teaching me how to catch fireflies in mason jars. A tear. Ten years old. My first ride on an Amtrack train, the world passing the windows in a blur. A tear. Eleven years old. Playing Bingo at the legion with my uncle and his friends. I won twenty dollars and used every bit of it to buy candy on the way home. A tear. Thirteen years old. My first real cookbook, a grocery trip, and my first failed attempt at making a pineapple upside down cake. So many tears … so many memories.

  “Leave your heart open, Hawthorne,” Uncle Gregor murmured, his gaze flicking to a fidgeting Heathcliff behind me.

  “I’m just going to go and paint,” Heathcliff blurted.

  The tears kept coming, trickling one after another as Heathcliff’s feet moved back through the house.

  “Do you still need to scream?” Uncle Gregor asked.

  I shook my head. There was no anger left, only sadness.

  He stood, his tired gaze on my face. “We all say good-bye at some point in our lives, Hawthorne. Let’s laugh, skip, and holler our way to the end.”

  Swiping my cheeks with the back of my hands, I laughed and stood with him. “Okay.”

  He led me through the house, our coffee forgotten, and into the yard beyond. Heathcliff was there, th
e back of his truck open, a paint pail hanging from his hand. He glanced up at us as we joined him, his sympathetic gaze flicking over my face before meeting my uncle’s.

  “You must have left early this morning to be back so soon,” Gregor said.

  Heathcliff faltered, the pail in his hand swinging. “Sir?”

  Uncle Gregor chuckled. “Come in for supper and a game of checkers next time. I’ll get Hawthorne to make a cherry pie. You’ve never tasted anything like it, I can promise you that.”

  He walked away then, still chuckling, a murmured, “It’s so easy ruffling those young ones’ feathers these days,” under his breath.

  Heathcliff glanced at me, at my tear-stained, spotty face, and said, “I take it last night isn’t a secret?”

  In response, I grinned. “He’s a perceptive man.”

  His answering smile was quick, the crestfallen expression that followed just as rapid, his sullen gaze searching my face. Stepping forward, he touched my cheek with his free hand. My face felt sore from the tears, my body drained.

  “You okay?” he whispered.

  For some reason, I hated the way I looked after I cried, hated the idea of anyone seeing me that way, and I pulled my face away. “I’m fine.”

  His gaze flickered with something I couldn’t quite catch, but before I could figure it out, he turned and grabbed a couple of paint rollers. “There are brushes back here, too. Want to help?”

  “Yeah.” Work was something I liked doing. Labor of any kind exorcised demons.

  Heathcliff didn’t say anything after that. He simply walked to the house with me on his heels. Occasionally, he glanced at me as we worked, but we didn’t speak. There was nothing except the smell of paint and the sound of our movements.

  The sun was setting, and most of the house was finished when we quit. Heathcliff rolled up the drop sheets he’d laid out when he first arrived, and rinsed off brushes with the water hose coiled up on the side of the house.

  “I’m supposed to help load a few things for the work at the Parker farm this week,” he murmured. “Be back later?”

  The last words came out as a question, and I glanced at him. “Cherry pie and checkers.”