His words startled me. “That’s a new way of putting it.”
“It’s the truth,” he replied. He scooted closer, his hand tightening on mine. “Tell me, girl with the wild hair, what would you do if this Heathcliff wanted to know things about you?”
My chest rose and fell, my heart thudding. “Depends on what you want to know.”
He leaned so close, his mouth brushed my ear. “Everything.”
I gasped, the sound lost to the creaking swing chains. “You can’t come back!”
Startled, he leaned away. “Give me a good reason why.”
“Because this isn’t a good time.”
“Is there ever a good time for anything?”
I tugged my hand away from his. “My uncle—”
“Is dying,” Heathcliff said abruptly.
I froze, my throat constricting. “H-how do you know that?”
“Because he’s been going to the same treatment center as my grandmother,” he answered. “They’ve been talking ...”
My head filled with noise, my heart a puddle in my chest. My uncle, my father, was dying. He was dying, and I couldn’t take the pain.
“Hawthorne,” Heathcliff whispered, “you need a friend.”
I stared at the night’s first stars, as if their twilight-dimmed glow would reveal something to me, give me answers to the universe I didn’t understand. My world had been so small up until now, so small and yet so painfully safe, too.
“Did you only come here because you think I need a shoulder to cry on?” I breathed.
Heathcliff sat back against the swing, the accompanying creak loud. “I only found out about your uncle last night from Mams, my grandmother. I came here because I’m interested. I’m staying because I’m interested. I’m offering you comfort because I care, because it wouldn’t hurt to have a friend of my own who’s going through it, too.”
My gaze traveled to his profile, not quite reaching his face but coming close. “What’s she ...” Swallowing, I left the question unasked, but he knew.
“Cirrhosis,” he answered, and then he laughed, as if the amusement would chase away the grief. “Too much of her homemade tonic, the doctor says.”
Maybe I should have laughed the same way he had, but I didn’t. Instead, I reached once more for his hand, my fingers entwining with his, and I said the scariest words I’d ever uttered. “I could use a friend.”
There’d been no conversation after that, only creaking swing chains and wild splashes of color amongst leafless trees as the sun set. Shoes and fingers skirted each other.
The sky was clear. There was no rain.
Chapter 4
It’s odd how life works, how when we tell our story, its told in large, dramatic pieces. There are no small moments because there doesn’t seem enough time for the small moments. We don’t use our last breaths telling people about the food we ate or the clothes we wore, we talk about what it was like to love, to lose, and to succeed. We talk about the highs and sometimes we talk about the lows. We don’t talk about the between moments.
I fell in love during the between.
The Monday after Heathcliff’s weekend visit, our feet met in last period English class. As soon as his backpack hit the floor, his body sagging into his chair, his tennis shoe slid across the aisle, his foot resting against mine. No one had to step over them. That was the beauty of sitting at the back of the class.
I stared at his shoe, a small laugh escaping when I realized there were words written on it, my gaze darting to his desk to find an orange washable marker dangling from his fingers before returning to his foot. There on the side of his shoe was Got meatloaf?
There was a light clunk on the worn, tile floor, and a blue marker rolled against my desk. Leaning down, I snatched it, my fingers gripping it so hard my knuckles whitened. This was it. Heathcliff had not only found a new way to talk to me, he’d found a way to talk to my fear, my fear of walking away.
There’d been a test after his shoe’s question, another short discussion about poetry and a new required reading book, and finally free time. I’d started working on the mirror assignment then, but first I dropped a sheet of paper, the marker in my hand as I knelt to retrieve it.
My shoe bumped against his shoe as I sat upright, a clumsy, blue cookies instead? written on the side.
It was then I found the words to start Mrs. Callahan’s assignment. Every now and then, words just happen. For me, these words were like a recipe, an odd order that may not make sense at first, but completely works together when it’s finished.
Hawthorne Macy