“The town,” I replied, my gaze on my eyes. “They’d look at me and say, ‘she’s just like them’, and that’s the one thing I never want to be.”
Heathcliff sat up behind me, the notebook forgotten. “Why do you care? Why not be wild and free. You can be both. Being free spirited doesn’t mean you’re going to leave.”
My gaze found his in the glass, the storm I was fighting so hard to control swirling in my eyes. “Doesn’t it?” He started to reach for me, but I gripped the mirror. “And what do you see? What do you see when you look at yourself?”
His gaze swept from my reflection to his own. “One of the Vincent boys,” he answered. “Tied forever to hardware and gasoline.”
Surprised, I asked, “And you don’t want that?”
“No,” he shook his head, “I mean, yes. I’m proud of it. There was only a hastily constructed shack in the wilderness when my ancestors came here. I’ve been bred on stories about how my family built everything they have out of timber, tools, and sweat. I just want to do something different.”
Realization dawned, and I stared. “You want to leave.”
He glanced at my reflection. “Don’t you? I see it in you, Hawthorne. You’re like a weed in the middle of a field of flowers waiting to be pulled loose.”
My gaze fell. “I’m not my parents.”
His hand slid across the comforter, his fingers tugging on the hem of my shirt. “No, you are you. They’re not allowed to steal that.”
Maybe, once, I wouldn’t have allowed them to take those choices away from me, but now …
“He’s dying,” I breathed. “The paperwork he brought home,” I hiccupped, “they said terminal cancer. Stage four.”
There was sorrow in Heathcliff’s eyes, but there was also something beyond that. “And when he’s gone? Have you thought about that?”
My eyes closed. “I don’t want to think about it.”
Heathcliff’s fingers found my face, turning it. “Look at me,” he whispered. “Really look at me.” My eyes squeezed tight, and he sighed.
Tugging my chin away from his grip, I murmured, “Two days of work, driving a stick shift, and a quick kiss doesn’t earn you that.”
I expected him to get angry, to call me crazy and leave, but he didn’t. His body sank into the mattress, his hand falling to mine on the comforter.
“I’m not going anywhere, Clare,” he said.
“Hawthorne,” I corrected.
“Clare,” he insisted. “It’s too late for me to leave. I’m invested now.”
I laughed, my eyes opening, my gaze on our hands. “You make me sound like a bank account.”
Releasing my hand, he reached over me to grab the mirror, and I glanced into the glass, his gaze finding mine in this alternate reality, in the world of looking glasses. “Maybe it is kind of like that,” he remarked. “I’m investing in you, Clare.”
I cringed when he said my name, but I didn’t look away. “Why?”
“Because that’s what I do,” he stated, and shrugged. “Ask my family. I invest in things, and I keep at it until I wear it down.” He smiled. “My brother found an injured dog once on the side of the road. Everyone, even the vet in town, said he wouldn’t survive. They decided to put him down. But I stole him.”
My eyes grew round. “You took him from the vet?”
He nodded at our reflections.
“And did he?” I asked.
“What?”
“Die?”
Heathcliff’s grin widened. “I nursed him for weeks. Brought him food and water, bathed him, accepted medicine from the same vet I stole him from. My parents didn’t get angry. I think they thought it would teach me something about life and death. That maybe if I saw him pass, I’d learn what it meant to let go.”
“And?” I prompted.
Heathcliff leaned forward behind me, his mouth near my ear. “His name is Rat, and he’s ten-years-old now. Lives with Mams. You can meet him. He’s not as active as he was when I was eight, but he’s a good dog. Loyal.”
Staring, I mumbled, “And they call me the odd one.”
His lips brushed my neck. “I just don’t like giving up on people.”
How my shoe found this boy’s shoe is beyond me. I’d always run away from people, from possible relationships. I’d made it my entire school career avoiding relationships of any kind, romantic or otherwise. Until his shoe met mine in English class.
“I’m not a good investment,” I whispered.
“I beg to differ,” he argued. “I think you may be my best yet.” He leaned away, and I released a pent up breath. “Now, come on, we have an assignment to do.”
In the end, Heathcliff left that night, a sheet of paper dangling from his fingers. I held the other. We’d placed them side by side before he departed, his gaze sliding to my profile while I avoided his. The assignment wasn’t officially over until the end of term. But we had a start.
Hawthorne Macy