Uncle Gregor pulled me away from him again, his eyes searching mine. “Let’s make something quick to eat,” he suggested. “There’s a lot of stories to tell.”
I made us sandwiches after that, a peanut butter and jelly with mayonnaise for me and a ham and cheese with mustard and potato chips for him, the chips crushed between the bread. It’s funny, actually, that I remember that. For hours, he told me stories, and I do remember them. All of them, but what I remember most was his face, the way his eyes lit up at some and darkened with others. Outside, the sun faded, setting below the trees, turning the limbs into silent, spooky sentinels. A chilly wind pushed against the kitchen’s dark panes, the breeze lifting loose tin on the roof. It knocked against the ceiling as if it sought entrance. Maybe it was weeping, too.
Afterwards, when talking became too much for Gregor, when the fatigue settled in, he took himself off to bed. I remained, my hands clutching a mug of coffee. It was the chicory kind. I hated the taste of chicory, but I enjoyed the scent, the reminder that my uncle was still here.
Staring out the window, I realized something. If I’d had a pickup truck right then, I would have wanted to drive. All we had was my uncle’s old car, and I didn’t trust it not to break down in the dark. And yet, my mind drove beyond the house. My head was suddenly inside a sunlit meadow, winter wind chapping my cheeks as I grinded Heathcliff’s gears, the tires rushing over grass, timber rattling in the bed.
It seemed wrong that my heart was yearning for love while grieving a loss it feared.
I was in my bedroom later that night when my gaze slid to my bookshelf, my eyes widening, my body shooting upright as I realized there was a book missing. Where my tattered copy of Wuthering Heights had once sat was an empty space, the small hole gawking at me.
Heathcliff had stolen Heathcliff. The irony made me smile. Maybe my uncle was right. It was time for me to spread my broken wings, to let in the fear and the possibility of heartache. My heart knew what it meant to be broken. It wasn’t breaking my heart I was afraid of. It was healing.
Chapter 6
Another day at school, another last period English class full of markers and sneakers.
“Plans today?” his shoe asked.
“No,” mine answered.
“Dinner? My house?”
I hesitated, my thoughts on Uncle Gregor, but there was prepared food in the freezer for unexpected things like this, and I answered with, “Okay.”
The bell rang, and Heathcliff followed me out, his shoes next to mine.
“It’s at my house. The dinner, that is. It’s kind of a special one. It’s for Mams’ birthday. She’s eighty-eight today,” Heathcliff said.
I paused in the hallway. “Are you sure that I should come? Shouldn’t that just be family?”
“Max!” a female voice shouted.
My gaze flew to the hall, to the small group approaching us. Rebecca Martin, Jessica Reeves, and Brian Henry.
Rebecca’s highlights appeared golden in the dim corridor, her sparkling gaze passing over me before finding Heathcliff’s. “Always in such a rush, Max! Did you hear about the party at the creek this Friday? You should come.”
“You really should,” Brian agreed. “Bring that rusted old heap you call a pickup.” He laughed. “We’re going to do some mud ridin’ before it gets dark.”
“After that, it’s all about the beer,” Jessica giggled.
My gaze remained averted, so that I was part of the group but not the conversation.
“I don’t know,” Heathcliff hedged.
“Oh, come on,” Rebecca exclaimed. “You know you want to! Any chance to show off what that old truck of yours can do.” She arched her brows. “There’s a lot of memories in that truck.”
“Dude,” Brian inserted, “she’s right. It’s bring your own beer, but you and your brother never had any trouble getting that.”
“You can even bring your friend here. Hawthorne, right?” Rebecca added.
Brian and Heathcliff’s hands clasped in a brief, familiar shake.
“Yeah,” Heathcliff finally answered. “I’ll see what I’ve got going on.”
“Awesome!” Jessica squealed. “See you two later.” She smiled. “Hope to see you there, Hawthorne.”
They left, leaving Heathcliff and I standing awkwardly, his hands darting to his blue jean pockets.
“Yeah, well,” he cleared his throat, “I really want you to come tonight. Family or no. My Mams really likes your uncle. Talks about him all of the time.”
My silence was long and heavy, the interruption from his friends leaving me uncertain. What was I doing?
“And the party Friday,” he added suddenly. “They’re right. You should come. They’re really okay people just looking to blow off a little steam like the rest of us. And you know,” his feet shifted next to mine, “you should come to it with me. If you want to that is.”
I stared at his shoe. “I’ll come tonight.”
I didn’t mention the party, and he didn’t push it.