“Great,” he replied. “Need a ride home?” My head shook, and he coughed. “Okay, well … pick you up in a few hours?”
He left, and I used the walk home to clear my head, my shoes crackling over brittle leaves and pinecones. The ever present scent of smoke snaked through the air. There was always something burning this time of year, voices rising and tires crunching over gravel. I made it a habit to stay on well-worn paths to avoid hunters.
My uncle was lying on the ground when I stepped into our yard, and I started to rush toward him until I realized his chest was rising and falling, his eyes on something in the trees above him.
His head turned when he heard my shoes. “I could have sworn I saw a new species of bird,” he called out. “Want to join me?”
My mouth twitched. “I’m okay, thanks. I kind of have a dinner date.”
Uncle Gregor sat up, brushing leaves from his shirt. He had a tie around his neck, but it was hanging loose and undone. Dark circles marred his eyes, and I knew his illness was eating away at him. “You remember what we talked about last night right, Hawthorne? Give it a chance.”
Pushing open the door, I paused and turned toward him. “Uncle?”
“Yeah?”
“If you find that bird, name it after me, would you?”
He laughed. “You’ve got it.”
The door shut behind me, my troubled thoughts chasing me to my room, my closet, and my mirror, my reflection peering back at me. I didn’t have much, but I did own a few things that weren’t hand-me-downs, and I pulled on a rose-colored V-neck blouse that offset my wild, strawberry hair.
My fingers touched the glass, sliding down my cheek’s reflection as if it were Heathcliff’s hand instead of mine. Did he think about me like this?
I stepped away from the mirror. This was madness! I felt crazy, my head going around and around in circles but never finding its way to anything sensible. If this was confusion, I’d found it. If it was attraction, then I wasn’t sure I liked it.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stared at the wall, listening as the door opened and closed downstairs, my uncle’s feet carrying him through the house. He was humming an old song, the classic Have a Little Faith in Me, and I grinned. Uncle Gregor had a way of telling me things without ever saying a word.
Outside a truck revved, and I stood, my sweaty palms sliding down the sides of my jeans.
“Hawthorne!” my uncle called.
It was all pretense. He knew and I knew that his playing the protective father was going through the motions for us. Uncle Gregor had always trusted me probably more than he should.
My feet pounded the stairs, my breath coming in pants as I stumbled to a stop at the door. Inhaling, I grabbed the knob, my gaze flying to my uncle. He stood in the hallway, his newspaper tucked beneath his arm, the smell of coffee floating from the kitchen.
“I’m here,” he said.
Those two words were devastating and beautiful. I was living my life in dual emotions. My body felt torn trying to process them all. I had to keep reminding myself that he was here now and that’s what mattered.
Pulling the door open, I murmured, “It’s just dinner.”
Heathcliff was on the walk outside, his shoes headed for the house. I intercepted him, and he paused.
“I could have come to the door,” he said, amused.
“It’s okay.”
Taking my hand, he tugged me toward his truck, the work jacket from before sprawled out across the seat. Taking it, I pushed my arms into the sleeves as I climbed in.
Heathcliff’s door was barely closed when he said, “About school today.” He gripped the steering wheel. “It was kind of awkward after my friends came up, but I just want you to know something.” He looked at me now, but I didn’t meet his eyes. “I know you don’t want to be a part of that scene. I get it, I do, but I don’t want to hide this. I’m interested, okay. I want to know you, Hawthorne. Even if it means taking you out of your comfort zone. I want to know the girl behind the stare.”
My throat worked as I swallowed, my hands clenching the material of his jacket. “I just hope you’re not looking for this really spectacular story. Silence often makes people seem more mysterious than they really are. I’m not really all that mysterious.”
The truck moved, the tires bouncing past the crepe myrtles, my words hanging between us. “No,” he said finally, “you’re not all that mysterious, but you’re a thinker. I like that about you.”
My gaze slid to his profile, to his neck and shoulders, his words making me uncomfortable. “You stole something from me,” I blurted to ease the tension.
He smiled. “You noticed the missing Wuthering Heights.” A chuckle escaped, and he added, “You highlight passages in your books.”