“That you’re running,” I whispered.
Releasing me, he opened his door, slid out, and then offered me his hand. “I have no idea how to make them see that I’m not.”
My fingers met his palm, and his hand wrapped around mine as I climbed free, our gazes on the house. My heart clenched. It clenched because I knew exactly how to make them see.
“You have to go in sometime,” I said.
Heathcliff sighed and led me to the door, his fingers clutching mine. Grabbing the doorknob, he paused. “Thank you,” he said suddenly. “Thank you for coming with me. Most of all, thank you for not running away knowing I don’t want to stay. My last girlfriend broke it off as soon as she found out. After a year of dating, she couldn’t get out of the truck fast enough. But considering your history, I wouldn’t have blamed you.”
“Can I be honest?” I asked. For the first time since meeting him, my gaze met his. He’d been candid with me, and that earned a lot.
He sucked in a breath, and my head lowered. Releasing my hand, he gripped my chin, his fingers pushing my face up. “Be honest. Please.”
Frowning, I murmured, “I’ve been left. I don’t fear people leaving. I fear the way they’ll go.”
Pulling away from his touch, I placed my hand over his on the knob and twisted it. The door fell in, revealing a country-inspired entryway. Running deer chased each other on rugs covering a rough hewn floor, and a cushioned rocking chair sat before an antique wash basin and mirror. Stairs to the right of the entry led to the second story with a mudroom tucked next to the stairwell. To my left, a large living space opened up, the kitchen and dining room open to the living area. Other than the wooden entry, the floors were brick.
Heathcliff’s family milled around the house. Some of them reclined on dark leather couches while others watched a football game on ESPN on a wide screen television hanging above a large fireplace. Women laughed and called to each other in the kitchen while two children argued over a light-up yo-yo near the dining room, their mischievous gazes darting to the covered plates on the table .
At the sound of the door, his family froze, their gazes lifting.
“Max! Took you long enough!” a middle-aged, merry woman proclaimed, her cheeks flushed from the warm kitchen. Wiping her hands on an apron around her waist, she moved toward us.
“My mom,” Heathcliff whispered.
For a small-statured woman, she walked fast. “You’re the last one here,” she chided, her gaze sweeping her son’s face before sliding to mine. “Clare Macy,” she breathed. “I’d know that face anywhere.”
She offered me her hand, and I accepted it. “Hawthorne, ma’am. I go by Hawthorne.”
“It’s good to see you again, Hawthorne,” Dusty Vincent greeted. The man I’d met at the hardware store approached us, his large hands in his blue jean pockets. He was freshly shaven, his hair trimmed, a black long sleeve tee with Vincent’s embroidered on a small pocket covering his chest.
“If I’m the last that means we can eat, right?” Heathcliff teased.
His mom swiped his arm playfully. His dad stepped aside so that we could enter, his family’s eyes trailing us. The whispers followed me. “That’s Meg Macy’s daughter, ain’t it?” “Damned if she ain’t a dead ringer of her mother.” “Except that hair. That wild mass definitely came from her daddy.”
Nodding at the two boys still fighting next to the table, Heathcliff said, “My nephews, David and Hayden.”
I smiled, but they barely spared me a glance. The yo-yo definitely trumped the strange girl.
“They’re going to end up strangling each other with that thing,” a woman hissed loudly.
“My aunt,” Heathcliff grimaced.
The rotund, snarling woman grabbed the boys by the ear and escorted them away.
The family filed into the kitchen, each of them taking seats in the dining room. Heathcliff pulled a chair out for me, but before I could sit, blue eyes caught mine from across the table.
“Afraid we don’t see many girls with Max,” a young man laughed. “So you’ll have to excuse the staring.” Standing, he offered me his hand. “I’m Chris, Max’s brother.”
The man was handsome, his tall figure more lithe than muscular, a light goatee covering his chin. He flashed his teeth, and I accepted his hand.
A young woman chuckled from the chair next to him. “Before long, he’ll tell you he’s the better looking, more talented son.” She nodded. “I’m Chris’ wife, Samantha.”
Taking a seat, I smiled at her.
Faces and names blurred together as Heathcliff pointed out an additional three cousins, an uncle, and a great-aunt. But it was the woman at the head of the table who caught my eye. She was staring at me, her gaze boring into my face, her sharp green eyes bold and harsh.
“Clare Macy,” the woman greeted. My lips parted, but her wrinkled hand rose, stopping me. “It’s Clare, girl. That’s all I’ve ever known you as, and it’s what I’ll call you.”