A laugh escaped me, the crisp night air blowing against my cheeks. “And now you’re fishing for compliments. I see how it is.” Pulling his jacket closer around me, I murmured, “It was one of mine, too.”
He grinned, his lips parting, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by my sudden words. “I was ten-years-old, and I wanted to fly. I was obsessed with books about airplanes, and I’d lie for hours in the fields next to the house and stare at the sky. One morning, my uncle woke me up early, babbling something about seeing the world before bundling me up and ushering me out of the house. He had a friend who owned a small private plane, and he’d arranged a flight. It was an amazing experience. We were so high, and I was looking at the world in an entirely new way. Everything below seemed so small, so distant and far away. From that far up, everything seemed so trivial. I wasn’t Hawthorne. I wasn’t wearing a glaring red “A” on my chest that screamed abandonment. I was just me, and I was flying.” My gaze jumped from Heathcliff’s profile to the window. “That night, my uncle took me to a small county fair on the outside of town, and we rode the Ferris wheel at least a dozen times because I didn’t want to get off. I’m not sure if it was because I wanted to see the lights in town or because I wanted to pretend to touch the stars. It was a magical night.”
Heathcliff turned the truck onto a dirt lane, the bumps making the Toyota bounce. “That’s a good memory, Hawthorne.” His hand dropped to the seat between us. “Come sit next to me?”
I scooted to the center of the truck, the feel of his arm as it fell across my shoulders cozy in the dark. Night made everything easier, made things that would seem awkward in daylight less uncomfortable and more certain.
“I like it when the power goes out,” Heathcliff said suddenly. “You know, during bad weather when the wind or lightning knocks out the electricity and plunges everything into darkness.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “My family is so large. There’s always more than just my parents and me at home. We’ve always got cousins, nephews, aunts or uncles staying. There’s so much noise. Sometimes it’s like music, a comfortable sound, the constant laughter, the cheers during a football game or talk about work. But storms are a funny thing. When they knock out the lights, no matter how much noise there is, it’s like everyone just exhales and then there’s silence. Mom lights the candles she keeps around the house, and no one says anything. We just stop and listen to the rain. In those moments, I feel closer to my family than I do when we talk.”
There was silence after he spoke, and somehow I knew he’d never told anyone else that before.
He cleared his throat, lifting his arm from my shoulder long enough to pull the truck over on the side of the lane. There were other pickups, the sound of country music loud through the open windows. Headlights glared onto grass, sand, and dirt before landing on a creek beyond, the beams swallowed by the muddy rushing water. Laughter filled the air, quick shouts and ribald jokes.
Heathcliff glanced down at me. “Is that why your uncle calls you Hawthorne?” he asked abruptly. “Because you have an invisible “A” for abandonment across your chest?”
I sighed. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve never asked him. He reads a lot of classic novels, and I guess I’ve just always assumed … I mean, he has all of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s work, including The Scarlett Letter.”
“I think you should ask him,” Heathcliff said. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think that’s why he calls you that.”
My gaze found his, his hazel eyes black in the darkness. “Maybe I should.”
He smiled, his teeth flashing. “You ready for this?” He nodded at the creek. “Even quiet people fit in here, Hawthorne.”
He pushed open his door and climbed out, his hand finding mine as he assisted me down after him. My shoes had barely hit the sand when Jessica Reeve’s giddy voice washed over us.
“Oh, my God! You came! Look who the cat drug in, Rebecca!” she cried.
Heathcliff’s hand tightened on mine as he tugged me across the sand into the glare of the headlights toward a crackling bonfire, the flames lifting from a large, rusted fire pit. Someone threw a crushed beer can into the blaze and sparks flew.
“Well, I’ll be!” Rebecca Martin called out. She approached us slowly, her gaze raking my form as she paused before Heathcliff. A belted tunic hugged her figure, the true color lost to the bright lights. Tan leggings paired with cowgirl boots adorned her legs, and a longneck beer bottle dangled from her manicured nails. “Max Vincent, I’ve been inviting you to these things all year, and this is the first time you’ve deigned to join us. Makes me miss last year when you were a regular.”
Heathcliff smiled. “I’ve been busier this year.”
“So I’ve heard,” she replied. “How’s Mams?”
“Good. For now.”