Heathcliff and I didn’t speak much on the way to my house after the party. I sat next to him, my head on his shoulder. It wasn’t safe, but it didn’t seem to matter. It was as if having distance between us that night would have been wrong.
We had pulled into the drive, and I was climbing free of the pickup when he said, “Hawthorne … wait.”
Pausing, I glanced at him. His brows furrowed, the words he wanted to speak caught somewhere between his head and his mouth. He didn’t need to say them. I could see them in his eyes.
“I’ll … uh … I’ll be around tomorrow,” he promised.
I smiled because I knew he’d return. I’d wake up to the sound of an ax, a drill, or the smell of fresh paint, and it would become one of my new favorite memories, a new favorite sound and a new favorite scent.
Pulling his jacket off, I threw it into the truck. “Be careful.”
The pickup backed out of the drive, his taillights disappearing into the darkness. He’d come back because I’d seen in his eyes what he’d probably seen in mine. He was going to break my heart. Somehow I knew that, and instead of running, I was waiting for the pain.
The thought followed me into the house, tracked me to the kitchen past the faint scent of chicory, and chased me into the living room. Uncle Gregor was sleeping on the couch, the light switched on next to him, a book resting open on the arm. Pulling an old afghan over his prone form, I checked his breathing, my lips brushing his forehead, before moving up the stairs to my room. One quick glance at my flushed cheeks in the mirror on my dresser, and I was lying on the bed, my gaze on my window. The moon was visible just beyond the bare trees, and I stared at it.
There was no rain outside, but it was coming. It’d be more than a downpour. A hurricane was approaching the plantation, and it was going to rip through my world. I didn’t welcome it, but I also wasn’t running away. I was going to board up my windows and wait it out.
Sleep took me before I made it out of my clothes, restless energy keeping me bound to wakefulness just beyond the world of dreams.
A pounding hammer woke me, the sound pasting a smile on my face. It pulled me out of the bed and into the shower before guiding me downstairs. My feet found Uncle Gregor, Heathcliff standing next to him on the landing, staring at a pail of fresh paint the color of a robin’s egg. The blue reminded me of the sky on a sunny, cloudless day. It was a happy color, full of possibility.
“Well, what do you think?” my uncle asked me.
Glancing up, I found them perusing me. Gregor’s gaze was filled with curiosity while Heathcliff’s was hungry, his intense eyes trailing down my damp hair to the oversized navy blue, button up shirt I wore.
“It’s perfect,” I murmured.
Gregor sipped on a cup of coffee, his gaze falling to the paint. “Well, then. Perfect timing, I suppose. There’s no rain in the forecast for over a week.”
“It’s waiting.” The words escaped before I’d realized I’d said them. My mouth was often as bad as my feet, saying things I’d never meant to say.
Heathcliff’s eyes shot to my face, searching it.
Clearing my throat, I mumbled, “The paint is waiting, I meant. Maybe we should start?”
“We?” Heathcliff asked.
I smiled. “Did you think you’d get to have all of the fun?”
Snorting, he lifted the pail. “Maybe I’ve been looking at painting all wrong. Fun isn’t exactly the word I would have used.”
Gregor laughed. “I’ll stick to coffee, paperwork, and bird watching.” He glanced at me before letting his gaze slide to Heathcliff. “I invited your Mams out to the house this afternoon. She and I have a lot of catching up to do, I think.”
“And she said she’d come?” Heathcliff asked, his startled words surprising us. He shifted uneasily. “I mean, she doesn’t leave home very often these days.”
Gregor winked. “It’s strange how life works, son. We tend to put things off when we know we have plenty of time to do them. Then when there isn’t much time left, we start to realize what we should have already done.”
He left us with those words, whistling as he ambled toward his office.
For a moment, I stared at Heathcliff before letting my gaze fall to the pail in his hand. “The house won’t paint itself.”
Heathcliff watched my uncle’s disappearing figure. “Is he always so perceptive?”
“Eerily so,” I laughed. “Which begs the question, what haven’t you done that you should have done?”
His gaze found my face. “Go to the prom with me.”
The demand was so unexpected I leaned against the foyer wall, my eyes widening. “What?”
“The prom,” Heathcliff repeated. “I’d really like it if you came with me.”
My head spun. “Are you serious?”
Turning toward the door, he smiled and gestured for me to follow. “Were you not expecting to go?”
“More like I wasn’t expecting you to want to.”