Leaning down, I picked up some sandpaper and handed it to him.
He accepted it. “You mention sex, and then ask me not to think.” He laughed. “Hawthorne, you’re going to be awful lucky if I can remember you have a face now.” To prove his point, his gaze fell to my chest.
“Mams will be here soon.”
Heathcliff groaned. “And with those words, I’m reminded of my humanity.”
Together, we approached the wall, the sound of scraping and sanding replacing chaotic thoughts and racing heartbeats, the work becoming more tiring as time passed. The monotonous movements grew into a chant in my head, the mantra working to convince me that I wasn’t being foolish.
Hours had passed, and my muscles were cramping when Heathcliff climbed down from a ladder he’d pulled from our old shed and paused next to me, his shadow looming over mine.
“Do you want to be with me because of your uncle?” he asked.
Standing slowly, I stared up at him. “It’s because of Sylvia Plath,” I answered. “Because when I look into a mirror one day, I don’t want to remember your shoes in English class and wonder why I wasn’t brave enough to be with the person behind them.” I shrugged. “When you leave, do you honestly want to look into a mirror and ask yourself the same thing?”
He frowned. “What makes you think I would?”
Smiling, I picked up the supplies we’d finished with and walked toward his truck. The sound of tires on gravel met our ears, a car materializing on the drive.
My gaze went over my shoulder. “Because you came back. Because you dropped me off after the party at the creek, looked me in the eyes, promised you’d be back, and then you came. Life can be that simple. If you let it.”
He scowled at me, his gaze going to the drive. “I’d throttle you if I could,” he groused. “Mams is about to climb out of her car, and I’m too busy wondering about things I shouldn’t be wondering about when my grandmother is present.”
“The prom?” I asked.
He threw me a look, and I chuckled.
“I’m losing my mind,” he mumbled.
“Better than your heart, right?” I asked.
Rolling the sleeves up on his work shirt, he glanced at me. “Yeah … maybe.”
The pause in his words said it all. The pause made all the difference. The pause gave my shoes wings.
Chapter 10
“You’ve got a right nice place here, Gregor. It’s a shame you’ve let it rot into this bag o’ bones,” Mams groused as she exited my uncle’s office.
Heathcliff and I stood waiting in the foyer? the painting temporarily trumped by curiosity.
Gregor laughed, his spectacled gaze flicking to mine. “Guess with just the two of us here, we didn’t need much.”
Mams glanced up, her aged face lifting toward the light. Her lined skin had a decidedly yellow hue to it. Her steps were slow, but she didn’t falter.
Her sharp gaze passed between Heathcliff and me before settling on her grandson. “There a reason you still hangin’ around here, boy?”
Heathcliff’s hands went to his blue jean pockets. “I thought maybe I’d follow you home.”
“Oh, I know that tone.” She laughed. “You’re upset with me for gallivantin’ around town in my car. Not supposed to drive, the doctors say.” She wagged her finger at him. “I’ve got a little bit more time left in me, Max my boy.”
Heathcliff’s brows rose. “I think I’ll follow just the same.”
Mams approached us, Gregor on her heels, her short stature making her more intimidating rather than less. “It’s too pretty a day to leave just yet.” She glanced over her shoulder at Gregor. “Got some sweet iced tea in this place? Or have you turned into a barbarian?”
He chuckled and nodded at me. “Hawthorne’s the brilliant one in the kitchen. I just live here.”
Mams’ gaze passed to me.
“There’s some in the fridge,” I replied, ducking my head.
“Well, what are you waitin’ for?” She waved her hand. “Go and fetch it, girl. Bring it outside. A little January chill and sunshine ain’t never hurt anyone.”
She led the way to the door, the guys following, Heathcliff’s sympathetic gaze finding mine over his shoulder. Mams had a domineering kind of personality no one argued with.
My lips formed a smile, a small laugh escaping me. Truth be told, I admired the way she waltzed into an area, commanded it, and made it hers.
Rushing into the kitchen, I collected four glasses of sweet tea and ice on a tray before making my way into the yard. A makeshift picnic area had been cleared on the lawn, an old mildewed chair from the porch pulled out into the sun for Mams. She perched on it, her back ramrod straight, her gaze on my uncle where he lounged against a tree in the shade.
“Sun’s good for you in short stretches, you know,” Mams admonished.
My uncle nodded at her. “That it is, Mams. That it is.”