Rebecca’s dramatic flair was rubbing off on me.
The door swung open to reveal a dark, cavernous mouth. Reaching inside, I switched on the light and was rewarded with a yellow glow, my gaze falling over the contents within; the old couch, Heathcliff’s guitar, and his stack of pieced together machinery. There was little dust, and I knew by the faint smell of disinfectant that someone had been inside recently to clean it. The thought made me think of Mams, and my face heated. She wasn’t my grandmother, but she’d become a big influence in my life.
“I miss her already,” Heathcliff’s voice said from behind me.
Startled, I whirled to find him standing just inside the door, the darkening night framing him. He was in a dark cutoff shirt, the tattoos and muscles in his arms moving with him as he gripped the door frame. Outside, crickets sang, the frogs joining in.
“I’ve seen some really terrible things the past few years,” Heathcliff added suddenly, his face falling. “Somehow, I’ve managed not to cry.” He stared at me. “I should have cried when your uncle died, Hawthorne.”
My hand touched my chest, just over my heart. “It was your strength that helped me through.”
He shook his head. “I should have cried, and I’m sorry I didn’t.”
There was something strange about his voice, as if he needed my forgiveness, and I took a step toward him. “It’s … okay.”
He released the frame, his shoulders sagging, and I suddenly realized what he needed, suddenly realized why he’d given me the key.
Closing the distance between us, I grabbed his hand and tugged him into the room. Sitting on the couch, I brought him down next to me.
“You don’t need me to tell you it’s okay to cry, Heathcliff. I’ve done enough of that for both of us the last five years.” My fingers found his chin. “Let it go.”
The first tear that fell from his eyes broke me, the ones that followed rebuilt me. His head fell, his hands gripping my shoulders as he leaned into me. His height made it difficult, but I held him, his tears soaking into my shirt.
He’d needed me for this. He’d needed me. Sometimes that’s more powerful than love. My tears joined his, leaving trails down my cheeks, my fingers sliding through his hair.
“I don’t cry, Hawthorne,” he choked.
My fingers tightened on his head. “Maybe you should. My uncle once told me that tears are like miniature rain storms. That they spring up when your body is so full of emotions it can’t contain them anymore, your eyes the clouds. The rain falls, hard and fast, until it leaves the world, your body new again. Ready for re-growth.”
His body shook, but he didn’t sob, as if crying in silence was vindication enough.
I cradled him. “You can’t be strong,” I whispered, “if you don’t allow yourself to be weak.”
The tears he was shedding weren’t just tears for Mams. These were more, these were years of heartache all rolled into one. Heathcliff was a dam, and his wall had been breached. Lucky for him, I was one damn good swimmer.
For a long time, we simply sat there, his body shaking, the sound of the crickets and frogs beyond a strange sort of orchestra.
When the tears finally ended, Heathcliff sat up, his face turned away. I started to reach for him, but he avoided my touch.
“Do you think I see you differently now?” I asked him. “After the tears, I mean?” He didn’t say anything, and I leaned forward. “Because I do. You, in this moment when you were willing to share with me all of the pain you were feeling, just became a true hero.”
Standing, I started to walk away, but his hand shot out, his fingers circling my wrist.
“Don’t go,” he said.
It was a déjà vu moment. I was suddenly thrown back in time to my uncle’s death when I’d begged Heathcliff to stay. And in that moment, I told him the same thing he’d told me.
“I won’t.”
Chapter 33
For the first time in five years, I spent the night with Heathcliff in the old building in the woods. He did some work on the parts stacked against the wall, and I pulled out the couch, putting new sheets on the thin mattress. It wasn’t a comfortable bed, but that didn’t matter.
Grease and disinfectant. The odor wasn’t necessarily a brilliant one, but it would always remind me of Heathcliff, of the dark streaks of oil on his hands, of the sound of him working.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I watched him.
“You don’t have to stay up,” he said after a while.
“I like watching,” I answered.
He glanced at me, dark circles marring his eyes. “You always did.” He threw me a smile despite his weariness. “I don’t think I ever told you how much that meant. That you came.”
“You did,” I replied. “You may not remember, but you told me.” My gaze fell to his guitar. “Do you still play?” I asked.
His gaze followed mine. “Some. It used to pass a lot of time overseas.”
“I still have the song you left me,” I admitted.
“Really?” he asked. “I’m not sure if I should cringe or be impressed.”