Hawthorne & Heathcliff

Smiling, I replied, “Impressed. Definitely impressed.”

 

Setting a part he’d been fiddling with down on the floor, Heathcliff stood, made his way to the sink on the side of the room, and washed his hands. The citrus scent of the soap mingled with the grease, and I watched his back, my gaze roaming down his muscled arms, the way they flexed as he moved. For some reason, it moved me. It was sexy, too, but I think the reason why Heathcliff’s build really affected me was because he’d earned it. Every muscle, every mark, every blemish, every callous, and every scar had been “built” over time.

 

A laugh escaped me, and Heathcliff turned, leaning his hip against the counter as he dried his hands on a small towel.

 

“What?” he asked. Even though he had no idea what had tickled me, his lips twitched at my amusement.

 

My head shook. “I’m sorry. It’s silly, but,” I smiled, “your body reminds me of a house.”

 

He glanced down at himself, his brows arching. “A house?”

 

“I told you it was silly.”

 

He stared at me, an odd look crossing his features. “No, tell me why,” he said. “I never know what’s going to come out of your head, Hawthorne, and it fascinates me.”

 

My gaze passed over his face before dropping to his chest, his waist, and then his feet. “You’re like the plantation. Like a foundation that’s been built from the inside out. Each layer something different, unique, and beautiful, but in a way that makes you wonder if the house is haunted. Like there’s too much there, too many renovations. Sometimes when I’m sitting in the kitchen, I find myself staring at the walls with this odd feeling … like the house is just going to get up one day and walk away.”

 

Heathcliff stared, letting my words sink in, his gaze roaming over me. “I don’t think people take the time to really look at each other enough,” he said suddenly. “I had a buddy in the military. His grandmother was from Russia, and she’d given him this set of Matryoshka dolls. They’re painted wooden dolls varying in size that fit one inside the other. We gave him such hell over those dolls.” He chuckled. “They represented his family, I think. The outer doll was a woman, a different gender and person revealed as you went through them. The center doll was a baby.” His gaze caught mine, boring into it. “Sometimes, I’d watch him holding that doll, and I’d find myself thinking of you. I’d picture your face on the outer doll, and on the inside there’d be the rest of us.”

 

My breath caught, my heart beating entirely too loud. “You make me feel bigger than my skin when you talk like that,” I breathed. “Like I’m not just sitting here. I’m everywhere.”

 

“Because you are,” he replied.

 

My lungs exhaled, emptying me, and leaving me speechless. For a long moment, we simply stared at each other, the connection finally broken when he moved to the couch bed.

 

Tugging his shirt over his head, he gazed down at me. “Scoot over,” he ordered gently.

 

I moved, making room for him. He unfastened his jeans and removed them, leaving his boxers, before climbing onto the mattress with me. The bed was too small for him, and his feet hung over the end, but he didn’t seem to care. Rolling onto his side, he pulled me against him, his chin resting on the top of my head.

 

“You remind me of Mams,” Heathcliff said. “Always saying things that I feel like it would be wrong to forget.”

 

“She was very special,” I whispered.

 

“Yeah,” he exhaled, his breath ruffling my hair, “she saw me more than anyone else in this family. Well, not really saw me. They all did I guess. She just understood me.”

 

“She saw a lot of your Paps in you,” I said suddenly.

 

Heathcliff’s head rose. “What?”

 

I looked up at him. “I was visiting one summer, and she told me you reminded her of him. That you had a wanderer’s soul, like he did. Like your mind and body was trapped on the earth, but your soul was somewhere else entirely.” I found myself smiling, remembering her words. “She said being in love with your Paps was like being in love with a shooting star. There isn’t a way you can catch one, but you can hold on to it and keep making wishes.”

 

Heathcliff’s forehead creased, his eyes on mine. “And are you?” he asked.

 

“Am I what?”

 

He blinked. “Are you holding on and making wishes?”

 

I froze, my pulse an erratic beat in my neck. “I don’t think anyone ever quits making wishes.”

 

He sighed, tucking me back into his side, his heart against my ear. We didn’t speak. We just laid there. The crickets, the frogs, the droning sound of the window unit air conditioner, and the sound of his heartbeat had almost lulled me to sleep when Heathcliff’s voice rumbled over me.

 

“Just don’t,” he insisted. “Don’t quit making wishes.”

 

There was nothing but sleep after that, his words sending me into a spiral of dreams about shooting stars. In it, I was holding onto one, tears pouring down my cheek as I struggled not to let go. Star light, Star bright, my dream self called out, First star I see tonight …

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 34

R.K. Ryals's books