He was standing on a ladder, and I stared at his jeans. “Not much,” I admitted.
He hammered away at something, the sound driving out the need to converse, before remarking, “I haven’t written a word. You have any idea what you’re going to write about?”
My gaze went to the notebook in my hands, at the glaringly empty pages.
More hammering, and Heathcliff climbed off of the ladder, the tool in one hand, the other slapping the side of his leg. “I’m betting most of the papers will be exaggerated descriptions of appearances.” He stooped and attempted to meet my gaze, but I avoided him. “What do you see when you look in a mirror?” he asked.
My fingers pressed against the paper’s blue lines. They were like veins, those lines. Straight, perfect veins waiting for the words that would breathe oxygen into them. “I … devotion.”
Speaking to Heathcliff was constantly surprising me, as if by talking I was learning new things about myself. Maybe I’d been too quiet in the past, too shut away, and the things I was saying now were things Uncle Gregor and I had never thought to discuss.
Heathcliff’s fingers suddenly brushed mine before moving away just as quickly. “Do you know what I see when I see you?” My lips parted, but he didn’t give me a chance to reply. “Strength,” he said, “loneliness, and confidence. That sounds contradictory, I know, but you are a contradiction.”
He stood then, but I surprised myself by reaching out to grasp his wrist. We both froze. “You …” I inhaled. “When I see you, I see a disregard for things. Not for important things, but for things you should probably be interested in.” I should have released him then, but I didn’t.
He didn’t pull away. “And what am I supposed to be interested in?”
My gaze traced a streak of dirt down the side of his jeans, the soil sinking into the fabric. “Parties … girls.”
My fingers released him, but he didn’t move. “Oh, I’m interested in girls. It just happens to be one girl.”
After the statement he could have walked away, but he didn’t. In the end, it was me that left. Standing, I wedged my way past him, my head down, my wild halo of hair hiding my burning face as I moved from the room.
In the hall, I paused, my back going against the wall next to the open door, my heart beating too quickly. Heathcliff moved inside of the library. The ladder snapped shut, his boots pounding over the scarred hardwood floor. There was no carpet in the house’s first story, and the wood made his boots yell, the thud,thud louder than it would be outside or upstairs. My lips curled.
Something fell lightly against the wall behind me, but I didn’t startle because I knew it was Heathcliff, his back resting against the wall that I rested against, the only thing separating us an open door and wall panel.
This time, I was the first to speak. “Why me?”
Heathcliff chuckled. “Why not?”
“You like to fix things?” I asked, changing the subject.
“It’s better than breaking them.”
I swallowed a laugh. “I like to cook.”
It was such a corny thing to say, but I wasn’t a pretentious person. I was too blunt to be flirtatious, and the lack of wit just made my words sound silly.
“I like to eat,” Heathcliff said after a minute.
This time, I didn’t even try to hide my amusement. “Maybe you’d like to stay for supper then?”
As soon as I asked, I wanted to take it back. The question took more from me than he probably realized.
There was a momentary silence. “I’d like that.”
“Okay, then.” Stepping away from the wall, I didn’t glance back as I walked away. If he stayed, he stayed. If he left, he left. It was enough I’d been able to invite him.
My smile followed me through the day and into the kitchen, the room suddenly a hazard it never was before. I second guessed everything, the recipes in my slate blue index card holder, the ingredients, and the time it took to cook. Uncle Gregor came in a few times, his mouth twisting with hidden enjoyment.
“Are you nervous about cooking?” Gregor asked.
I threw him a look. We’d not discussed his illness since Friday afternoon, as if we’d made a silent pact to pretend it didn’t exist. He was tired, his eyes lined with weariness, but he played it off well, and my heart hurt with the deception. He didn’t need me reminding him that he was sick. I’d seen the papers, and I knew what they meant.
“My fingers feel too big suddenly,” I admitted.
His calloused hand picked up a Granny Smith apple. “Apple dumplings for dessert? You can’t go wrong there.”
My gaze found his face. “What am I doing?”
Smiling, he answered, “Flirting, I hope. I like him.”
A lump formed in my throat, and I swallowed past it. “We don’t know him.”