Two years passed.
In those two years, Rebecca and I had developed a name for ourselves, the business continuing to expand. Rebecca had attempted two more serious relationships but bailed out before it could result in marriage. In the end, she’d started spending more time with the men in her soaps than she did in real life. I would have been worried if her constant soap opera babbling didn’t keep Caffeine’s customers so enthralled. Rebecca was a natural storyteller.
The plantation was rarely empty now. When we weren’t working, there were always visitors; Heathcliff’s family, Mams’ lawyer, women from town, and even Rebecca’s mother, who was trying to repair her relationship with Rebecca despite the distance between her and her daughter.
I’d just finished a long, exhausting morning catering an event, and was parking the van at the plantation when I noticed something unusual on the porch.
Climbing free of the vehicle, I walked cautiously toward the house, my eyes widening. There, hanging from the brass fitting on the light next to the front door was a pair of tennis shoes. I knew these shoes. They were the sneakers Heathcliff had worn when we’d graduated high school, a replica of the keep me ones he’d left behind.
The ones dangling in front of my face now were even more worn than the ones I had upstairs. Scratches, dirt, and oil streaked them, the bottom of one of them starting to come undone at the seams. There was permanent marker etched into the sides. On one shoe was written, Hawthorne. On the other was scrawled, Heathcliff.
“It seemed fitting,” a voice, his voice, called from behind me, “that when I decided to hang up my shoes, that it should be here.”
Slowly, I turned.
“That is,” he continued, “if you have room for me.”
Heathcliff looked no different, other than a tan and a few extra scars, than he’d looked two years before. He leaned against the porch column, his hands tucked into his blue jean pockets. He wore a black T-shirt across his chest, the word Vincent’s etched across the front. I knew by the way it was scripted that this Vincent’s wasn’t related to the hardware store.
His gaze followed mine, and he smiled. “It’s a new business, not quite a year old, but it’s already doing well. I get to do what I love, and I can go to where the jobs are if needed. But,” he pushed himself away from the column, “this weary traveler is ready to come home.”
My gaze fell to his feet. They were bare.
Tears threatening, I breathed, “There’s always room at my table for you.” My eyes traveled back up his body to his face, our eyes catching.
“It’s been a long, rough road, Hawthorne,” he said, his arms opening.
Without a second thought, I rushed into his embrace. “It’s better to travel it with someone who knows the road. Welcome home.”
His arms closed around me, tight and desperate, his relieved sigh fanning my hair. “Home. God, Hawthorne, why did it take me so long?”
I glanced up at him. “You had to do it. For your sake.”
Smiling softly, his face lowered, his whispered, “I love you,” barely escaping his mouth before our lips met.
Behind us, his shoes dangled, moving with the strong afternoon breeze, two words flashing.
Hawthorne and Heathcliff.
About the Author
R.K. Ryals is the author of emotional and gripping young adult and new adult paranormal romance, contemporary romance, and fantasy. With a strong passion for charity and literacy, she works as a full time writer encouraging people to "share the love of reading one book at a time." An avid animal lover and self-proclaimed coffee-holic, R.K. Ryals was born in Jackson, Mississippi and makes her home in the Southern U.S. with her husband, her three daughters, a rescue dog named Oscar the Grouch, A Shitzsu named Tinkerbell, an OCD cat, and a coffee pot she honestly couldn't live without. Should she ever become the owner of a fire-breathing dragon (tame of course), her life would be complete. Visit her at www.authorrkryals.com.