Heathcliff set his silverware down, the fork clattering against his plate. “It’s Max. I’m the youngest.”
Gregor gestured at me, a piece of meatloaf speared to the end of his utensil. “Did you know my niece calls you Heathcliff?”
My head shot up, my startled gaze flying to my uncle’s face.
“Heathcliff?” Max asked.
I refused to glance in his direction, my gaze remaining on Gregor. His eyes twinkled, his cheeks rosier than I’d seen them in days, and I knew this conversation was filling him with life. It made being angry at him hard.
“Heathcliff?” our guest repeated.
I cleared my throat, my hands falling to a cheap paper towel I’d draped over my legs. “It’s silly.”
“It’s romantic,” Gregor argued.
Heathcliff’s boot slid even closer to mine. “The Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights?”
“You read?” my uncle asked.
“It was for school junior year.” Heathcliff’s throat cleared, the weight of his gaze heavy as it found me again. “Wasn’t Heathcliff cruel and sadistic?”
My eyes slid to his chest. His work shirt was no longer clean, the fabric marred by dust, rust, and oil. “It’s not his character that reminds me of you,” I mumbled. “It’s his ability to defy being understood. No reader comes away from that book feeling the same way about him. It’s always different.”
“And so I’m a brooding, romantic yet sadistic hero?” he asked.
“No,” my eyes found his chin and stopped, “you’re misunderstood.”
Silence reigned, and Heathcliff’s shoe met mine under the table. Boot against boot.
“There’s apple dumplings,” Gregor pointed out, his words breaking through the tension. It was such a relief, I almost laughed.
Eating replaced silence, the rest of the meal moving quickly before Heathcliff stood. He thanked me for the food, thanked Gregor for the hospitality, and then promised he’d return. After the declaration he left, his boots charging out into the clear and darkening Saturday evening. Burgeoning stars winked in the crisp sky, and I watched as his shoes disappeared down the lane.
I’d been sure he wouldn’t return.
I was wrong.
His hammer woke me the next morning, the sound filling the day and the afternoon, replaced occasionally by the whack of an ax or rustling as he pulled up wilted, brown weeds. I kept busy as he worked, my heart wanting to see him, but my mind wanting me to avoid all contact. It seemed wrong to be so conflicted, but isn’t that what romance was? Conflict?
He found me at the end of the day, his shoes stopping just beyond the wooden swing where I sat on the back porch, a food magazine next to me, and an empty notebook in my hand.
“Is Hawthorne really your name?” he asked.
Laying the notebook aside, I pulled my legs up onto the swing and hugged them. I wasn’t very tall, 5’1 exactly, and I rested my chin on my knees. “It’s not my real name, no.”
Heathcliff pushed aside my things and sat, his body causing the swing to shift. “And your real name?”
When I didn’t answer, he used his boots to propel the swing slowly backward and then forward again, the swaying motion creating a strange sense of comfort, as if we were moving in and out of reality.
“Is it like my face?” he asked. “Do I have to earn your name, too?”
My arms tightened on my legs. “It’s Clare.”
He scooted closer to me, his warmth chasing away the encroaching chill as night fought day. “Clare,” he repeated. “I like it.”
“I prefer Hawthorne.”
My hand fell to the swing between us, and one of his hands fell next to mine. Not quite touching but close enough the electricity the proximity created caused my entire body to tingle.
“Because your uncle calls you that?” Heathcliff asked.
His fingers brushed mine, and I swallowed hard, my body squirming with the discomfort. It wasn’t an awful discomfort. It was needy somehow, even desperate.
“It’s the name that defines me, the one that matters,” I whispered.
His palm was covering my hand now, his fingers slowly stroking my fingers. “Clare … Hawthorne … they both suit you.”
Heat erupted from his hand to mine, and the wonderful discomfort grew. Fingers against fingers. Stroke after stroke. The darkening sky was suddenly aflame with color, with bright purple and pinks, the sporadic star breaking through streaks of violet and fuschia. In my head, I heard music.
“Why do you believe I’m misunderstood?” he asked suddenly.
I glanced at our entwined hands. “Because you’ve let yourself become as much a mystery as I have, your silence lighting people’s curiosity. So many girls want you, and so many guys hate you because they want to be wanted the same way you are. They assume things. And then you come here ...”
My words trailed off, but he jumped on them. “To the wild girl’s house,” he finished.
“I’m not wild,” I pointed out crossly.
“Your hair is,” he returned.
My lips twitched. “It’s a curse.”
“It’s sexy as hell.”