“Listen, um...” He sighs and then chuckles. “There’s just no smooth way to say this.”
I’m quiet.
“I don’t regret almost kissing you. I think about it every day. I can’tstopthinking about it. I miss you, Lizzie.”
I hold my breath, watching a tiny hummingbird dip into one of the feeders poking out from the roses. Of course, I sensedthisin his voice last night. But why does he have to tell me now? I’m in the worst place to hear a love confession, particularly from Henry.
“Lizzie?”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I have to. I mean... I know the timing is weird...”
“Weird? More liketerrible. Where can this go? You were hisbest friend, for god’s sake. Philip just died, and the ink on your divorce papers isn’t even dry.”
“Look, I know, Lizzie. But there’s never a good time. You can do with this whatever you want, but I need you to know how I feel.”
“You’re hot-off-the-press divorced. You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m just filling a void for you, Henry. That’s all this is.”
“You really think that’s all you are to me? Something to fill a void?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not like that. And it’s not like we just met. We’ve known each other for years.”
“Which makes it all the weirder.” Tears well up, filming my vision. “Please. Let’s just not talk about this anymore.”
I hang up before he can say anything, and wipe my eyes. I’m angry at him for calling out what’s been between us these past few weeks. My feelings for Henryhavegrown. My fondness for him from all these yearshasbloomed into something different. But any way I look at it, it feels wrong.
Everything feels wrong with Philip gone, and I’m in pieces. I take several deep breaths, determined not to cry, and go back inside to knead bread.
By 9:00 in the evening, I’m readingWuthering Heightson the parlor couch. I’m at the scene of Cathy’s death. Women had such vague causes of death in Victorian literature. There’s Cathy—hysteria and heartbreak; Lily Bart and Emma Bovary—debt and drugs; the Lady of Shalott—isolation and art. I fall asleep wondering how I’ll die.
In this dream, I’m in Yorkshire hiking through Brontë country. It’s cool and windy, and I’m surrounded by the rocky terrain, rippling purple heather, pink foxglove, and sticky thistles.Philip treks on ahead, sun glinting on his green Patagonia windbreaker. I yell for him to wait up, but he keeps going. I stop to catch my breath, pissed and exhausted. Then I remember the rules of these Philip dreams. He’s always just out of my reach, and it’s nothing but yearning. Always.
No.
This time I’ll catch up with him.
There’s nowhere for him to hide here—no crowds, no bushy azalea gardens. I run, yelling his name, keeping my eyes glued on him. But in the way dreams work, space and time don’t make sense. Although I’m sprinting and he’s hiking, he remains ahead of me. Out of reach.
I stop on the trail, teary and exhausted. When I look up, I see we’re approaching Top Withens, the crumbling farmhouse that likely inspired the Earnshaw home inWuthering Heights. Now it’s all stone walls and open space.
“Philip! Wait for me this time!” I yell with Cathy Earnshaw passion.
He pauses at an open door. He turns slightly in my direction, but I only see his silhouette. He can hear me. He knows I’m here. But then he walks inside the ruins.
I run up the hill and into the ruins. “Philip?” I call, looking around me. But it’s all broken rocks and grass and sunlight. He’s nowhere here. And it’s eerily, unnaturally silent. No nesting bird warbles, no wind roars. I stand frozen there, confused and trying to pinpoint a spreading emotion.Fear.Not fear that I’m in danger, like someone is going to attack me. It’s much worse because I don’t think I can fight back against this. I really am alone, and it’s terrifying.
I wake up. In the dark parlor, my phone says it’s 1:30 a.m. I sit up, rub my eyes, rumpling a large eiderdown quilt Ms. Fernsby must have laid across me as I slept.Wuthering Heightslies open onthe floor. Everyone’s asleep. Heathcliff. Ms. Fernsby. Lucy sleeps in her cozy hearth bed.
I might be awake, but the fear from the dream continues. I feel the weight of my separation from Philip. I’m living a life I didn’t want to live. If Philip could see me now, he’d be ashamed of me—having a nervous breakdown in class, whisking Heathcliff away to this fairy-tale little row house in London. Attending séances, wearing and carrying pieces ofhim.
Who am I?
In spite of the early hour, stray cars still pass on the street. I see the glare of headlights through the curtain slits, hear the soft braking of a car and men’s voices.
Someone knocks at the door.
