I manage to get my shorts back on, and within minutes we’re headed back to the road.
“You gonna tell your brother what we did in his truck?” I ask.
Heathcliff’s mouth twists in a wry grin. “Nope. Besides, he’s done worse in here.”
“Ew.” I glance around the discolored interior of the cab with fresh understanding. Not like I’ve got room to judge, though, after my own contribution to whatever bodily fluids have stained this vehicle. And honestly I’ve had sex in worse places.
I pull out my phone and my stomach does an unpleasant lurch when I see a text from Dad.You missed church. Again. You better be at prayer meeting tonight.
“Everything okay?” Heathcliff cuts me a sidelong look.
“Yeah.” I lean back against my seat with a sigh. “Just…back to reality, that’s all.”
For some reason, I feel like crying. Not just crying—weeping,in the biblical sense. To me,weepingrepresents a more visceral kind of grief, the voicing of an ache that is soul deep. It’s the thought of being away from Heathcliff, of not havingthisagain—breakfast and conversation, messy sex in an open field, even encounters with strange gods.
“We haven’t really talked about the god thing,” I venture, attempting to rein in that soul-deep sadness.
“What’s there to say?”
“Aren’t you curious as to how Manannán was raised? Why he was there?”
“Guess I just kind of accepted it.” He glances at me again. “You know something?”
“Not much, but yeah. You overhead some of it when we spied on the Lintons, but I think I should fill you in on the rest.” Quickly I tell him about the strangers at Aunt Nellie’s, what they said, and what my dad and Pastor Linton told them. “Doesn’t that freak you out? Or maybe it doesn’t, since your family is all about worshipping the gods and bringing them back.”
“Never saidIwant to raise them,” he mutters.
“Well…do you?”
“The way I figure, it doesn’t much matter who’s in charge. Gods, devils, big-talking men with nuclear weapons at their fingertips—doesn’t really change how I live my life. I’ll keep eating, fucking, shitting, and sleeping all the same. You and me, Cathy, we’re at the bottom of the heap, you know? What happens at the top filters down, sure, but it doesn’t make a huge difference to people like us.”
“The bottom of the heap,” I say quietly. “That’s how you see me? How you see yourself? Don’t you want something more, something better?”
“Sure I do. But I got no ambitions to live in a fancy-ass houseand work a corporate job or some shit. Best I hope for is a truck in my own name, food on the table, beer in my hand, and a decent place I can call home.”
“And that’s all?”
He chuckles. “No. That’s not all. There’s one more thing I need. Otherwise the rest ain’t worth having.”
My skin turns hot. I refuse to ask if it’s me. If I’m theone thing. Because that would be ridiculous. I’m a problem. Having me around would make his life unpredictable, uncomfortable, and depressing.
“I don’t let myself think much about what I want,” I say. “I don’t have a lot of choices. I’m…stuck—stuck with Dad, stuck in Wicklow, stuck with the banshee thing. I used to think a cabin in the mountains would be nice. But that won’t ever happen. No use wishing.”
Heathcliff is quiet for several minutes. Then he says, “I think you gotta have wishes and plans, even if they look small or dumb to other people. Otherwise you might as well curl up and die right now.”
“Is that supposed to be encouraging?”
“It’s not about encouragement,” he replies. “It’s about having a reason to live. And from now on, Earnshaw, you’re my fucking reason.”
My chest swells tight with a joy that hurts, and my eyes sting. “Fine.” I manage to keep my voice steady. “Then you’re mine, too.”
***
His words echo in my head when he drops me off a short distance from my house. I sneak in and shower, but it turns out I didn’t have to be sneaky because Dad isn’t home. He must have gone to Sunday dinner with someone from church.
I’m not really hungry, so I flop onto my bed and check my email.There’s one from Pastor Linton—a church-wide email. Usually I’d delete it immediately, but the subject line catches my attention: “The Power of the Blood.” Pastor Linton’s emails usually have subject lines like “Weekly Update” or “Church Luncheon Info” or “Prayer Request Chain,” stuff like that.
I click on it.
