Chapter 9
Sawyer
“No, no, no! Cut!”
Bruce heaves himself up from his seat in the middle of the theater and stalks down the aisle toward the stage, his index finger raised and fanning back and forth in disapproval.
“How many times do I need to remind you two that there might be children in the audience?”
Ivy, who’s lying on her death bed as Catherine, stifles a giggle. I try to remain stoic as Heathcliff, nudging her in the shoulder to stop laughing.
“Your fault,” I whisper.
“ This time,” she answers back.
We’re supposed to kiss passionately, but without tongue. Every so often, however, one of us gets so into the moment, a tongue gets away from us and causes havoc. Then Bruce jumps up and starts yelling.
Bruce climbs the two steps and crosses over to us, looking annoyed. He stands over the death bed with his hands on his hips.
“You’re not fooling anyone, kids. I can see that you two are madly in love with each other,” he says, “and while I celebrate your love, and I can’t deny that it’s given your performances a magical oomph, I don’t want to be run out of town for staging softcore porn on the Fraternal Order of Eagles’ stage!” He eyeballs me, then Ivy. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” we answer in tandem, trying to look sorry.
“Do you want me to be run out of town?”
“No, sir.” We really don’t.
“Do you have the self-control to stop tongue fucking each other on this stage?”
No, sir. We really don’t.
Ivy’s eyes bulge out of her head, her cheeks go crimson, and she starts laughing again.
“I mean it, Miss Caswell. Don’t make me replace you with Vera, now.”
His nonsensical threat about replacing Ivy with a sixty-something-year-old woman makes Ivy’s shoulders rattle with mirth. Bruce turns around and struts off the stage like a moody rooster. I slide my eyes back to Ivy, who lies on her back in an old-fashioned nightgown, trying her best to stop. But once you get on a laughing jag, you can’t stop sometimes, and worse, that kind of laughter is contagious. After trying to swallow my own, it bursts from my lips, ringing through the theater with hers.
“Oh, fuck it!” yells Bruce, throwing up his hands and gathering his papers together. “Rehearsal’s over. Lock up on the way out.” He waggles his finger at us again. “And come back tomorrow ready to work. The show’s on Friday, for chrissakes!”
“Bruce, no! We’re sorry!” Ivy sits up, instantly remorseful. “We just got the giggles. We can do it properly.”
“ Do it. Heh, heh,” I mutter under my breath, like Beavis from the old MTV show.
Ivy totally loses it, chortling as she falls back down on the bed. Meanwhile, Bruce marches out of the theater, slamming the door with gusto as he leaves.
“Oh, no,” says Ivy, her chest heaving as I lay down beside her. “He’s really mad.”
Joy suits my girl.
Freedom, too.
Over the last two weeks, we’ve spent every day together. Sometimes it’s a stolen hour in bed at my cabin, and sometimes it’s a bite to eat after she finishes work. I hold her hand as we walk in the snowy woods before rehearsal and put my arm around her when we watch TV with her cousins. I love it all. I’m grateful for every moment I get to spend with her, and although we haven’t formally discussed “the future” yet, I’m hopeful that there’s a place in hers for me.
“Bruce? Aw. He’ll get over it.” I roll onto my side, facing her. “Hey, Ivy.”
“Hey, Sawyer,” she says, rolling onto her side and grinning at me.
“Can I tongue fuck you some more?”
“Sure,” she says, nuzzling my nose with hers, “but only if you fuck me for real after.”
I raise my eyebrows, instantly turned on by her suggestion.
“Here?”
“Why not?”
“It’s kind of public,” I say. “Are we sure we’re alone?”
“I think so.” She leans up on her elbow and looks around. “He told everyone to go home, right? Even Aaron, Reeve, and McKenna. He said he wanted a ‘silent space’ to workshop the death scene.”
“Yeah. That’s true,” I say, pulling at the light blue ribbons on the bodice of her nightgown. I untie the bow at her throat, loosening the neck of the fabric so that I can pull it down. Her breasts are bare underneath, creamy with rose-colored nipples that strain and pucker as the cool theater air touches them. “Jesus. You’re not wearing a bra.”
“More authentic that way,” she says with a sexy smile.
I cup the swell of her breast in my palm, plumping it lightly so my lips can cover the nipple completely. I lave it with my tongue, sucking it gently between my lips before skimming my lips to the right and kissing its twin. Ivy’s hands plunge into my hair, her fingernails razing my skull. She murmurs and whimpers her pleasure. Her breasts are sensitive, which I love.
With her breath coming faster, in little pants, I slide down her chest, pushing the nightgown down with me. I pepper kisses on her warm, soft belly before peeking up at her.
“You really want to? Here?”
“I really want to. Y-yes.”
I push the nightgown down lower, over her hips, exposing her pussy, and settle myself between her legs. Lifting each thigh in turn, I put her knees on my shoulders and lean into the slick warmth of her sex. Our stage kisses have already made her wet, and she writhes beneath me as I lap at the tight bundle of nerves that stiffens and puckers under my tongue.
I don’t stop as I reach for my breeches, undoing the buttons on either side of my pelvis to open the codpiece. Through the slit in my boxers, I reach for my long and hardened cock. With her legs still thrown over my shoulder, I lean forward and enter her in one smooth thrust.
She cries out, her head thrown back and her eyes closed as I draw away, then drive forward again. With her knees now bent against her breasts, and her legs straight up against my shoulders, I plunge deep with every pump of my hips. Deeper than I’ve ever been before.
In Ivy. In love.
On the stage, the sound is louder than it is in my bed, her cries amplified as they bounce off the wooden stage and echo under the spotlight held steady on our lovemaking. It’s the most erotic experience of my life, and I’m desperate to slow down my orgasm which builds and swirls, faster and huge, inside of me. I want us to come together. I want to remember this moment forever.
“I’m gonna…I’m gonna come,” pants Ivy. “Come with me. Come now, Sawyer!”
Her words are my undoing, and I am helpless to do anything but her bidding. I let myself go, the pulsing of my cock inside of her the best sensation I’ve ever felt in my life. Leaning forward, I cover her mouth with mine, tongue fucking her madly as we orgasm together, a tangle of limbs and bedsheets, of urgency and love.
As the aftershocks make my body shake and shudder, I withdraw from her gently, rolling onto my back and pulling her against my side.
“I love you, Ivy Caswell. Forever,” I promise her through shallow breaths. “There will never be anyone else for me. Just you.”
She rests her head on my shirt, the linen soaked with sweat from such exertion under hot lights. Her body flinches and trembles in the wake of her own orgasm, little quakes and tremors that tell me her body is as satiated as mine.
But I come to realize that she’s also crying, softly weeping as she cuddles against me.
“Are you okay?” I ask her, trying to lean up so I can see her face.
She places her hand flat on my chest to hold me down, to hold me still.
“I’m fine,” she sobs softly. “It’s just so beautiful with you. Every time. And then you say…you say something like that, and I just…I just…”
Too much , I think to myself. She hasn’t even said ‘I love you’ yet, and you’re saying it all the time. It’s too much pressure, too much—
“I love you,” she whispers.
She’s so quiet, I’m not positive I’ve heard her correctly, or imagined what I’ve been longing to hear my whole life. I freeze, holding her against me, not daring to make a sound.
“I love you so much,” she says, her voice stronger and more certain. “I never knew I could feel this much love. For anyone.”
And damn if my eyes don’t fill with tears, too.
I guess that’s what happens when all of your dreams start coming true.
***
After we turn off the lights and lock up the theater, Ivy texts her aunt and uncle that she’s going to stay at my place tonight. I guess they don’t object because she jumps into the passenger seat of the truck and smiles at me.
“We haven’t spent the night together since…”
“That summer,” I say, driving toward Dyea. “Best summer of my life.”
“Worst ending,” she adds.
I shrug. “I get it.”
“Do you?”
“Family can be tough. Your dad’s important to you. You were trying to please him.”
She crosses her legs, shifting away from me slightly.
“I’ve learned some things about my father that are…not good,” she says. “I told you about how he recently cut me off, right? That’s why I got the job at city hall.”
“Yep. You told me.” …and I fucking hate your dad for doing that to you.
“Well,” she continues, “when I broke up with Clark, he told me my father was going to be really pissed about our breakup. Not because he loved Clark or even because he loves me. No. He’d be pissed because some legislation my father wanted passed in Juneau was contingent on my marrying Clark. I didn’t know that. I didn’t know my father was using me for business purposes.”
Anger surges inside of me, but I don’t say anything.
I want her to get everything off her chest, and I know that sitting next to someone you trust in a dark car is one of the easiest ways to bare your soul. You don’t have to look the other person in the eye, but there’s still an intense intimacy to the setting, especially at night.
“Also,” she continues, “I found out on Thanksgiving night that my father was paying for my aunt’s treatment. He sent me a text on Thanksgiving saying we needed to talk, and at first I couldn’t figure out what was left to say…then I realized that he must have one last thing to hold over my head…one last card to play to try to get me back together with Clark. It was my aunt’s treatment. She still needed one more round of chemo, it costs sixteen thousand dollars and isn’t covered by insurance.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, unable to keep the words from bursting out. “Do your aunt and uncle have that kind of money?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Listen,” I say, immediately switching to problem-solving mode. “I’m positive the Stewarts could come up with it. We can loan it—”
She puts her hand on my arm and turns to me, her eyes bright with tears.
“You would do that?”
“Ivy,” I say. “I would literally do anything for you…and anything for the people you love. Of course I’d help you find the money. Of course.”
She sobs, her fingers curling around my arm. She unbuckles her seatbelt, shifts into the middle seat, rebuckles the belt, and puts her head on my shoulder.
“I’m glad I already told you I love you,” she says. “If I told you for the first time now, you might think it had something to do with money.”
“No,” I say. “I think we know each other better than that.”
I wish I could hug her, but we still have five minutes of driving left, and I’m anxious to get her back to my place and hold her all night long.
I clear my throat. “Let me know exactly how much you need, and we’ll—”
“I took care of it,” she says.
“Wait. What? You did? But your dad cut you off. How?”
“Clark was so mad when he broke up with me,” she says, “that when I offered to send my engagement ring back to him, he said it was worthless and told me to throw it in the trash.” She laughs softly. “Suffice it to say that Joel at Aurora Jewelers disagreed with Clark. It wasn’t worthless at all, and he was happy to take ‘such a lovely diamond’ off my hands. And I was happy to fill up Aunt P.’s credit account at the hospital in Anchorage so that her last treatment would be covered.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. I put all the ring money in the account so that if my father withdrew his funding, there’d still be enough to pay for Aunt P.’s last treatment.”
“That ring was the bain of my existence,” I tell her. “At least now I’ll be able to remember it without gagging.”
“I hated it,” she says. “It was too big. Too flashy. Too heavy. I thought of it as my little shackle.”
“Is that how you think of marriage?” I ask her.
“To the wrong person? Yes. Jail would be better. At least some sentences aren’t forever.”
Her words surprise me a little, though I remind myself that she’s only two weeks out of a bad relationship. Further, I make a mental note that, for Ivy, moving us slowly but surely toward a future together will serve me better than trying to rush into or force anything. Yes, I want to marry Ivy Caswell someday, but we’re young. We have plenty of time.
“So, my father won’t get the legislation he wants from the Rupert family,” she says, “but my aunt’s cancer will go into remission. Win-win as far as I’m concerned.”
We pull into the campground and park in front of my cabin, and I cut the engine, unbuckle us both, and pull her into my arms, kissing her soundly.
“Your aunt and uncle are lucky to have you,” I tell her.
“No,” she says. “It’s the other way around. I don’t know who I’d be today without them.”
“Then thank god for Coach and Mrs. C.,” I say, kissing her again.
***
Ivy has to be at work at eight-thirty, so after wake-up sex, she takes a shower. I jump in right after her, bathing quickly so we can share a cup of coffee on the porch before I drive her back to town. But when I come out of the bathroom, she’s not dressed yet. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, half-dressed, frowning at her phone .
No, wait. At my phone.
When she looks up at me, her face is a mixture of confusion and anger. She turns my phone around to show me a photo of Clark Rupert kissing another woman in a Juneau bar. Sliding her finger rapidly, she shows me another, and another, and another.
“What the fuck it this?” she asks, her voice soft, but lethal.
“Why do you have my phone?”
“I was taking a pic of my boobs for you to find later,” she says. “Why do you have pictures of my fiancé with other women?”
“Ex-fiancé,” I remind her.
“Why, Sawyer?”
I sit down beside her, but she moves away from me, and it hurts when she does that. It scares me.
“Quinn has a buddy in Juneau who offered to—”
“Offered?” She nails me with her eyes. “Out of the clear blue sky?”
“Fine. We asked him to keep an eye on Clark.”
“And take pictures of him cheating on me? When was this?”
“Quinn showed me the photos the night of the party at the Parsnip.”
“The night I kissed you.”
I nod. “Yep.”
“You could’ve told me.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You should’ve told me!” she insists.
“We were having fun!” I say. “It would’ve wrecked things!”
“So instead, you lied.”
“I didn’t lie ,” I tell her. “I just kept it to myself.”
“A lie of omission is still a lie,” she says, her face crestfallen. “What if I hadn’t broken up with him that night? When would you have told me?”
“You did!” I say. “You did break up with him! So I decided you didn’t need to know that he’d been cheating on you in Juneau.”
“Knowledge is power, Sawyer. Knowing he was cheating on me would’ve made the breakup easier. I wouldn’t have apologized so much. I could have just blamed it all on him. Part of me felt bad for breaking things off. I let him say really mean, brutal things to me because I felt like I deserved his anger.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, sliding closer to her. Our hips touch, and she doesn’t pull away this time. I’m relieved. “I’m so sorry, and I promise I’ll never keep anything else from you ever again. I promise, Ivy.”
“This hurts my feelings,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I can’t be with someone who lies to me.”
“Forgive me,” I say, putting my arm around her.
“I do,” she says. “But don’t lie to me again, Sawyer. And delete those photos, please. As soon as possible. They make me look like a fool.”
“I will,” I promise, taking the phone out of her hand and deleting them in front of her. “But you’re not a fool for wanting to believe the best of someone you cared about. I hope you always believe the best of me.”
“That’s exactly why it hurt to find those photos,” she says.
I put my phone on the bed behind us, and my arm back around her shoulders.
“You know, I’m going to make mistakes sometimes, Ivy, and I’m going to need your forgiveness when I do. But I want you to know this. All the time, every minute of every day, I’m loving you. I want what’s best for you. I never, ever want to hurt you. Those are my motivations. Those are my intentions when it comes to you. And they might get me into trouble with you sometimes, but my feelings for you are pure. I love you. All of you. I promise.”
“I believe you,” she says, turning her face to mine. Her lips brush against mine—the physical manifestation of her forgiveness. “And I love you, too.”
***
Ivy
Maybe it’s because he’s the fifth youngest of six siblings and had to develop a certain amount of emotional maturity to keep up with his brothers and sisters, but I love the way Sawyer speaks to me.
I love the way he understands me. I love the way he explained that he will sometimes make mistakes and will need my forgiveness when he does. He communicates better than any man I’ve ever known, and because communication with my father was so abysmal, having a partner like Sawyer is crucial to me.
Speaking of my father, there’s been radio silence between us.
I didn’t follow-up on his Thanksgiving text, and he hasn’t reached out again. I guess we’re at a stalemate, and that’s okay for now. Someday, of course, I’d like for us to talk— really talk —and try to figure out how to have a healthy relationship, but for now, my feelings are too raw and bruised by his behavior. I need time.
…that I, apparently, don’t have.
During our final rehearsal, I’m standing backstage, in the wings, when I see a tall, thin man enter the theater. Wearing an expensive, black cashmere overcoat and Burberry scarf, he doesn’t blend in with the folks of Skagway who are more comfortable in jeans and flannels. He stands in the aisle for a moment, watching the rehearsal on stage, then takes a seat in the back row, crossing his long legs into the aisle and taking off his hat.
His red hair, worn in the stiff, preppy, business-style he’s always had, is the same color as mine, albeit with a dignified dusting of gray over the ears.
My father is here.
My father is here , in Skagway.
My hands start to sweat. My heart races. I feel a little sick.
Stepping out of the shadows, I climb off the stage and hurry over to Bruce, who’s sitting front row center, watching the show. Behind me, Heathcliff, Ellen, Hareton, and Cathy continue their scene.
“What?” asks Bruce, annoyed to be bothered, still staring at the stage. “What is it?”
I whisper close to his ear. “My father’s here. He just walked into the theater. He’s sitting in the back row.”
“Did you invite him to the dress rehearsal?”
“No. I have to talk to him.”
“Good thing you’re already dead. You have…um…four scenes before the finale.” Bruce gives me a look. “Make it snappy.”
I walk down the aisle to where my father’s sitting. As I approach, he stands up, taking his hat off the seat next to him, and walks out of the theater, into the lobby.
With no other option, I follow him.
In the tiny lobby of the Fraternal Order of Eagles building, we face each other, me in a costume, a nightgown meant to look like it’s from the 1840s, and my father dressed like a banker who’s come to repossess someone’s life. My life.
“Father.”
“Ivy.”
There are no hugs or kisses hello, no polite inquiries about health or happiness.
I gulp nervously. “What, um…I mean, why are you here?”
“I needed to speak with you, and since you’re ignoring my texts and calls, you left me no other option than to come here in person. Very inconvenient, too.”
My father is very tall and very handsome, like an older, more patrician, and less friendly Michael Fassbender. He oozes money and power. He’s intimidating.
“Sorry,” I murmur. But when I hear the word leave my lips, I hate myself for saying it. I have nothing to be sorry for. “Wait. No. Not sorry. I’m not.”
He stares at me. “Stop babbling.”
“Okay.”
Damn it. I did it again. I’m about to tell him I wasn’t babbling when—
“I need you to reconsider Clark Rupert.”
“Reconsider…”
“Your engagement to him.”
This time, I don’t apologize, and I don’t babble.
“Out of the question,” I say clearly and concisely. “There is no scenario in which I marry Clark.”
“You’re behaving like a child,” he says. I lift my chin. He tightens his jaw and continues. “Rupert senior, the goddamned lieutenant governor, could push through some—”
“—legislation that you want?”
He looks surprised that I know. “Yes.”
“I don’t care. I’m not marrying Clark.”
His eyes narrow. “You… don’t care? You don’t care about your family’s business? About the future of Caswell Coal? About our legacy? Your legacy!”
“It’s not my legacy anymore,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and wishing I’d put my boots on. My feet are getting cold. “You made that clear.”
“You are making me angry.”
“You’ve made me angry for years,” I snap back.
“Damn it, Ivy! You will re-engage yourself to him!” His complexion matches our hair color. Red. Wild. Furious. “No, Father,” I say, quaking a little inside at his anger. “I will not. I’m in love with someone else. Someone who loves me and—”
“I don’t give a sh—”
“Clark’s a cheater! He’s been with other women in Juneau. I have proof!”
“Who cares? What did you expect? You left him there. All alone.”
“Wow,” I say, taking a step away from my father. “If all it takes for Clark to cheat is me is not being in his line of sight…”
“Marriage is what it is. You have to—”
“That’s not what I want!” I bellow at him. “I don’t want the kind of marriage you and my mother had. I don’t even know if I want to get married. Right now, all I want is to love and be loved, to trust someone who knows he can trust me, too. And, Father, I think I’ve found that—”
“I can assure you that you haven’t.” He scoffs. “Life isn’t a fairytale. Don’t be stupid.”
“It’s stupid to want love and kindness? Understanding? Trust and respect? Loyalty?”
“Loyalty?” he demands. “Ha! If you knew an ounce about loyalty, you’d go back to Juneau and make nice with the people who can triple our annual profits with a signature.”
I clench my teeth together. I tell myself not to explode, but I still do.
“Money isn’t all that matters! Money doesn’t equal happiness!”
“ Doesn’t matter ? How are you my child? I always wondered if your mother had an affair! Now, I’m convinced she did!”
Tears— so weak and useless —spring into my eyes. He’s only saying this to hurt me. Whether he likes it or not, I’m his spitting image. My DNA has never been up for debate.
I ignore his remark about my mother and tell myself, again, to calm down. “Money matters. Of course it matters. But it’s love that leads to happiness. I’ve found love here in Skagway. So, I won’t be going back to Clark. Not ever.”
My father takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He doesn’t like being challenged, and he especially doesn’t like being challenged by someone like me—his daughter, his chattel—who should blindly and blithely do his bidding.
“Love is important to you,” he says.
“It is.”
“And you love your aunt.”
I know where this is going, and I’m ready.
“I do.”
“Then it may upset you to know that any day now I will get a bill for your aunt’s last chemotherapy treatment, and if you don’t agree to marry Clark Rupert, I will deny payment. Your aunt and uncle will be left to pay a large bill which they definitely cannot afford. And you will be responsible for—”
“I paid it.”
He blinks at me. “Wh—What now?”
“I already paid for Aunt Priscilla’s last chemo treatment,” I say, wishing I felt more victorious. But I only feel profound sadness that he was willing to go to such lengths to force my hand.
“When? How? I cut you off!”
A tear slides down my cheek, and I reach up to wipe it away. I’m starting to feel tired. Exhausted. In fact, I’d like to lie down on the floor at my father’s feet, go to sleep, and only wake up when he’s gone.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. “You have no leverage, Father, nothing else to hold over my head. It’s over.”
He’s flummoxed. Standing before me, he opens his mouth and closes it. Opens it again and closes it again. I’m not sure—in my entire life—that I’ve ever seen my father at a loss for words, but that’s exactly where he finds himself now.
Say it, I think. Say everything you need to say now while he’s quiet. You may not get another chance.
“I’ve chosen a different path for myself than you would’ve chosen for me,” I tell him. “And I know that disappoints and angers you, but this is my life. Mine .” I hold myself tighter, as my voice gets softer. “You will always be my father. And I will…I will always l-love you.” My voice cracks on the words, but I keep going. Stay strong. Say it all. I let my arms drop to my sides, though my fingers ball into fists of their own volition. I stand before him in a nightgown, much like my younger self refusing to go to bed. But , I remind myself, I am not a child. I am all grown up now. I am an adult woman. I keep my own counsel. And I am free . “Until you’re ready to love me the way I deserve to be loved, Father, you aren’t welcome in my life.”
The heaviness I feel as I say these words almost buckles my knees.
My father stares at me, almost through me, then puts his hat on his head, and stalks to the door. A whoosh of cold air blows the nightgown around my ankles. He looks at me over his shoulder, his eyes full of contempt.
“You’re just like her,” he sneers. “I am most sincerely disappointed. I’m not welcome in your life? Ha! How about this? I disinherit you. I disown you. You are not my daughter anymore.”
His words hurt worse than a smack in the face or a punch to the gut.
He steps through the door, and I think I start hyperventilating because I can’t seem to draw a clean, deep breath in the wake of his exit.
I am alone. Now, I am all alone. I have no one.
I stand alone in the lobby of the theater, trembling and freezing, starting to wheeze, barely aware of the fact that as the door in front of me closes, the one behind me opens. I only realize I’m not alone, in fact, when I hear someone say my name.
“Ivy? Ivy, are you alright?”
Sawyer.
My back is to him, and he’s several feet away from me. But just hearing his voice makes me feel warmer and more grounded.
“Sweetheart?” he whispers.
My chest hurts. My breathing is quick and choppy. Pebble-sized granules of salt on the dirty carpet dig into my bare feet as I turn around.
He stands inside the lobby with me, the door to the theater behind him closed. His face—his beloved, beautiful face—is twisted into a mask of sympathy. But even more powerful than his compassion is what I find in his eyes—a look of pure and profound love, tinged with admiration.
Stepping toward me, he opens his arms, and I take shelter against his body, letting him hold me. I lean my head against his chest and close my eyes. What is the word that comes after tired and after exhausted? Whatever that is, it’s how I feel now.
“My father was here.”
“I know. I saw him. I heard some of your conversation,” he confesses, no doubt remembering his promise never to lie to me, even by omission. “I was standing at the doors. Just in case you needed me.”
“He t-tore me a-apart,” I whisper. “He s-said…I’m not his d-daughter anymore.”
“I’m so sorry, Ivy,” he says softly, rubbing my back. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
I’m positive he did.
“Take a deep breath,” he says. “Then I’ll take you home.”
“No.” Rehearsal isn’t over yet. I blink at him. I don’t want to cry, but my eyes are burning. “We should go back in…the finale…rehearsal…”
“No, sweetheart,” he says, pressing his lips to the top of my head. “Bruce said we’ve got it…we can go.”
The scene after Heathcliff dies, when the ghost of Catherine ushers him into the afterlife, is one of the most important parts of the play, but Bruce is right. We’ve got it.
“Come on. I’ll take you home,” he says.
“My clothes…” I say.
“I’ll bring them over later,” he says.
“My boots?”
“You don’t need them.” He lifts me into his arms. “My truck’s out front. I’ve got you.”
I lean my forehead into the crook of his neck and close my eyes. He smells like sweat and pine-scented soap and something else that is always, eternally, Sawyer. He pushes open the theater door, his boots crunching on the snow and ice as he carries me to his truck, opens the passenger door, and places me gently inside.
I’ve got you.
We drive to my aunt and uncle’s house, a short distance, in silence, the words, You are not my daughter anymore , circling in my head . When we get there, I sit listlessly in my seat until he opens my door and carries me into the house.
I’ve got you.
There is some fussing from my aunt and uncle as he rings the doorbell and steps into the living room with me in his arms, but I keep my head buried in the curve of his neck, and my eyes closed. I will tell them all about it tomorrow.
I’ve got you.
A door is opened, and I am gently lowered to my bed. I keep my eyes closed and curl into a fetal-style ball. A moment later, I feel Sawyer’s body spooning mine, his arm around me, his breath warm on the back of my neck. Someone covers us with a warm blanket.
We’ve got you.
The lights are turned off, and the door is closed, and I realize I am lying in my cousin’s twin bed with Sawyer’s body beside mine and his arms around me, both of us still dressed in costumes from the 1840s. It is completely absurd, and yet, the beauty of it makes me weep.
I’m not a daughter, but I’m not alone.
I never have been.
And I never will be again.