AllFreeNovel
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Sketch starts the engine, and within seconds we’re back on the road and driving faster than before. I close the leather folder and tie a bow in the twine before I place it back where I found it. I’d love to ask to buy one of Sketch’s paintings, but I don’t have the money to pay up front, and I don’t want to embarrass either of us by asking to pay in instalments. We sit in silence for the rest of the journey.
We reach the top of my road in under five minutes.
‘Stop here, please,’ I say, peeling his later jacket off me and instantly missing its warmth.
Sketch drives on.
‘Stop. Please,’ I repeat, louder.
We roll forward more. We’re just a few feet away from the front gate of my parents’ house now.
‘Jesus Christ, Sketch. Stop the car. Please stop the car!’ I shout.
The brakes squeal, and we come to an abrupt halt. I toss Sketch’s jacket towards him and turn for the door, but Sketch grabs my hand before I can open it.
‘Annie, what’s wrong? What are you so afraid of? Is it your father?’
My bottom lip quivers. My father could walk by at any moment.Any moment.
‘I’m strange. Just strange,’ I say. ‘Do yourself a favour and stay away from me.’
‘Annie, stop it. Please.’ Sketch’s fingers tighten around my hand. ‘Just talk to me. I want to help you.’
‘You can’t help me. It would only make things worse.’
‘Can I at least see you again? Tomorrow, maybe?’
‘No.’
‘All right. The day after, then?’
‘No. Never. I can never see you again, Sketch. I’m sorry. I have to go. Now. Please let me out.’
Sketch lets go of my hand, but he keeps his body twisted in his seat, facing me.
My palms are sweaty and sticky, and my fingers are making a fool of me as I fumble with the door handle. My eyes scan the road ahead for any sign of my father coming to hunt for me.
‘At least let me give you something before you go,’ Sketch says, resigned, and I feel the heat of his gaze burning into the side of my head.
Reluctantly, I drag my eyes away from the road and allow them to fall onto Sketch’s face. He reaches across me, and retrieves the leather folder on the shelf under the dash in front of me and settles back in his seat to open it.
My heart feels as if it’s climbed into my throat and is trying to beat its way out through the back of my skull. My fingers are still curled around the door handle but I’m not tugging on it any more.
I so desperately wish I could flitter away a lazy afternoon in the passenger seat of Sketch Talbot’s bottle-green car. But lazy afternoons are luxuries for girls like Bridget. Normal girls.
Sketch hurries as he flicks through the papers cradled inside. His speed mirrors my anxiety, but for the first time in my life, I don’t try to gloss over my need for hurry with some lame excuse. I don’t think I need to. Sketch understands without me saying another word.
‘Here it is,’ Sketch beams.
He slides a page out from the back of the pile, blows it to shake off some chalk it’s picked up in the folder, and passes it to me.
‘I painted this just after my ma died,’ Sketch whispers. ‘She loved my pa’s orchard. When she first got sick, she’d sit out there for hours and stare up at the sky through the branches of the apple trees. You’re the only person I know who loves apples as much as my mother.’
‘Oh, Sketch,’ I manage, running my hand over the stunning watercolours that capture the beauty of an orchard laden with juicy red apples on a warm summer’s day. ‘It really is stunning. I bet your ma would be so proud.’
‘Take it, please?’ Sketch says. ‘If you really won’t let me see you again, then I’d like you to have it. Think of me when you look at it.’
‘I… I… I couldn’t. You painted this for your mother. It’s beautiful. So beautiful. I can’t take this away from you.’
