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Sketch hops over the closed gate and races up to the nearest tree. He reaches for a massive greenish-red apple hanging on one of the lower branches. With a gentle twist, the apple pops free and falls into his hand. He places it on his shoulder, leaving it there for a moment until he’s certain he has my attention. My heart flutters as Sketch gives his shoulder a gentle shrug and the apple tumbles down his arm, and he catches it in his outstretched hand.
‘For you,’ he says with a cheeky grin.
I laugh. ‘You’ve gotten better at that.’
A warm memory of all the apples Sketch dropped trying to perfect that move when we were kids dances across my mind.
‘I’ve had years of practice,’ Sketch says, ‘but it hasn’t been as much fun without you at the end to give the apple to.’
I take the apple and polish the peel against my coat. I take a huge bite and swallow it almost whole. But before I have time to enjoy another bite, I feel Sketch’s warm lips press against mine. I close my eyes, and the apple tumbles out of my hand and rolls around the grass, coming to a stop against my feet.
‘Yum,’ he whispers; the word gently rushes from his open mouth into mine, and I know he’s not talking about the apple.
SIXTEEN
ANNIE
Sketch slides the backpack off his shoulder and sets it on the ground under the tallest tree in the whole orchard. The bark is twisted and knobby, and even if Sketch and I joined hands, I don’t think we’d manage to wrap our arms all the way around the trunk. Initials are chiselled into the thick bark, surrounded by a wobbly love heart. It’s pretty and romantic and makes me toothy grin. But the corners of my lips slowly twitch and fall as I wonder if Sketch has brought other girls here. Bridget, perhaps. My heart sinks. I have no right to be jealous, but the pinch of envy stings nonetheless. Bridget and Sketch are friends. Sketch and I have been apart for a long time. I can’t expect that he lived in solitude all that time. I wouldn’t have wanted him to. Not like me. Loneliness and isolation change a person. I’m not the same scrawny eleven-year-old with a pixie haircut that Sketch knew. The weight in my chest grows heavier still, and despite my best efforts, I can’t seem to shake it. Finally, I realise I’m not jealous of Bridget. I’m jealous of her time. All the time she spent with Sketch that I was denied. I ache for the missing years, and I grieve for the child I once was.
‘They’re my parents’ initials,’ Sketch says softly, noticing where I’m staring. ‘They carved them into the tree on their wedding day. That’s why the last letter is the same for both. T for Talbot. See.’ Sketch traces his finger over the hollow letters, pausing for a little longer on the second set of initials – his mother’s.
‘A.T. loves B.T.,’ I read aloud.
‘Blair,’ Sketch whispers. ‘My mother’s name was Blair.’
‘That’s a very pretty name.’ I swallow.
‘Just like her.’ Sketch smiles. ‘My father used to say how he never understood how a man like him got lucky enough to marry a girl like her. Sometimes he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was so beautiful.’
I catch my father’s eyes on my mother sometimes too, I think. Usually when she’s made a mistake or said something he doesn’t like the sound of and he’s about to make her pay. I cough awkwardly, trying to inhale without choking on air. I shake my head in a vain attempt to shake the image of my father’s bloodshot eyes this morning from my mind.
‘Annie, are you okay?’ Sketch says, his hand suddenly on my shoulder.
I jump instinctively, and Sketch backs away, but I don’t miss the flash of sadness that sweeps across his eyes. Sketch is opening up to me about his dead mother, and I’m consumed by my father who is very much alive. I feel overwhelmingly ashamed.
‘Your father sounds like a romantic.’ I giggle, trying desperately to cover my nervous habits with forced laughter.
‘I guess.’ Sketch shrugs; he answers my question, but I get the impression he’d rather be the one asking questions.
‘You miss her,’ I deflect.
Sketch’s shoulders round and seem to drag him closer to the ground. The collar of his sleek leather jacket folds back as if to offer its respects, as his eyes sweep over me. I realise he’s not sad for himself. He’s sad for me.
‘When she died, it broke him,’ Sketch whispers.
I finally manage to swallow that lump of air caught in the back of my throat. I want to thank him for sharing. I want to thank him for not asking me questions that I can’t bring myself to answer, and I want to thank him for knowing the answers without either of us having to say a word. All I can manage is a smile, but he smiles right back.
‘I miss my mother. Of course, I do,’ he continues. ‘But I miss my father too. When she left, she took a part of him with her. I don’t think he’s ever been whole since.’
‘Isn’t it better to have someone complete you for a little while than never be complete at all?’ I ask.
Sketch drops his head to stare at the ground as he draws a circle in the grass with his foot. He tries to hide it, but I notice the subtle smile that tugs at the corner of his lips.
‘Are you incomplete, Annie?’ Sketch asks, lifting his head, and his eyes burn into mine with an intensity that seems to heat me up from the inside out.
‘I don’t think any of us can be truly complete on our own,’ I say.
‘Do you really believe that?’ Sketch asks.
