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‘Yes.’ I blush. ‘You know, like kindred spirits. Some people never find theirs, and that makes me sad.’
‘Do you think you will find yours someday, Annie?’ he grins, and the mischievous sparkle in his eyes makes bubbles pop in my tummy.
‘I think we all need someone to love us,’ I whisper. ‘It must be nice.’
‘What about your father?’ Sketch straightens, and his expression takes on a sudden seriousness that seems to age him way past his twenty years.
‘What about him?’ I wobble.
‘He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who understands true love,’ Sketch says with bold confidence.
Any girl with a shred of dignity would slap a man clean across the face for a statement so cutting about her father. But I stuff my hands into the pockets of the warm coat and lower my head.
‘He doesn’t understand love at all,’ I confess boldly.
Saying such disrespectful words shakes me. It’s both liberating and terrifying. I feel lighter for saying out loud the thoughts I’ve had bottled up for years, but the relief is brief. The familiar fear that resides deep inside me swipes at my gut like bear claws. I crane my neck to look behind the giant apple tree next to us. My glance scrambles from tree to tree. I know Sketch and I are alone. I know it. But I can’t shake a growing knot of worry; as if my words will carry on the wind and somehow make it back to my father’s angry ears. I’ve never told anyone how my father treats my mother and me. And although I’ve been vague, I know Sketch understands better than I could have ever hoped for. But that comes with its own concerns. I see how Sketch looks at me with sympathy and worry. He wants to save me. Be a hero even. But that would only make everything worse.
Sketch cups my cheeks in his hands and slowly turns my head back to face him. There’s a rugged harshness to his skin, but I guess years of working the land does that to you. A warmth is there too, and his simple touch soothes me. I wish I could bottle up this moment and keep it under my bed, so every now and then I could open the lid and take a sip of the memory.
‘What has he done to you, Annie?’ Sketch whispers.
I shake my head and gaze up at the clouds, trying desperately to roll back the tears determined to fall.
Sketch places a soft kiss on my forehead and breaks away from me suddenly. My teary eyes follow him as he bends down to unbuckle his backpack. The wind smacks against my cheeks, wiping away any trace of Sketch’s warm hands. I sigh and pull the sleeve of the coat over my hands. I dab the scratchy wool under my eyes and catch the hints of tears.
‘Are you hungry?’ Sketch asks as he stands. He doesn’t make eye contact, and I know it’s because he doesn’t want to embarrass me, not because he doesn’t care.
My tummy rumbles just hearing the question, and I nod. I glance at one of the low branches and stare at a bright red apple that’s bigger than my fist.
Sketch follows my gaze. ‘You can’t survive on fruit alone, Annie.’
I smile sheepishly, heeding the concerned sincerity in his words.
‘Wait here,’ he instructs confidently as he disappears behind some tightly knit trees.
He returns seconds later, rolling a boulder along the grass and working up a sweat. The physical exertion suits him, and if possible, he looks more attractive than ever. I smirk as I remember the time I accidentally hit him in the knee with a pebble when we played stone skipping in some giant puddles on the schoolyard. He cried solidly for an hour. He was eight years old, and I was seven. I teased him about it for the rest of the afternoon. I only apologised when he refused to give me a bite of his apple the next day.
‘Do you need some help with that, Mr Softie?’ I joke, remembering the nickname I used that day.
‘No thank you, Miss Meany Boots,’ he throws back quickly, and I realise the memory is as solid for him as it is for me.
‘I hated when you called me that,’ I confess seriously but still smiling.
‘I know.’ He shrugs, almost letting the boulder roll back on top of him, squashing his toes. ‘That’s why I did it.’
I frown, dragging my eyebrows to meet the bridge of my nose.
‘If the wind changes, your face will stay like that,’ Sketch teases, mimicking the voice of a child.
‘Now who’s being a Meany Boots?’ I laugh.
My tummy groans loudly and reminds us both that it takes more than one of Farmer Talbot’s delicious apples to keep me going all day now that I’m all grown up.
Sketch guides the boulder to rest under the branches of the large old apple tree and straightens up. He places his hands on the small of his back and exhales with satisfaction when it cracks. He pulls a blanket out of his backpack and drapes it over the large rock.
‘Perfect,’ he says with a grins, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. ‘The grass is too wet to sit on, but this should be okay,’ he says.
I nod and agree although I’m not sure what it’s perfect for.
