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‘One… two… three,’ Sketch says, lifting me out of the gap to spin me around in his arms.
My feet dangle for a moment before finding their way to the ground. Sketch’s arms move around my back and tuck my chest against his.
‘There now,’ he says, ‘that wasn’t so bad, was it?’
I flash a gummy smile and try to hide my dizziness. ‘You came back.’
‘I didn’t want to leave,’ Sketch confesses. ‘But I know how much you wanted your mother to go to the dance. I know how much you wanted to go too. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ I say. ‘I’m glad you took Ma. I wanted her to have a great time.’
‘Your ma said you were feeling unwell,’ Sketch explains. ‘I was worried about you.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say.
‘I should have stayed,’ Sketch says. ‘I should have checked you were okay.’
‘You did the right thing. And you know it,’ I comfort. ‘Pa would have been hopping mad if you didn’t leave when you did.’
Sketch’s eyes narrow, and despite the limited moonlight, I can see a hundred questions dance in his eyes. We both know I wasn’t ill. But what good will talking about it do now?
‘Where is he now?’ Sketch says, his tone suddenly deeper as his head twists towards the front door.
‘Pa?’ I ask. ‘He’s asleep.’
‘Is he drunk?’
‘Yes. Maybe even more than usual. He passed out an hour or two ago.’
‘Good.’ Sketch smiles. ‘Then he won’t come looking for us.’
‘Looking for us?’ I ask. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To the dance.’
I shake my head, confused. ‘But it must be nearly over by now.’
‘There’s an hour or so left,’ Sketch explains. ‘If we hurry we’ll catch the last waltz.’ Sketch presses a single finger against his lip. ‘Shh, c’mon. My car is just outside the gate if we hurry we can—’
‘I… I… I can’t go, Sketch,’ I interrupt him. ‘I want to, I swear. I just…’ I look back through my bedroom window and the depressing emptiness that awaits inside. ‘What if Pa wakes up?’
Disappointment softens Sketch’s arms, and his grip on my waist loosens. But he doesn’t yield to my rejection. He rolls his shoulders back and holds his head high. He looks around the garden as if he’s seeing it for the first time. Moonlight shines through the gaps in the mature oak trees. Silvery tones kiss the silhouettes of trees and garden fences. I’ve never been afraid of the dark. I’ve always loved how night brought with it hours of solace and the chance to hide. But I’ve never really looked at night as anything other than a cloak; a black curtain that falls and sweeps the pain of the day away. However, tonight it’s as if God himself has reached down from heaven to sparkle glitter all over my patch of earth.
‘Okay,’ Sketch says, breaking the sweet silence that has fallen over us. ‘Then we’ll dance right here.’
I muffle a giggle. I know he’s serious.
‘There’s no music,’ I protest.
‘True.’ He nods and kisses the top of my head. ‘But all we really need is each other.’
Sketch takes my hand in his. His fingers slip between mine effortlessly as if they’re finding their way home. He raises our hands together to one side. He’s poised and ready to lead. His other arm stiffens at the elbow, and his hand navigates my lower back. I wince as his fingers fan over my spine, and Sketch quickly lets go. His fingers slip away from mine, and he takes a step back. His eyes are narrow as he looks me up and down.
‘What has he done to you?’ Sketch growls, and even though I know his flash of temper isn’t directed at me, I’m still scared.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter. I want to dance. Can’t we just dance, please? I don’t want to discuss this.’
I’m disappointed in myself as I catch the delicate, composed tones that shuffle past my lips. I sound exactly like my mother when she’s trying to pacify my father. I don’t want to be that woman. A woman who tiptoes around her lover, fearing that he might spin out of control if she says the wrong thing. I remind myself that Sketch isn’t my father, and I want to be honest with him, but it’s incredibly difficult to shake the habit of a lifetime. The habit of keeping the sordid secrets of my horrendous family life locked up behind closed doors.
