Page 20 of When You're Gone

I concentrate on my breathing and try to slow my racing pulse.If Sketch doesn’t want to hear an apology, what does he want?

‘Christ, Annie. You’re shaking.’

‘I’m okay. Just a little cold,’ I lie.

Sketch leans forward and takes off his black leather jacket. He turns towards me, and I hold my breath and don’t dare to move. This is it. Instinctively, I close my eyes. It’ll be less scary if I don’t see his fist coming.

Seconds tick by in slow motion before I feel his hands on my shoulders, draping his jacket over me.

‘There,’ he says. ‘Is that better?’

I open my eyes to find him watching me. His round, turquoise eyes sweep over me like a gentle mist, washing away my panic slightly.

‘Yes. Thank you.’ I nod, shaking a little less. ‘I’m warm now.’

‘Okay. That’s good. You had me worried. I thought you were becoming ill. Are you ready to go?’

I nod, lost for words.

‘Or we can stop here for a while, if you want to look at some more paintings,’ Sketch says. ‘I don’t mind waiting. Actually, it’s rather nice to have someone to share them with.’

Sketch’s lips are curved up at the sides, and his eyes are warm and sparkling. I really must hurry home, but I can’t decline his polite offer without being rude and ungrateful.

‘So, your mother…’ I whisper, treading softly in case I’m getting the signals all wrong, and he doesn’t actually want to discuss her.

‘She’s dead,’ Sketch blurts before I finish. ‘She died six years ago. I miss her terribly.’

‘Oh, my gosh,’ I stutter. ‘I’m so sorry. I never would have…’

‘What?’ Sketch shrugs. ‘Asked who she was? I know. No one wants to mention her in case it upsets me. But not talking about her upsets me the most. This is good. It’s nice. Thank you for asking, Annie. Thank you for giving me an opportunity to think about her.’

Sketch’s pain is scribbled in every contorted line of his frowning face. It must hurt terribly; I can’t even begin to imagine life without my mother. We are all each other has.

‘And your pa?’ I say. ‘How is he coping?’

Sketch nods. ‘It’s hard to tell. We don’t talk as much as I’d like. He thinks I’m wasting my time with paint and paper. He says I’ll never have a penny to my name if I keep this nonsense up. My father says farming is in Talbot blood. His brothers are all farmers, like him, as was my grandfather. But it’s not in me.’

‘You don’t like animals?’ I ask, trying to mask my disappointment.

‘Actually, I do. A lot. I’m up at dawn to milk the cattle and I’ve no problem cleaning up a bit of pig shite or mucking out the sheep shed. It’s the slaughterhouse that I have trouble with. I don’t have the stomach for it. I guess I’m the runt of the family.’

I look at Sketch’s broad shoulders; they span the entire width of the driver’s seat. The short sleeves of his white T-shirt are just the right length to reveal his strong arms and toned biceps. If Sketch is the runt of the litter, I can’t even begin to imagine what his uncles must look like.

‘How about you? What does your father do?’ Sketch asks.

‘Um…’ My cheeks sting, and I shift in my seat. I consider making something up, but I feel I owe Sketch more respect. I decide to skim the truth instead.

‘My father was an engineer. He used to work for the railroad, but a freak accident left him with a bad back, and he’s been out of work for a while.’

I leave out the part of the story that explains that everything changed after that day. The day a colleague accidentally dropped a railway sleeper between my father’s shoulders and cracked some bones in his back. He turned to whiskey for the pain. That was when I was five years old. His back has long healed, but his drinking habit remains. He hasn’t worked in fifteen years.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Sketch says, his voice sounding softer and deeper suddenly. ‘I’m sure things are hard for him… for you.’

‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘They can be.’

Sketch looks at his watch. ‘It’s ten past one,’ he says. ‘I’d best get you home.’

I suspect Sketch has read between the lines and understands my haste, but I don’t ask. It’s not something I want to talk about. If word ever got back to my father that I’d shot my mouth off… Christ, I can’t even think about that.

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