Free Thrown by Tabi Wollstonecraft Page B

peopleputwreathstherebutthetidetookthem.’
    ItrytoimaginethespotwheremyauntfellthenIglanceupatthe clifftopwhereIwaswalkingmomentsago.Thepathupthereistotally safe.There’snodangeroffallingovertheedge.Isthatwhythepoliceare investigating?Becausetheythinkshewasthrownoverthecliffedge?But theydon’tknowthatsheputhercatinthecatterytwodaysbeforeshe died.Evenduringherlastdays,shewasthinkingofthewell-beingofMr Tibbles.SheevenwentsofarastopaythebillsoIwouldn’thaveto whenIcollectedhim.Everythingtiedupneatly.Thenshejumped.
    Idon’tknowwhy.I’llprobablyneverknowwhy.
    ‘Hey,Amy.’
    Stokerislookingatme,hispaintingbarelytouched.‘Youwanttogo foracoffee?’
    ‘Butyourpaintingisn’tfinished.’
    ‘I’drathergoforacoffeewithyouthansitherepainting.Thosecliffs aren’tgoinganywhere.There’sabeachfrontcoffeeshopintowncalled Sarah’sCoffeeAndCakes.Theyopenearlyandtheydoareallynice coffeeand…’
    ‘Noneedtosayanymore,youhadmeat“cakes”.I’dlovetogo.’
    ‘Really?Cakesatthishour?’
    ‘It’snevertooearlyforcake.’
    Helaughsandstartstopackawayhispaintingequipment.
    ‘Youneedanyhelp?’
    ‘No,I’vegotit.Everythingfoldsdownandfitsinthislittlebag.’He holdsupablacknylonbag.‘Itravellight,especiallywhenI’mpainting becauseIsometimeshavetosneakoutofthehouse.Icouldn’tdothat withafull-sizedeaselandcanvasses.’
    ‘Whydoyouhavetosneakout?’
    ‘Mydaddoesn’tlikemepainting.Ordrawing.Orevenreading.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘It’salongstory.’Hefoldstheeaselupandstowseverythingawayin thebag,whichheslingsoverhisshoulder.Seeinghiminthetightt-shirt, Irealizehowmuscularheis.Hemustgotothegymregularlytogeta bodylikethat.Istopmymindfromgoingdownthatroute;wewere havinganicerelaxedconversationandifIstartthinkingaboutthisother stuff,I’llhavetroubleformingsentences.
    ‘Let’sgo,’hesays,‘yourcakeawaits.’Hesetsofftowardthetrailthat leadsupthecliffs.
    ‘Didyouwalkherefromhome?’Iaskhim.
    ‘No,there’salittleparkingareaofftheroadupthere.Icameinthe LandRover.’
    ‘Great.’Idon’tknowifIcanmakeitbackupthetrailandalltheway intotown,nomatterhowmuchcakeiswaitingatthefinishline.
    Hestartstoascendandeventhoughhehasthebagonhisshoulder, he’salotfasterthanmeandsoonI’mpuffingandpantingandway behindhim.Hestopshalfwayupandwaits.AsIcatchupwithhimhe reachesouthishand.Itakeitandwewalkuphandinhand.It’snice.
    Reallynice.Ialmostdon’twanttogettothetopbecauseIdon’twant himtostopholdingmyhand.
    I’veheldhandswithafewboysbeforebutitwasjustawkward.I didn’tknowwhattodo.ShouldImovemyfingersalittle?Strokethe backoftheirhand?Itjustseemedpointless.ButwithStokeritfeels natural,itfeelsright.I’mnotevenworryingaboutwhattodowithmy handorfingersbecauseIdon’tfeellikeI have toworryaboutit.
    Heguidesmetothetopandwestandthereforamomentstillholding hands.ThebreezefeelssogooduphereandIclosemyeyesasitcools myface.Stokerstandsclosetome,stillholdingmyhand.
    ‘YouOK?’heasks.
    ‘Yeah,thatfeelssogood.’
    ‘Theseabreeze?’
    ‘Mmhmm.’
    ‘Ithoughtmaybeyoumeantthefactthatwe’reholdinghands.’
    ‘Thatfeelsgoodtoo,’Iadmit.DidIreallyjustsaythat?Waituntil Dellhearsaboutit,she’llbegivingmeherbest‘toldyouso’lookand screamingdownherwebcamatmethatsheknewitallalong.I’msureI canhandlehergloatingbecauseforthefirsttimeinmylife,Iactually feelsomethingforaboy.IfeelsomethingwhenIlookathim,whenI touchhimandevenwhenIthinkabouthim.
    ‘Weshouldgobeforetheyrunoutofcake,’hesays.
    Iopenmyeyesandsmileathim.‘Ithoughtyousaidonlycrazy peopleeatcakeatthisearlyhour.’
    ‘Ineversaidthat.’
    ‘Youkindofimpliedit.’
    Wewalkpastthepathtoacementareanexttotheroad,stillholding hands.Stoker’sLandRoverisparkedthere.Therearepicnictablesonthe grasshereandasteeltrashcanonawoodenpost.‘It’skindofapicnic