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I’m actually not, but I bet that makes sense in artistic language.
To me, it sounds like he’s hesitating the same way I used to in goal until Dad taught me the meaning of commitment. I rephrase that old coaching session. “Maybe it doesn’t matter which scene you draw next as long as you go all in.” I point out little Asa, who is busy rolling logs that Charles suggested I leave stacked up. “No idea why he’s moving them from one side of the clearing to the other.” I strain for the term he told me. “A transporting schema, maybe?” I tilt my head, watching him roll another log with the fierce concentration that Charles said this space could help him build on if I gave Asa plenty of free choices. “Could be a rotation schema.”
“Wow. Someone has been listeningreallyhard to teacher.”
He’s teasing, but I nod. I could also admit that I spend any breaks I get between baling by searching online to learn more, only telling Rae this feels more important. “See how he’s really going for it? How he’s committing and not quitting? Look at his face.”
I bet Asa doesn’t know his tongue peeks out, he’s so determined. So incredibly focussed too for a kid Charles described to me as having ants in his pants in the classroom. Now that he’s outdoors where he gets to choose his owndirection, I can see his real potential. “If I was picking a team, he’d make a good midfielder.”
“Why?”
“Because when he’s got a goal in his sights, he’s a finisher, not a quitter.” I face Rae. “Throw yourself at one of your ideas like him, Rae. Pick a direction to dive, and go all in. At least you’ll know you did your absolute best.”
He must like that suggestion. I get to watch Rae commit too, although not to choosing a page from that old diary as inspiration for his next drawing. Instead, he commits to pushing me through a thick curtain of weeping willow branches the minute this school session is over and the children are gone.
Those whip-thin branches close around us, and we might as well be the only people left in the woods.
I know we aren’t though. I can hear someone calling for Rae.
“It’s only Sol,” he says between kisses. “Calls himself a good friend. He’s actually a micromanaging cockblocker.”
If Sol does come looking for him, he won’t see Rae’s arms around my neck or my hands on his arse to pull him as close as I can get him for a few too-fleeting moments. This tree still has leaves even if others have started to lose theirs, so for now, Sol won’t spot Rae tilt his head back or hear his voice turn bark-rough either.
I’m the only one who gets to hear that hoarse, “Yeah,” and I’m the only person who echoes his groan after he wriggles a hand between us. Rae gives my dick a squeeze that leaves me wanting.
His voice is still rough. “You working tonight?”
I nod and close my eyes when he squeezes again.
“And tomorrow?” His teeth graze my throat when I nod again, and fuck me, I like that.
Like it?
I think about it that night when my second shift of the day is over.
That’s when I sit in the car park with the Land Rover engine ticking and my whole body aching, and with my gaze fixed on a gap between trees at the top of the valley where light would glow if anyone was still awake in the art building.
Maybe it’s for the best that it is dark up there night after night, and I head back to the stables to creep past Rowan’s bedroom. Rae needs to work, and I’m dead on my feet.
That’s the first thing Luke notices on Friday when he joins me for a nature session and catches me mid-yawn.
I’m still torn between seeing him as a stern coach and a comedian. “Goodness,” he says dryly. “I could almost see what you ate for breakfast.” He lets me know why I haven’t seen Mitch. “Justin hasn’t been well, but he’s on the mend now. They’re both looking forward to joining you soon.”
I wish I could say the same. For now, I focus on the children. Luke does too.
“You’re a big hit with Hadi.” He points out his son. “He talks about your sessions nonstop at home.”
He names my quietest student, who brings his dad a fallen sycamore leaf, and Luke shows me another facet, neither stern nor comedic, as he names it for him in English and what I assume is Arabic. That’s an unexpected reminder of Dad, but I guess it is only what I’ve copied by naming everything here in Polish.
Luke finds some of those labels I’ve made and approves of them. “Heritage matters. Let’s work together on adding the Cornish names too.” He also says, “Well, well, well. Someone is very interested in nature all of a sudden, aren’t they?”
He doesn’t mean his son, who hunts for more leaves, or Asa, who usually has ants in his pants.
Luke has actually spotted Rae, who is in my clearing again, this time with his sixth-form students.
They all carry rolls of paper. He’s told me they will use them to document their pathways to Glynn Harber. That they need to look back before they can move forward without the past snagging them like brambles.
Rae’s own roll is tied with string. There’s a text message on my phone telling me why. I read how he doesn’t want to influence his students when I was sitting on a tractor at sunset. Another text told me he only shares his journey stage by stage rather than all at once. Now he waggles that tight roll at us in greeting.
