Midsummer aroma

Pastel yellow, pink, orange and blue buildings border the cobble paved road leading me towards a seafront, I hope will become my calm. My usual attire of black clothing, worn strategically to disappear into any crowd back home in London, makes me stand out here in Italy. Closing my eyes, I tilt my head up to allow the sun to reflect on the only part of me that isn't covered up. A small smile fights its way onto my lips, whereas, my heartbreak disenables any attempt of feeling happy, causing my smile to return to a frown.

Taking in a deep breath, I continue down a steep path, stopping just before the gravelled pavement ends to take off my converse and socks. The warmth from the sand that has swallowed my feet whole, relaxes my mind momentarily. Enough time for my mind to focus on the perfect spot. Scanning the mile-long beach, my eyes settle on an area close to a bed of rocks that create a pier like structure into the sea.

Placing my long burgundy cardigan down on the sand, I lay on my back, interlocking my fingers across my stomach. A light breeze passes through me. I close my eyes. My thoughts lead me back to the moment that led me here. His laughter echoes through my thoughts, disrupting any attempt of anger I desperately want to have towards him. His Golden curls, crocked smile, dimpled cheeks are all that I can see, all that I want nothing more than to forget.

Nine years of love, broken in forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes, of tears, pleading and empty compromises. Our relationship ended with my bags packed and a promise that 'this is for the best.’

15th September 2009 was the day I started my first job at a bakery. Nineteen years old, I’d decided University wasn’t for me but baking was. Never spending any time previously in the kitchen preparing any type of baked goods was made up for the night before starting my new role. The evening began hopeful, a simple recipe found on the internet was printed and after a long shopping trip to buy the ingredients, I began preparing a Victorian sponge cake per my sister's request. The evening ended with my sister, to this day, refusing to eat a Victorian sponge cake after the monstrosity I had created. Some may argue that I lied on my CV and during my interview regarding my baking abilities however I’d argue that I exaggerated the truth. I know now that Jules the owner was desperate for staff. So, who better to hire than an impressionable young girl that can be moulded into her ideal worker. She always told me she saw potential in me and I’m grateful. When Jules died Three years ago, I became the owner of Jules Bakery. I started the day of September 15th with no expectations and left with a passion, that I’ll spend my life loving. But baking was not the only thing I left that day being introduced to and later on loving. That day, I met my Rick.

It was the last hour of my first shift when Jules had asked me to cover the till so that she could go in the back. I was still incredibly nervous to be on the floor on my own and deal with customers' requests. Thankfully, only three customers came in, asking for what was already out on display. Then he walked in. 6ft 3, wearing a white t-shirt, grey jogging bottoms, black trainers and rosy cheeks. It was clear that he had been running. Still wearing his headphones, he approached me at the till. Unable to greet him, I stood still, mute, consuming him with my eyes.

His mouth opened to speak. I met his gaze. His nose scrunched in confusion, teasing a glimpse of his dimple. He waved his hand in my face and laughed. Pulled back into reality, I broke away from whatever hypnotic state he had me in to respond.

“Sorry, what?” I said barely above a whisper.

“Is anything nut free?” He asked. Moving his hand through his hair, he combed back his curls, away from his forehead. My eyes gravitated towards a loose strand that bounced back into its previous place, resting effortlessly above his dark-haired eyebrows. His eyes, pierce me, a perfect oval shape, filled with light caramel irises.

“I-I don’t kno-.”

“Patrick, you’ve met Matilda. She’s my new employee.” Jules said, carrying a mint green box. She handed it over to him. “Everything is in there for Hannahs bake sale at school tomorrow.” Jules continued.

My eyes broke away from Jules and landed on Patrick. His rosy cheeks had deepened.

“Thanks again, Aunt Jules.” He spoke shyly. Looking over in my direction briefly, before returning to Jules when she re-entered the room. Patrick's free hand had found solitude in his trouser pocket.

“Oh-” She pointed in Patrick's direction “-are you still able to cover on Saturday? You'll have to show Matilda a few things.”

“Of course. I look forward to it.” He flashed me a smile and an unnoticed wink by Jules that had already left the shop floor.

That Saturday, I wore only two expressions, a grin and a giddy look from the fit of laughter I’d been succumbed to for most of the shift.

“You’ve got something on your face.” He would laugh, after jokingly wiping icing on the tip of my nose. I’d always retaliate by flour bombing him when we were in the pantry. That Saturday and most shifts that we shared after, ended with us staying beyond our hours from tidying the messes we made and sitting behind the counter talking, pouring out every known fact about ourselves to the other. After five weeks, six shifts together, Patrick and I kissed, sat in a usual spot behind the counter. We closed the bakery the latest we’d ever done that day. We couldn't pull ourselves away from one another. At that moment, He became my Rick and I became his Tilly.

Rick and Tilly, always and forever.

And, I believed it truly meant we’d be together forever. Always in this life and the next.

Patrick believes we’ve run our course as if our relationship is nothing but a lesson to be learnt.

Through tears, he said ‘I’ll always love you Tilly; I just don’t think I can do this anymore.'

Falling short of my forever. I despise his use of always.

I’m prompted to open my eyes and face the bright light from the sun after a burning sensation floods my eyes. A warning of the uncontrollable tears that are eager to come to the surface. One blink and they're released. Free to flow in motion of the waves. An ache in my chest reminds me to breathe, so I do exactly that. I breathe. Every inhale through my nose exits as a trembling exhale through my mouth. I repeat this until I’ve gained control of my shaking body. I roll over to my side to shield my sorrows from those on the beach, I face nothing, I lay still. Dishevelled and alone I reach for my phone in my bag. Unlocking the screen, I’m greeted by a photo, my favourite, taken without our knowledge. In Our bakery. I was mixing batter for a cake, wearing my favourite summer dress, a long black with white polka dot wrap dress with my yellow and cream checker print apron. Patrick stood behind me, he wore a white shirt, rolled up to his elbows and black jeans with his arms wrapped around my waist and his chin resting on my shoulder. We both share a smile. I don’t remember what was said, but I know him and I know it was something humorous. His place in the kitchen was supposedly by my side but realistically it was behind me in a hold, whispering jokes in my ear to break me away from my concentration. To others, I know the gesture would be discouraged or found to be annoying but to me, it was more than welcomed. It’s who we were, Rick and Tilly, the comedian and the baker.

One year ago, I went out on a limb and applied for a six-month bakery course in Italy. We’d decided it would be our next adventure as we’d always wanted to visit Italy together and what better way to explore than living there for half a year. It’s all we spoke about. Once I got my acceptance letter, we made all the appropriate arrangements to make sure everything is covered at the bakery whilst we were gone.

We’d planned trips to neighbouring towns and even two-day trips away to well-known cities according to my schedule. Our six months in Italy was going to be everything and more.

Unbeknown to me, Patrick had been having doubts. Doubts on whether he should leave his job for so long after getting a promotion within his marketing team to chase his girlfriend around Italy. Even though all had been approved and his job reassured him that his role was not at risk.

He argued, ‘I’m turning thirty in a month Tils; I can’t go on a six-month vacation.’

I hesitantly sit up, a stabbing pain shoots down my side. The beach is nearly empty. The sun is hidden on the horizon and a night sky of multiple shades of deep blue's surround me. Gripping tightly onto the metallic railing with one hand, I balance myself and slip on my socks and shoes. Steadily, I put one foot in front of the other. I stop at a store and buy a pair of silver rim sunglasses. My packing for this trip had no organisation or planning to it. It was frantic. I know sunglasses won’t be the only thing I’ve forgotten. I tie back my jet black long straight hair into a messy bun at the top of my head. Using the store's mirror, I wipe away the smudged eye makeup. A silent involuntary laugh leaves my lips after taking in my appearance. The only positive would be the grey of my blue eyes has become more dominant, which I prefer. Although my laugh was unwelcomed, it’s the beginning. It’s been less than forty-eight hours and my body has reacted in a way unrelated to being broken-hearted.

Perhaps, I’ll learn to let go because time has allowed me to heal. If there were a right place to heal, this would be it.

In time, I’ll be alright.

And, I know, I’ll be happy once more, but as of now, as of this day, I’m indisputably grieving. Today is the day I give in to my emotions.

I take a final glance at the beach. The waves slowly disburse at the shore, a clear sky above, acoustics from nearby chatter, I take in a steady breath; it is truly a serene feeling.

I slow my pace down, to take in every aspect. The midsummer aroma. The infinite mopeds that whiz by. The gelato store at every corner. The radiant Mediterranean architect. The unfamiliarity that surrounds me, is soothing.

“Ciao bella.” An elderly lady says. I give her a polite smile and timid wave back.

Closing in, a sense of hope rushes through me, it’s freeing. I’m optimistic.

Standing somewhat tall, I look ahead. The leaves fall with every light gust of wind, creating a welcome mat outside the door. All the buildings look identical to my foreign gaze. The only distinctive feature of the house I’m going to live in is that there's a tall pear tree inches away from the front door, angled in a way that the branches create an archway. I asked the landlord if I’m allowed to use the pears, he told me I could. I’ve always had a warm spot for pear crumble.

I close the thick old-style wooden door behind me.

I stand amidst my next chapter.

I take in a stable breath.

I’m ok.

I’m home.