Page 2 of The Likelihood Of You

For the first time since I arrived in the city, three weeks and four days ago, it’s raining. Up until this moment, I’d been silently thriving in the sun. Back home, the sun in April was a rarity. We’d be lucky to get a single afternoon of basking in eighteen-degree weather, and we’d be over the moon with just that until July. But here, it’s been cerulean skies and pure sunshine, and I could see myself getting used to it.

But, with how I’m feeling after my call with my Nanna, it’s a welcome thing: the rain. It was almost like Mother Nature had been watching me struggle to find my new normal and decided to send some of that homely familiarness my way, the kind I’d been craving lately.

And there was nothing like a rainstorm and dark grey clouds to make a homesick Brit feel at home.

“Thanks, babe,” I whispered to the sky.

That’s not to say that I haven’t found my groove here. I have a routine. A morning one, but still a productive one. One that romanticises my life whilst also being a helpful one.

Each day I’ve been here (minus the first eight days when I was too scared to leave the cosiness and safety of my apartment), I’ve woken up, sat through the same phone call with Nanna Dot, waltzed downstairs to read what I can of the leaning tower of books on my living room floor, picked out an outfit that makes me feel like a put together woman (still working on that mentally) and headed to The Rolling Pin Bakery for what I can only describe as an apple pie that was blessed by the baking Gods, and a morning of job hunting and internally panicking about how drastically my life has changed in just over a month.

But this morning feels different.

Perhaps it’s the rain. Maybe my mind has seen it and gone back into hibernation mode. Like it always does when there’s a storm.

Thunderstorms are my guilty pleasure. I’ve always loved them. I considered ditching my baking skills and trading them in to be a storm chaser from the age of five until around twelve because I was so fascinated by them. My older sister, Sydney, was too. Whenwe were little, whenever a storm was heading our way, we’d run to the messy cupboard and grab all the blankets and cushions our little arms could carry, build a fort on our front doorstep, and watch the storm pass over us like it was our favourite film. We’d then be nursing colds for the next few days after that, but we didn’t care, especially if it meant we got a day or two off school.

The last time we did that was around two months ago. Usually, thinking back to those memories makes my heart all warm and fuzzy, filling my mind with the nostalgia of girlhood.

But I don’t get that feeling this time. Right now, there’s no warmth in my heart, only the faint vibrations of it cracking again in the places I’d somewhat mended. It hurts, too, because my brain is screaming at me to ditch the breakfast run and the job search to stay in, wrap myself in a blanket and watch the show instead.

I’m so wired with this tradition that the sight of the raindrops spilling down the window is breaking my heart all over again. And we said no destruction course today, so I spin around on my heels, my head now facing my bedroom.

But I glance over my shoulder slightly and whisper, “Bitch.” right back at Mother Nature.

After reading and throwing together an outfit composed of my beige trench coat, brown tartan skirt, thin cream jumper and patent Mary Janes in the same colour, I brave the storm and head into the rainfall, ignoring the pull that’s trying to keep me home today.

Luckily, the walk to the Rolling Pin, or Pins as I’ve come to understand is the nickname for this place, doesn’t take long, so I make it inside mostly unsoaked, and my freshly washed, blow-dried and curled hair remains intact. I shake my umbrella outside the doorbefore I close it, joining the nearly out-of-the-door line and my eyes dragging up and taking in the aesthetics of the place.

God, was this place adorable.

I remember that being my first thought when I walked in here for the first time. I have a huge place in my heart for stores with cute aesthetics, and these sage green tiles behind the counter and the rattan lampshades and marble tables take up a lot of that space now. As my eyes roamed over the seating area of the bakery, hopping over occupied tables and faces of mixed emotions on this Monday morning, they landed on the thing I was searching for: the table in the corner that I’d secretly claimed as mine. And it was free.

It’s smushed right by the window that overlooks the West entrance of Central Park, and sitting there lets me people-watch to my heart’s content. But I loved it purely because of how the sun hit there in the morning, spilling through the window and making me feel like a house cat that had found the perfect patch of sunlight to bask in all day. In some ways, the rain makes it even more perfect.

And if I try hard enough, I can sit there and ignore how the rain is making me feel, and enjoy it how I should instead.

I ditch the view of my table for now, following my nose that had picked up on the signature scent of fresh apple pie instead, letting my head fall back toward the line, ready to start my day with sugar and spice and seriously good baked carbs. My new normal.

But as I try to read the specials board on the other side of the counter, my attention is rudely snatched away by the guy blocking me from seeing what the dollar pastry is today.

Wait. No, my mistake. Themanthat’s blocking me from seeing what the dollar pastry is today.

I try to shuffle my body to see around him, rising onto my tiptoes and angling my head every way I can, but it’s pointless. My five foot six frame, even with the added inches from my shoes, is nothing compared to his six foot something stance. And I wasn’t about to huff and puff my way to getting what I wanted; I’d never been that person. So until he moves on his own accord, I let my eyes casually drape over him.

His body is slightly twisted from the way that he’s scoping out the pastry display, meaning I can only see the right side of him. My eyes drop down to his lower half, taking in his light blue jeans that slightly hug his thighs but are loose everywhere else, then making an S shape with my line of vision to avoid gormlessly staring at his arse. They then cling onto the loose white button-up that’s tucked into those jeans and rolled up to his elbows, my sneaky eyes lingering over his toned and tanned forearms for a second longer than they should have.

Usually, I wouldn’t pay such close attention to strangers or their forearms, but I’m having a tough time taking my eyes away from him; for whatever reason, I don’t know. But I don’t question it, and I’m not sure why I don’t either.

I trail upwards and along his back, noting how his shirt becomes increasingly less loose the further towards his shoulders I get. Ignoring the little roller coaster drop in my stomach after clocking that, I follow the line of strained muscles up his neck, which leads me to an arrow-sharp jawline with a blanket of stubble laid across it, which is then only a hop, skip and a jump away from his parted mouth.

Subtly, I study the side of his face, being mindful not to ogle him so much that he can sense eyes on him, but just enough that I can take it in. I wander over his velvety brunette hair that drapes overhis forehead and stops below his eyebrows, which droop towards his temples. Although, I can only see the tail end of them, because they’re both neatly guarded by a pair of, would you believe it, sunglasses.

I pause for a second and do a double take, twisting my head toward the nearest window to make sure it was raining and my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. But no, the sideways stream of water gushing down every window confirms I’m not going crazy.

My head springs back to him, my curls whipping me as I do. We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm,man;surely an umbrella would be a better way of blocking the rain. Is this a new trend I’ve missed while hiding away in my flat?

From then on, I felt my out-of-the-blue fascination for themanskyrocket. Sunglasses in a thunderstorm weren’t normal, which was probably why I gazed at them for however long I did. And like I said, paying such close attention to strangers, especially ones of the male species after recent events, wasn’t something I’d ever done, but I can’t help it. It’s almost like he’s one of the storm clouds hovering in the sky right now, all dark and moody and something I know I shouldn’t be fixating on.

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