Page 17 of Chasing You

PAST

It’s so loud herein Sorrento, the buzz of activity never stops. With tourists hopping from bar to bar and locals heading to the beach after a day of work, there isn’t much silence. The only silence I get is in my summer house, but I like it more out here.

A small smile creeps onto my face as I watch the lady in the small stall on the side of the road grinning from ear to ear as she hands over a generous slice of tiramisu to the couple in front of her. Their eyes glimmer as they look down at it.

I can’t help the way my feet walk myself over to the stall. “Ciao.”

“Benvenuto, signore!”She smiles wide.

“I’ll have a slice of that, please,” I say, nodding towards the dessert right in front of me.

“Certamente!” She dishes me up a slice into a cardboard container and passes me a wooden fork. In return, I give her all the miscellaneous coins I’ve collected over the past week since I arrived and told her she could have all of them. I hate having spare change, especially when it’s in a currency I still haven’t mastered the art of knowing yet.

I spy a park bench and sit down, opening the box and not wasting a second before digging my fork into the dessert. I groan in delight as the flavours hit my tongue.Damn, that’s good.

I lean back in the seat, resting my ankle over my other knee, letting myself relax for a moment. I close my eyes against the bright sun and lean my head back.

Maybe this whole work break thing wasn’t such a bad idea. Don’t get me wrong, I miss flying, but I feel a different level of content sitting here on the side of the street with some homemade tiramisu. As I breathe in the fresh air, my mind flashes back to a memory of my sister and me when we were young, sitting on a bench just like this in Central Park, eating our ice cream like we did every Sunday after seeing our grandparents.

It was this little tradition our family had, and in those moments with Isla, I always felt comfort and peace.

That was back before either Isla or I grew up and felt weighed down by our parent's expectations.

As soon as I hit high school age, things changed for me. I did less sports, had less friends, I spent more time at the kitchen table doing homework than anything else. The focus changed from me being a kid to me being a prodigy. My grades were the most important thing, the most talked-about topic. I went to career expos when I was fifteen, my parents taking me around, asking me what I wanted to do. I wasn’t interested in being a firefighter, a surgeon, or an accountant, like my dad. The only thing that caught my eye was the guy in the pilot’s uniform, who had the biggest smile on his face, like he was excited to be there, talking to me. So that’s what we went with. A pilot. That became the dream. The thing my parents clung to from that day until I got my acceptance letter to the Paragon flight school in Florida.

Maybe that’s why this break feels okay to me. For once, no one is watching me, I can just be Miles, eating a gigantic slice of tiramisu on the side of the street.

I think back to my sister. She’s been at college for two years now studying fine arts. My parents were never happy with herdecision to study that, but she’s there nonetheless. I just hope she follows her own path when she graduates.

I should really call her, I haven’t heard Isla’s voice in months.

I open my eyes, the sun seeming brighter than it was before I closed them, and shovel another fork full of tiramisu into my mouth.

Now, instead of closing my eyes, I keep them wide open, watching the world go past. Two young girls go skipping past me, seeming like they’re on a sugar high. I can’t help but smile, seeing kids happy makes me happy.

I’ve always imagined having a few of my own, always imagined the big smiles on their faces when I take them into the cockpit of a plane.

In the time I’ve been sitting here, a queue has formed at the lady’s stall, everyone wanting a piece of the amazing dessert. I don’t blame them, it’s fucking delicious.

Italian chatter surrounds me now, and I pay attention to it even though I have no clue what they’re saying. But I like to listen to it nonetheless, the language is enchanting. But my eavesdropping is quickly interrupted by the sound of a motorbike rumbling through the busy street.

A dark, sturdy bike swings around the corner and as the sun catches on it, I see the stripe of red along the side, but not before I notice the abundance of curls hanging out of the back of the helmet.

Marina.

I haven’t seen her since that night in the bar. The night where I kissed a woman the day after I met her. The night where she kissed me back.

Well, if we’re being specific, she really started it, butgod. I’ve never felt more alive than the moment her lips touched mine.

I know it’s crazy that we’ve only just met and yet I’m thinking about her more than I care to admit. I avoided the bar for a couple of nights after that kiss. Not wanting to scare her, not wanting to walk in there and have her tell me that it was amistake when all I can think about is how perfectly her lips felt against mine.

She rolls her bike to a stop right in front of the bench I’m currently sitting on. I look around to see if there’s someone else who caught her eye, but when she pulls her helmet off her head, the only place those hazel eyes are looking is at me.

“Hey, hotshot,” she says, fixing her hair from her helmet as she rests it on her thigh that’s wrapped in black leather pants.

I think I’m living in a fantasy. Amazing tiramisu, a sexy woman on a motorbike speaking to me?Definitely a fantasy.

“Hey,” I say stupidly. “You ride a motorbike?”

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