It’s the crack of dawn on Sunday morning, and Mereki is leaving for a two-month work project in Sydney. He’s going to miss my twenty-third birthday, and I can’t bring myself to raise the subject of our five-year pact to return to the river.
“Wait,” I say, halting his approach to the front door. “I need to say something.”
He turns to face me with a stony expression.
“This can’t go on,” I say, directing my gaze at the floor rather than him. This is hard, but I have to get the words out before he leaves. I owe this to myself at the very least. “I love you, and I know you still love me, but I can’t keep hoping things are going to get better because they’re not.” Glancing up, I think his eyes have softened slightly, but his tight jaw and clenched teeth speak volumes. “We need this break.” I can barely stand to say those traitorous words, but the truth often hurts far more than the lies we tell ourselves.
Striding purposefully past him, I open the door and lean against it. “Things will either be better when you return, or we’re done.”
As he passes me, he nods and holds up his hand in a small wave. I want to curl into a ball on the floor. He wasn’t supposed to agree to that. How could he agree to the possibility of us being over?
Defiantly shaking my head, I slam the door shut, then whisper, “I’ll never say goodbye to you.”
Yesterday was the wake-up call I needed. Pushing some pebbles into the ground wasn’t going to magically solve anything between Mereki and me, but it reminded me of the passion I once felt burning inside. I miss that feeling so much. How could I have expected him to stick around with a drifting shell of a person? I know he loves me, but he didn’t sign up for this.
Instead of moping around the apartment, I drive myself to some markets south of the city. A flyer had been pushed under the door at work one day last week, and it had caught my eye. I find a park easily and kick myself for not having come here before. It’s a lively cacophony of sights, sounds, and smells.
My mouth waters when irresistible wafts of freshly-baked bread hit my nostrils. As if I have no control over my legs, I’m walking towards the stall responsible for my body’s reaction. The large selection of loaves, rolls, and pastries make my mouth water. Classic French baguettes stand tall in a row of baskets along the front of the stall, and a rotund man with a big smile, rosy cheeks and a black beret perched on his head holds his arms out wide.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Ca va?”
“Bonjour,” I reply, my cheeks heating. I was always hopeless with languages and desperately wish I could reply with more than just a meek hello.
“Emerson?”
I look up and find Josh standing next to me holding a big bunch of flowers. “Oh. Hey, Josh.” I shift on my feet. It feels strange seeing him in person after months of communicating via cupcakes and art.
“How are you?” he asks, swapping the enormous bouquet from one arm to the other.
“I’m good. Fine. I was just going to buy some bread.”
“I see that.” He glances at the stall, then back to me. “It smells amazing.”
Unsure whether this is the end of our conversation, I turn my attention to the friendly vendor. “I’d like a light rye sourdough loaf, please.”
“Great choice,” Josh says. “I’ll take one of those, too, please.”
We both thank the vendor after paying and take our loaves wrapped in paper a few steps away from the stall.
“Are you here alone?” Josh asks, looking around me.
I nod, trying and most likely failing, to hide my sadness.
“I know the last time I asked, you shot me down, but I’m willing to risk one more rejection. Can I buy you a coffee?” Without waiting for my response, he continues, gesturing with a wave of his arm towards the other end of the market. “There’s a new stall selling beans. I’m pretty sure they’re making takeaway coffees, too. I was just on my way there when I saw you.” His easy-going personality makes me feel so comfortable.
“I would love a coffee,” I reply, not allowing myself to second-guess my decision. “You like markets?” I ask as we jostle our way through the crowds, passing a variety of stalls.
“Some,” he replies. “What about you?”
“I love these markets so far.”
Once Josh has ordered our coffees, he turns back to me, and it’s the first time I’ve seen a glimmer of nervousness mar his features and I find it charming. “So. How have you been?” he asks.
“I’m okay, thanks.” I swish my yellow sundress and smile in a way I fear is flirtatious. “I’m enjoying this warmer weather.”
His eyes appear to drink me in, and my whole body reacts. It feels as if I’m being awakened from a long sleep and I want him to touch me. It’s a shocking thought, and I know the smile disappears from my face. What is wrong with me? This man is playing havoc with my body, and I instinctively take a step back.
If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. “Shall we walk and talk?” he asks, and I quickly agree. It is far less confronting having a conversation on the move than face-to-face, where the only thing I’ll be looking at is him.
“I love your drawings, Josh,” I say after a beat.
“I love your cupcakes,” he says, winking at me.
“Will you tell me more about your classes? What does art therapy actually mean?”
“It can mean whatever you want it to mean.”
I study his features to try to work out if he’s being serious or not. That makes no sense at all.
“Some of my students know why they’re there and what they need, and others discover along the way.” He smiles warmly. “I like to think I’m helping them help themselves.”
I school my features because what he says impacts me, and I don’t want him to know how much. “That sounds really fascinating.”
“I have a new group starting on Wednesday if you’d like to stop by and check it out. If you hate it, you don’t have to come back on Thursday.”
I take a sip of my coffee to avoid answering straight away. “Is it the same class both nights?”
He shakes his head. “Each class follows on from the next, and I encourage my students to attend both sessions each week. I find we can achieve more if there isn’t a whole week in between.”
“What’s involved in art therapy exactly?” I ask, genuinely interested.
“Why don’t you let me show you on Wednesday evening,” he says with a wry smile.
I meet his gaze but not his humour. I’m still torn. “It’s a definite maybe.”
For the next hour, we stroll around the remaining stalls, picking up the occasional thing we fancy. I can’t help buying half the chocolate stall, and he purchases a large selection of nuts. I smile more than I have in quite a long time and don’t want it to end. Inevitably, we run out of stalls, and I know we will be parting ways soon when we find ourselves back at the bread stand.
“Well thanks for keeping me company, Josh,” I say, as lightheartedly as I can.
He steps forward and kisses me on the cheek, then whispers in my ear, “The pleasure was all mine. Come to my class on Wednesday.”
My breath hitches, and a small gasp escapes my lips. My whole body is on fire, and I raise my hand to where he kissed me in a bid to cool down the flush that is no doubt flaming across my cheeks.
Gracelessly, I stumble back a few steps and mutter a stuttered goodbye.
When I’m far enough away to be able to breathe again, I can’t resist a glance over my shoulder. Josh is still standing there holding the enormous bouquet of flowers, watching me leave.