The only time I ever questioned my decision to move across the globe, away from my doting family, were the days when my alarm blared at five in the morning. As I shoved my feet into slippers and stood shivering in the cold waiting for my dog to do his business, I knew that if I had stayed home like any sane person I would be still sleeping right now and definitely not shivering. But mornings like these, mornings where I had to drag myself to work and put on my ridiculous uniform and stand outside the warm bakery and ask strangers whether they wanted to try a warm bun were mornings I wish I was back in Georgia. Usually though, I thought my decision to move to London was one of the best decisions of my life.
Arriving at the bakery a little later, I came to the conclusion that it wasn't the place itself that I hated. I hated the workers, for they were all female and didn't like me very much. If it was up to them, I would never have been hired. I had even heard one of my coworkers whisper to another that I was too pretty, too nice, and my accent too foreign to work here. I don't know exactly where she thought I should work, but apparently a bakery was the wrong place. Fortunately, the old man who owned the little shop liked me and apologized when I was always the one standing outside in a short dress styled to look like an apron handing out free sample pastries.
The old man was there, sure enough, to apologize as soon as I emerged from the tiny bathroom the establishment offered while attempting to tug my dress down. My only consolation was that at least I had legs to pull this outfit off. "Good morning, Brooke. I wish you didn't have to stand out there freezing all morning, but hey, sales have been looking good since you were hired." The old man chuckled lightheartedly before making his way to the ovens in the back. I tried to stare at the ground, doing whatever to avoid contact with the other girls that worked there, but I still heard the whispers anyway as I grabbed the blistering pan of buns.
Stepping outside, I shivered in the steady breeze. On a summer day, this breeze would be heavenly. However, this breeze on an overcast November day in London wasn't so great. Usually I thought of the sweltering summers of my hometown spent tanning by the pool when I was out here, freezing my butt off. And when a group of boys walked past, whistling, I thought of my best guy friends back home who would beat these thin, stylishly dressed Brits to a pulp for even looking at me twice.
As the day progressed, the temperature grew with it until around late morning. Shoppers were already prowling the streets, most likely getting their holiday shopping over with as soon as possible. So far, the morning had been quiet, and I was too common a fixture on these streets to warrant very many stares anymore. At 10:30, the female manager, Ava, I think, stomped outside shoving a not very hot cup of coffee into my hand. I sighed, drinking a little of the bitter, black liquid before sinking into one of the freezing cast iron chairs the bakery offered for patrons who wanted to sit outside.
At exactly 10:45, as usual, my mother called me. As usual, I answered on the second ring and plastered a huge smile onto my face. Unfortunately, my mom insisted on using Facetime, so she could see me she claimed, though I'm pretty sure she is more interested in where I'm at when I'm answering her calls. "Good morning." I quietly tell her, for the sun has barely risen back home and my mother is not a morning person. She doesn't even return my greeting, instead squinting her eyes at the screen, a crease forming between her brows.
"Brooke! That damn bakery still has you working in a too short dress in the cold?" I can tell this bothers her even more than it bothers me, because she considers anything below 80 degrees Fahrenheit Antarctica. "It's really not that cold." I lie to her, attempting to placate her. She's the type of person to call or email the bakery dramatically complaining for me, which would only result in my firing. "Well, today's high here is 82. You could be wearing shorts and a tshirt right now if you were home." She stares at me hard through the screen, hoping I'll crack and beg to be sent money for a plane ticket home. "Christmas isn't too far away." I tell her. Though I managed to get out of coming home for Thanksgiving (even if I wanted to return home I couldn't, since my university doesn't recognize American holidays) my mother was adamant about me returning home for Christmas. To be honest, I missed my old room and my family. I was not ready for all the questions my grandparents and aunt and uncle would ask me though, especially my aunt, with her greedy eyes and deprecating mouth. Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to my mother with a shake of my head. "Your father misses you even more than I do, you know." I genuinely smiled and she continued, "You two were kindred spirits. Now he has no one to agree with him about me." Though my mother was being funny, she was right. Though I was beautiful like my mom: tall, slender but with curves in the right places, dark hair, and bright green eyes I took after my father's family when it came to personality. I was generally quiet, softer spoken, and shy, though radiated an inner self confidence and affability that make us readily likeable and easy going. However, my wanderlust was a trait I had all to myself which vexed all of my family to no end. "I miss him a lot too. I miss all of you, really." I say to her, knowing that this conversation will have to draw to an end soon for my manager is now standing above me, arms crossed, impatiently tapping her feet. My mom is saying something else now, but I cut her off. "I have to go back to work now, Mom. I'll talk to you later." I tell her and hang up in the middle of her rant over how I needed a jacket. After Ava, the manager, watches me shove the phone back into my bra, she quickly stomps back inside, muttering under her breath all the way.
I hear the chiming of bells somewhere, signaling 11 o'clock. I sigh, desperately wishing for 12:30. The hour passes uneventfully, and my feet start to cramp. I whisper 'only thirty more minutes' to myself like a mantra until suddenly a tall boy rounds the corner, running full speed and looking over his shoulder all the while. He is still looking over his shoulder when he smacks right into me sending my half empty tray of cold buns fly everywhere and knocking me down. I am in the process of getting to my feet when the boy yanks me up quickly, almost sending me toppling over again. He shoots out his hands and places one on either side of my arms, making sure I won't fall over again. I can't help but laugh at his concerned apologies. "You don't need to apologize so much. Really, it's fine. I've heard of the term running from your demons, but you actually seem to be living the phrase." I joke. The boy laughs and I notice he is dressed in a careless way, but expensively too. He looks familiar also, but I push that thought away.
"I wouldn't exactly call it my demons; more along the lines of: be careful what you wish for." "I know exactly what you mean." I told him, smiling slightly. "What, is the career of handing out cold bread in a dress not as glamorous as you first thought it would be?" "How'd you guess?"
After a pause, he smiled and said, "Nice American accent." I shrugged at his comment, used to hearing it about nine times a day. "It's Southern, definitely." He added, much to my surprise. I nod quickly, elated that someone knows that my accent is Southern, not a brand of stupid.
"I'm Brooke." I tell the boy warmly. He just smiles back, and I wait for him to say his name, but he doesn't. After a moment of my raised eyebrows he looks at me oddly before opening his mouth to say his name. Before he can get anything out however, we both hear a faint roar, like the screams of many girls at once. I glance at him quickly to notice his face has paled noticeably. He starts backing away from me. "Maybe I'll see you around, Brooke." He says earnestly before sprinting off in the opposite direction he came from.
"Maybe you will." I answer quietly, not sure as to whether he heard me or not. I pick up the cold buns and head inside.
Once in the bakery, Ava is furious. She fires me, which isn't that surprising or heartbreaking. Me spilling the rock hard buns was just an excuse for her to fire me, which I am honestly fine with. I hang up my outrageous costume for the last time, hug the old man goodbye, and make my way back to my apartment.
During my walk, I decide to call my mother again. She picks up on the last ring, sounding slightly out of breath. "Brooke! I didn't expect you to call so early. You don't usually get off for another thirty minutes. Did they let go you go early because they realized how hard of a worker you are?"
"Just the opposite actually; I was just fired."
"Fired?! Why were you fired?" She screeched, and in the background I can hear her best friend, Jamie, laughing. Most likely they are being too loud in the local Starbucks or Dunkin' Donuts, laughing at the top of their lungs and gossiping about their children.
"This boy knocked me down and the bread I was holding went everywhere."
"That wasn't even your fault. I would tell you to complain, but that job was completely shit anyway. You're pretty enough to be hired anywhere; you'll have another job by tomorrow." My mom tells me. I think about telling her that being pretty is part of the real reason I was fired but decide not to, because I know a speech from my mom would follow about how some people would always be jealous. "Was the boy cute at least?" I roll my eyes. Of course she would ask that. But then again, I can't really blame her. Where I come from, grandchildren were the biggest worry on the mind of a fifty something woman with an eligible daughter. I decide to patronize her, "Extremely attractive."
"Did you two talk? Did you get his number? I bet he likes you. What did he look like? How old do you think he was? Do you like him?" My mom chatters, and it takes all I have not to hang up on her.
"Well, he did knock me off my feet, literally."
"Are you going to see him again?" She asks excitedly.
"I'll call later to tell you whether to plan a spring or fall wedding." I deadpan and promptly hang up, thanking God I was over four thousand miles away from Georgia.