Through Her Eyes (3 page)

“Our apologies for the delay everyone, but Flight 595 to London Heathrow will now begin the boarding process. We’ll start with our passengers with small children and anyone needing special assistance followed by our first class passengers.”

And just like that, my fate is sealed.

A new adventure.

A new beginning.

Seated in my cocooned bubble, I lift my head from my hidden nook and pop up to look around. The Virgin Atlantic plane reminds me of a spaceship. Futuristic seating and neon pink lighting runs throughout the length of the interior. In the front of the plane, they even have a full service bar. Seems a bit silly to me, but to each his own. Moving my eyes to the entrance of the plane, I watch a steady stream of passengers entering. A cute waitress dressed in a red, seventies style dress guides the excited passengers to their seats.

I feel robbed of the excitement.

Reaching into my purse, my fingers touch the cold surface of my phone. I need to turn it off, but before I do, guilt creeps upon me. I really need to send Sophie a text.

I know I’m being selfish for making you worry. I know you want to be there for me, and I really appreciate it. I promise if I need you, I’ll call. Love you.

Acidity burns in my stomach. The fear of the unknown claws at me. I have a basic idea of where I’m going, but all in all, I’m fucked. Park and I planned this trip. Well, he planned it. He’d already been everywhere so planning our adventure was a no-brainer to him. All I did was buy a few more pins and stick them securely in the map. That was my contribution to the big trip. My way of claiming the places I dreamed to go. Places we could witness together for the first time.

As I settle back in my seat, the white noise of passengers talking hums in the background. Pulling the shade up, I glance out the window and notice rain has started to fall down the pane. This afternoon when I left, the sun poured brilliant rays of burnt orange across the city, and now it’s as if the heavens are crying for me. My hand clutches my chest. My heart thrums heavily
. It feels like it might explode.
The flow of the oxygen I’m inhaling feels restricted as the plane’s tires move. I want to grab for the oxygen mask and breathe in heavily, but I know that’s just crazy. It would get me a one-way ticket right off this plane, and I need this. I need to get away.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’re currently number one for takeoff.”

His words become a distant noise as my pulse picks up. I share a glance with the passenger in the seat across from me.
White knuckles
. She’s as scared as I am. Great! If this plane bumps up and down, I won’t be the only one screaming. She digs inside her purse, pulls out a little white pill, and places it under her tongue.
Traitor.

My stomach drops as the weight of the moment hits me. I’m doing this. I’m really doing this. My hands become sweaty, and I clench my fists. My eyes shut out the outside world, and I try to take calming breaths. My foot taps as I wait.

We begin to take flight.

Park.

As if my soul is tethered to his back in New York, my emotions pull and snap. The strength I’m trying to hold onto comes crashing down. I’m suffocating. Silent sobs join the moisture caressing my cheeks. I clench my eyes shut to stop the onslaught of emotions that threaten to expel. I hear his words as clearly as the day he spoke them.

“Ari, as my friend Everest always says . . . stay in the present, don’t live in the past. Be strong. Be you.”

When I’d first heard those words, they’d angered me. Once again, Everest was interfering in Parkers life, and mine. But now I had no choice but to heed his words.

Inhale.

I. Can. Do. This.

I can be strong.

Even if I have to do it
alone.

Twenty-seven days since I spoke to Parker

3
8,880 MINUTES SINCE
I said those horrible words to him.

We have arrived at Heathrow.
London.
I made it. I pick up the phone and begin to dial, but the ghost of my words makes me stop. Shaking my head, I begin to place it back in my bag, but not before I look one more time at the picture of Park. I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes to think. When I reopen them, I turn my phone off.

My heart pounds as I reach overhead to grab my bag and make my way off the plane. With each movement I make, the fluttery feeling in my stomach gets worse. I walk through long corridors and brightly lit hallways. Each twist and turn makes this seem more real. A whiff of an airport restaurant filters through my nostrils, and my stomach turns.
How do I get out of this airport
?

I pick up my pace and search for the baggage claim because I know I can find a ride from there. I make my way through the cavernous room. There is no reason to pause, as I didn’t even check a bag. All I have for this adventure is a small rolling carry-on. Packing light is key when your journey is not planned. How do you even know what to bring when you don’t know where you will be? Hell, I don’t know where I’ll end up. London isn’t my final stop, merely my layover. Pretty great layover spot if you ask me. I figure I’ll stay two nights and see a few sights, using Parker’s stories as my guide.

The cab ride into London is everything I expect. My cabbie is a complete gentleman, and he doubles as a tour guide and historian. By the time we arrive in Mayfair, I’m officially an expert on London and know its complete history. I also know the hottest bars, the most classic places to drink tea, and all the best restaurants.

The driver turns down the street and pulls up to the legendary Brown’s Hotel.
Wow!
I think as I take in the façade. It drips with English elegance, which makes complete sense, as it’s the oldest hotel in London. My lips turn up for the first time in twenty-four hours. By habit, I reach for my phone in my purse, but before my fingers grasp it, I decide against it.
Nope. No phones.
Shaking my head, I decide I’ll shoot Sophie a text later. I’m too tired and drained to deal with any questions she might reply with.

A young man in uniform reaches for the door. I admire his elegant gray suit.
Smart
. My eyes move upward, and I take in his matching top hat. To an American seeing this for the first time, he could have easily passed for one of the best-dressed men on Savile Row. As he opens the door and welcomes me, I’m completely taken aback by his pleasant and friendly demeanor.

“Welcome to the Brown’s Hotel. Will you be checking in?” I nod my head at him and my lips part slightly.

“May I help you with your bag?” He walks toward me, his hand outstretched.

“No, I have it, but thank you so much.” Making my way through the doors, I head towards the front desk. There I’m greeted by a giant smile and a name tag. Mary it reads and she’s the definition of hospitable, beaming at me from behind the counter.

“Good morning. Welcome to the Brown’s Hotel. How can I be of service to you today?

“Hi. Good morning. I have a reservation under the name Bennett.”

“Yes, Miss. Bennett. I have your reservation for a queen room for two nights, is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Let me grab your key. If you need anything—dinner reservations, a car—please let me know. It would be my pleasure to assist you.”

After she hands me my key, she names the services the concierge can help me with. My body relaxes as relief courses through my veins.

Opening the door to my room, I place my belongings on the carpeted floor and make my way inside. I throw myself onto the queen size bed sitting in the middle of the room. My eyes run over the lush surroundings as I settle in. This really is perfection. Parker was right. Park
. . . Shit!
As my body begins to sink into the mattress, I realize just how exhausted I’ve become.

I’m drained, weathered and beaten.

I lost myself somewhere and this trip is my chance to find it, being tired is my cross to bear.

So, what’s the first thing you do when you’re trying to find yourself when in a foreign country and staying at a luxury hotel? Break open the mini bar.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m a classy girl.
I reach for the phone.

“Room service, please.” My fingers tap anxiously on the table as I wait to be connected.

“Hello. May I please have a bottle of Bollinger? One glass—”

“There will be only one of you?” she inquires.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“So, first things first. We go to London, kiddo.” Park smiled at me. At seventeen he was finally filling out to match his tall frame. He was so handsome, I only wished he would see me as more than his best friend’s little sister. While he’d grown into his looks, I wasn’t much to look at. I was way too tall and skinny at fifteen to be considered attractive. Gangly, like a giraffe. I had no shot at Parker looking at me the way I saw him look at other girls.

“We’ll stay at the Brown’s Hotel.”

“Not the Ritz?” I winked at him.

“Nah, Aria. The Brown’s, it’s right down the road in Mayfair. Only seconds from Bond Street, but it has this classic charm. You will love it. I can already see you sitting there at The English Tea Room. All prim and proper. So you.”

“What are you trying to say, I can’t have fun? I have a stick up my ass?”

“No, of course not. Just, this place is right up your alley, that’s all. Don’t get so sensitive. You know I love ya.” My insides warmed.

“You’re like the sister I never had.” And then they froze. My breath came out heavy as I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“Okay, Park. The Brown’s it is. High tea at four o’clock. I’ll wear an ostentatious hat to match the giant stick up my ass.” I stuck my tongue out at him and hoped that would take away the uncomfortable feeling hanging in the air.

Shaking my head, I walk across the room and into the bathroom . . . the loo. I’m in England, after all. Fifteen minutes later, while barefoot and wrapped in only a towel, a soft knock sounds through the room. I pull the towel a bit tighter and make sure it’s secure before I reach out to open the door. Naked and dripping wet is not the impression I want to leave on the room service guy.

An older gentleman in a black suit steps into the room. When he walks past me, he barely glances my way. I want to thank him for leaving me with what little dignity I have left which the tiny towel only covers. He makes his way further into the room and efficiently sets the bottle in a bucket of ice. The desire to give him a big kiss as he uncorks it and pours me a glass floods me.

Champagne . . .
finally.

After he finishes and shuts the door behind him, I pick up the glass.

“Cheers to myself.” Sighing deeply, I lift it to my mouth and feel the bubbles as they caress my throat. The crisp smell tickles my nose when I swallow. The champagne infiltrates my body and proceeds to drown out my thoughts. They have become a soft hum. Through the reflected glass of a large, ornate mirror across the room, I catch a glimpse of myself. Exhaustion reflects back at me. Complete and utter exhaustion.

I wake a while later with a jolt. A faint ray of light peeks in through the sheer draperies adorning the windows facing Albemarle Street. The champagne must have gone straight to my head. I peer at the clock and notice it’s already three o’clock in the afternoon.
Shit.

I almost slept the whole day away. For the life of me I don’t know what to do with myself now. Straightening my clothes that are now wrinkled from sleep, I decide to leave the confines of my room and see London.
I just wish I wasn’t alone.
Fabulous . . . It’s been a whole two seconds, and I’m depressed. This trip is supposed to enlighten me and pull me out of my misery. It’s meant for me to atone and then find my happiness again. Instead, I’m sitting around being sad.

I decide to spend the next few hours taking in the sights. I walk through Bond Street and then hop a cab, continuing my trek around London until I see Buckingham Palace. Unfortunately, I slept through the Changing of the Guard, but even viewing the grand structure leaves me completely breathless. It’s awe-inspiring.