Through Her Eyes (4 page)

Timeless.

Like a typical tourist experiencing London for the first time, I have to visit everything, including Big Ben and Parliament. My heart tugs in my chest as I remember all the times Park and I got stuck driving around in circles back home because we’d missed our exit on the highway. We would always quote our favorite movie “Look kids . . . There’s Big Ben . . . Parliament . . .” We would laugh for hours. My eyes fill with tears at the memory, but I wipe them away.

The glimmer and flair of Piccadilly as the sun starts to set for the day is like being home. It reminds me so much of Times Square at night, of the time I went to see Wicked with Park for my eighteenth birthday. Thinking of him makes my heart hurt. Would he forgive me?

I’d been selfish, stubborn, and blind. Not having Parker is my fault. My shoulders drop forward. I should have fought for him. At the end of the day, that’s all he wanted. That’s all anyone ever wants, to know someone would fight for them. God, I hope deep down, wherever he is, he knows I’m sorry. The only thing that keeps me sane is that tiny sliver of hope.

I suck in a breath as sadness coils in the pit of my stomach. Thoughts of home hurt too much. I can’t allow myself to go there. There will be a time I’ll have to deal with my emotions swirling inside me, but I’m just not ready. Right now, all I’m ready for is to drown myself and my emotions in a drink. It scares me how often my thoughts turn to that vice. Must run in the blood?
I’m nothing like my mother, and I’ll never be.

Searching for a bar, I make my way down Oxford. I pass through the Marble Arch to a little street called Seymour Place. The street is eerie, as the day has now turned to dusk and it’s completely empty. To think, this is just steps away from the buzz of Edgware Road. My skin pricks, and my neck tenses as I take in my surroundings.

The dilapidated state of the buildings only adds to the spooky feeling of the dimly lit street. A few feet up ahead I notice three wood planked picnic tables, a green awning, and the words ‘The Carpenters Arms’. Just what I was looking for—a hole in the wall pub. I scrunch my nose as I walk through the alley toward its unobtrusive entrance. The pungent smell leaves little to be desired as I make my way down the narrow passage. Gathering my composure, I tentatively open the heavy green door and step into the cozy wood paneled bar. I find it’s quite charming despite the shoddy location. It gives me the feeling of family. Of laughter and celebrations. This is the quintessential pub feel I was looking for.

Perfection.

Now for a drink.

I scan the room for a place to sit. I notice three men in business suits. They look completely out of place. My God, are they all wearing the same suit? My eyes roam their finely tailored three-piece ensembles cut slim to their bodies. I can’t help it when my mouth drops open. Are they all drinking the same drink?
Each man has a dark ruby red drink before him. So dark the drinks almost appear black.
Guinness.
Seriously, do they also share one brain? A giggle bursts from my mouth, and I bite my lower lip to stifle another from breaking loose. My feet start to ache from all the sightseeing today, so I’m pleased to spot some open stools at the end of the bar.

“What can I get for you, love?” the bartender asks as he lifts an eyebrow at me.

“Umm . . . a pint please.”
When in Rome or in this case, London.

“Pint of what?” He chuckles.

The men sitting next to me chuckle as well. They’re obviously amused by my choice of drink.
Rude much?

“Guinness, of course.” That sets off another round of laughs from the peanut gallery to my right.

“You sure that’s what you fancy, love?” the bartender asks. He bites back another snicker as the men continue to cackle at me.

I consider whether I should just ignore them, but against my better judgment, I find myself doing quite the opposite. I turn my body toward them as I speak.

“Find something funny?” I focus on the man sitting directly next to me.

“Aye no, nothing at all,” he replies.

“How come I think you’re laughing at me?”

“Well you’re quite a pretty little thing to be drinking a Guinness. I fancy you more a champagne drinker.” His eyes glimmer as he speaks. They are the perfect shade of hazel green, almost like moss in springtime. He’s very handsome in a refined, British way. As if he’s a noble or part of the royal family. It seems he would better fit in a private club in Covent Garden.

“I didn’t think they would have any,” I bite back. There’s no hiding the annoyance in my voice.

“That will be three quid,” the bartender cuts in. I welcome the distraction and dip my hand into my pocket.

“Put that on my tab,” the handsome stranger interjects. Shaking my head adamantly, I try to refuse. I’m here to sit at the bar alone and drink, not chat with him, but Mr. Suave will have nothing of my rejection and proceeds to force me to accept his gift. I keep my eyes on him as I grab the frothy drink now sitting in front of me. Tipping my head, I bring the glass to my mouth and take a big gulp. Big mistake. Huge. I instantly start choking and gagging. It tastes like the piss I imagine they scrape from the bottom of a urinal.

As I catch my breath, the bartender nods and places a glass of white wine in front of me. Needing a chaser and to never again look at that disgusting monstrosity the British call a ‘stout,’ I guzzle my drink like I’m a starving woman having my first meal. I force myself to look up and meet the eyes of the stranger.

“So I was a forgone conclusion?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” His eyebrows waggle, and I roll mine in return.

“Then what am I, just a typical tourist?”

“You’re certainly a lot easier on the eyes than the usual sort we get in here.” He leers at me. A wicked gleam crosses his perfect features as his gaze travels up the length of my long and lean legs. I can almost hear the dirty thoughts running through this stranger’s mind.

I can tell this man is trying to charm me, but unfortunately for him, this is as far as he will get. I might as well have some fun before I break the news to him.

Biting my lip seductively, I lean in, running my tongue against the seam of my mouth. His Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a big gulp. He ate it up. Hook, line, and sinker. His eyes dilate as I speak.

“You’re dreaming that I’ll come home with you, aren’t you? Well, you better wake up,” I deadpan. I grab my glass and chug the remainder of the wine.

“You slay me.” He chuckles as his eyes sparkle. All I can do is shake my head at him.

“Excuse me, sir? Can I have another glass of white wine, please?” I definitely need a new glass, and when that one is done, I’ll need another.

After my latest glass is done, I stumble into the bathroom. I glance at my reflection in the mirror and start splashing water on my eyes. I’m a mess. A horrible person. No matter how much I drink, when I look in the mirror, I can’t change the reflection that stares back at me. No matter how far I go, I’m still there staring back at me, reminding myself of what I did, who I hurt, and what I let myself become. I can’t hide from myself. My hollow eyes always stare back. My brown eyes have become so dark they’re an abyss of nothingness.
This whole trip was a bad idea
.
I won’t find what I’m looking for.

I can’t even stand looking at myself. How am I supposed to tolerate trying to find me?

No.

It’s too late to turn back, and there’s no way I can face what is waiting for me at home. So I head back to the bar and order one more round. The handsome stranger has abandoned his pursuit of me. I’m relieved. I’m used to people leaving me, and learned that it’s easier to push them away first. My brows knit together. He’s much better off. He would have eventually gotten the memo that I’m toxic. That’s me, the toxic girl who ruins everything around her.

I glance up at the ceiling and try to hold back the tears that threaten to flow. As I begin to lose my battle, I’m handed a new glass of wine. I make swift work of it, sigh loudly as I lift it to my lips, and set it down it again. The liquor hits me right upside the head and makes me feel woozy. I whimper as the room starts to spin.

“What’s got you so sad, love?” The bartender studies me as he speaks, his eyes trailing over my face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Walk away bartender, walk away
. I silently pray. You do not want to know the depth of my misery.

“Not often do you have a beautiful American in here all alone, throwing back drinks.” I rest my face in my hands and groan to myself.

“That bad?” the bartender observes.

“Worse,” I mutter through my clenched teeth. I bend forward and rest my head on the bar. The tightening in my chest increases.

“So, where you from?” he asks.

“New York.” I raise my chin and rub at my temples.

“And what brings you to our lovely establishment?”

“I hurt someone. Then shit happened. Then I ran. Apparently, that’s what I do. Aria Bennett, serial runner. I thought maybe if I did this, he’d forgive me. Can I have another—” I hiccup.

The bartender hands me a fresh glass, and I take a giant swig.

“H-h-h-heeeeey!” I hiccup again. Why can’t I stop hiccupping? A laugh bubbles up and escapes my mouth. “This isn’t wine. Whaaat d’ya think ya doinggg?”

“I figured you could use a water. So, who did you hurt, love?”

“Everyoneee. Who didn’t I hurt?” My hands grip the glass goblet tighter as I lift it up in the air. “Okay, sir. Time for more wineeee.” The chairs start to tilt, or maybe it’s the walls. Rising to stand, I stagger forward, but land back in the seat instead.

“I think another glass of water would do you some good.”

“I’m no better than my mom,” I mumble. “She’s a drunk. Hateful bitch. Drunk. God, is she evil.” I laugh. My hands swing forward and almost spill my water.

“Seriously. Sheee devil.” The bartender walks away.

“Heeey. Wheeeere d’ya think yeeeeer goin’?”

“I’m going to call you a cab, love.”

Twenty-eight days since I spoke to Parker

I
WAKE UP EARLY
to acidity trying to fight its way up my throat. My body reminds me of how my first night of my adventure played out. Guinness, wine, darts, wine, a second attempt at Guinness, and another wine chaser. Room spinning. Home.
How the hell did I get home? Not sure.

All I remember is hugging the toilet.

My stomach revolting.

Knowing this is karma.

Laying back in the bed, I cover my head with the blanket and curse my life.
Never drinking again.
My brain pounds as I try to decide how I’ll spend my day.

Museums?

Sightseeing?

Hiding under the covers and pretending last night never happened?

Bingo
.

That’s how I’ll spend the day. I reach across to the bedside table and dial zero.

“Good Morning, Miss Bennett. How may I be of service today?”

“Can I please be connected to room service?”

“It would be my pleasure.” The phone rings twice.

“Room service. How may I help you?” his soft British accent pounds on my hungover brain.

“May I please have eggs, toast . . .” I think for a minute to decide what else would make me feel better. Grease. “Also bacon and orange juice. Oh, and can I also have two Ibuprofen?”

“But of course, Miss. Bennett. Please give us thirty minutes.”

“Thank you.” I hang up the phone and walk across the room, picking up the complimentary postcard the hotel has placed on the desk in my room. My hand can barely write from my exhaustion, but I push through the pain.

Dear Park,

This trip is off to a rocky start. I can barely get out of bed. I might have gone overboard my first night in London. I’m doing a piss poor job of finding myself. At least I saw a few things yesterday, or this stop would have been a complete waste. Tomorrow, I’m off to Tuscany. I wish you were here with me. Having tea at The English Tea Room doesn’t sound so great without you, nothing sounds that great with you not here. Without you by my side, without you next to me.

I know you want me to experience life, but it’s just so hard alone. I wish you were here. I miss you.

All my love,

Ari

I drop the pen, and head back to the bed. My body flops down with a loud thud. My eyes flutter shut, and I begin to fade back into my sanctuary waiting for my hangover cure to arrive. I can’t remember the last time I was this sick. Not since high school probably? It must have been the time my parents left me all alone on my sixteenth birthday. God I remember it so clearly. I’d broken into the liquor cabinet and started guzzling an 18-year-old scotch. At the time I’d no idea what the numbers meant. I’d picked it up because the bottle was prettier than the rest. After downing the burning liquid, I stumbled outside to look at the stars. As the night sky twinkled above me, a feeling of nausea wretched through me. Parker had found me there. He held me as my body shook with sobs and my stomach emptied itself. I remember how the grass cushioning me tickled my knees as I kneeled, letting go of everything I’d consumed in my misery. In Parker’s arms I felt safe and when he eventually went and got me a change of clothes . . . loved. After he cleaned me off, he brought me inside my empty house and sat with me while I slept, making sure I was okay. Protecting me from everyone, everything and most importantly protecting me from myself.