Through Her Eyes

by Ava Harrison

  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 sh
e 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.

  Twenty-nine days since I spoke to Parker

  I’M ABOARD MY PLANE to Florence after a horrible attempt to wake from the dead this morning and make myself presentable for the nine a.m. flight. Despite spending my last day in London hungover and in bed all day ordering room service, I’m still not feeling any better this morning. I drank way too much two days ago. Being drunk is starting to become a coping mechanism I’m all too familiar with. I need to cut it out, but when the emotions begin to grip at me, I can’t help but reach for the bottle. It’s fine. I have it under control. I’ll never become her.

  Never.

  The flight is bumpy, and I pray to a higher power that we don’t crash and burn. I also have to fight off the feeling that I’m about to be sick, which is always unpleasant. When I arrive at the airport—happy to still be alive—my ride doesn’t show, and I’m forced to take a cab to my hotel. Check-in runs smoothly, thank God, and I hurry to my room, shut my eyes, and close out the hell of a morning I had.

  I find myself hours later sitting down to have a yet another drink. God, I really am no better than Mom. I want to curl up with the shame of it all. But a drink certainly held the possibility of brightening my mood.

  Just when I finally think my day is turning up, I lock eyes with the most gorgeous man ever to cross my path. Normally this wouldn’t be a bad thing, but after my horrid morning, I’ve no desire to be social. Wow, he really is something else. Broad shoulders, unruly brown hair, eyes so blue they glisten as they squint narrowly at me. He’s the kind of man who depletes the oxygen from my lungs. A look of recognition registers in his perfect gaze, but it fades away quickly as he flashes me a wicked smile. I narrow my eyes and take him in. Hmm, his eyes do look vaguely familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen him. He tilts his head at me and his eyebrows rise.

  Great, just what I need. Another drunk man hitting on me. Shaking my head, I turn back to what’s really important. My Bellini.

  No matter what anyone says, you can’t get a Bellini like this anywhere outside of Italy. White peach nectar, prosecco . . .

  Divine.

  The glass glistens as streams of sunlight reflect off the condensation. One sip should take the edge off. I shuffle forward and reach my hand out to grab the cocktail. The crisp refreshing drink does nothing to calm the ache in my heart. It only numbs the pain as it makes its way down my throat. The aromatic bubbles are a comfort to me, a warm blanket covering my emotions. I want to drown in the oblivion it can provide. But then I would be a pathetic drunk.

  So instead of behaving in an uncouth manner, I place the flute down and take in my surroundings. The high ceilings of the converted castle are the perfect location to live in my fantasy world. To forget the past. To forget the heartbreak waiting for me back home. This is my current sanctuary, and nestled amongst the flourishing olive groves and rolling hills, I can lose myself for days.

  Stealing a glance across the bar that was once the kitchen at the Castello Del Nero, I take him in one more time.

  Tall. Lean. Ruggedly handsome.

  My eyes trail further down his face to find a perfectly scuffed five o’clock shadow obscuring a chiseled jaw.

  He shifts in his seat to rise. Oh dear God. Please don’t come over. After the British man in the suit two nights ago, I can’t deal with another hot stranger right now.

  I turn my head back so I’m not caught staring. My hand is heavy as I lift my glass once more to my mouth. From my peripheral vision, I see that his eyes are locked on me. Quickly I return my focus to the glass in my hand, losing myself within the confines of my mind is easy.

  I hear a rustle and feel a presence beside me. Trying to appear uninterested in the company that has joined me, I take another swig of my drink just as he slides onto the old wooden bench and stretches out his long legs. He crosses his ankles as he reclines. Great, he’s getting comfy.

  “Come here often?” His American accent catches me off guard. It’s smooth and rich and evokes feelings of home, comfort. He smiles at me. Full lips. How had I missed those in my earlier perusal? He has the type of smile that makes butterflies take flight. His steel blue eyes linger over me, slowly, trailing over my long, toned legs, up my torso, and finally to my eyes. My body shivers involuntarily.

  He smirks. Shit. That smirk could be deadly. It should come with a warning note. Will cause recipient to be re
ndered useless.

  Feeling uncomfortable from the attention, I gaze down at my glass and break the connection. Maybe if I ignore him he will leave me to my solitude.

  “I’m Chase. Chase Porter.” No such luck. His tanned hand stretches out toward mine. Lifting my eyes, I meet his gaze. I sit useless, openly gawking at him. My fingers continue to rim the glass, not reaching up to his.

  “And you are?” A grin curls up the side of his face.

  “Leaving.” I push back, and the chair screeches across the floor. His head cocks to the side at my answer and then the most beautiful chuckle leaves his perfectly shaped mouth.

  “Oh come on, I won’t bite . . . hard.” He winks. The son of a bitch winks. I roll my eyes at his lame pick-up line. As hot as he is, can’t he come up with something better?

  “Does this ever work for you?” I force back my laughter.

  “I don’t know. Is it working now?”

  “Nope.” I turn my body slightly towards his.

  “Okay, help a guy out. One name. You don’t even have to tell me your last name if you don’t want to.”

  “It’s Aria.” I pause for a second. “Aria Bennett.”

  His eyes light up like a kid in a candy store, and I know exactly what is coming. It’s only a matter of time before the jokes start. Maybe he would be smart enough to just let it go.

  “Aria Bennett.” He tests the name on his tongue as his smile broadens. “So, you know your name is Aria Bennett?” Nope. He isn’t smart enough.

  “Since I’ve been referred to by that name for the last twenty-two years, yeah . . . I’m quite aware of the fact that indeed is my name.” Contempt drips from my lips.

  “And you’re aware that you are named after the game Final Fantasy Three, right? Were your parents’ gamers?”

  If I had a dollar for every person who thought they were clever enough to figure this out, like they were the only video game geek to get the reference. If only that was the case, though. If only they had named me after her. If only they had named me out of love.