Do Anything

by Wendy Owens

  She is going to ask me about my next step. But I have no plan, and in some ways I think that’s the point. The places in the beloved books I treasure so much are going to be part of my adventures now. I’m not going to read about the world outside of Chicago anymore; I’m going to experience it firsthand. I’m going to get some stamps in my passport, put some stories in my journal. I’m going to live.

  So really, I suppose I do have a plan. The plan is to live and not think about Jack and that—my stomach twists as I remember the image of them in bed together. It was all I could see for the first couple days afterward. Replaying it over and over again in my mind. I am finally keeping the flashes to a limit of a few times per day. It still makes me want to retch each time the images creep in.

  How do I make Kenzie understand she’s part of home, and for now, part of that life I need to leave back in the States? Perhaps I’m fooling myself and running from my life won’t bring me any peace at all, but I feel like I need to be doing something. Not sitting in the home I shared with the man I thought I was going to marry. Not loathing myself for not being the woman who could make him happy.

  As I make my way through customs, a nice, older gentleman with a large round belly asks me if I’m in England on business or pleasure. I laugh and go into a quick story of how I’m not exactly sure. I proceed to explain, much to his dismay, that my fiancé had recently cheated on me, and this was a bit of a soul-searching trip. After staring at me with a gaze full of pity, he ushers me through without another word.

  The ride to the hotel isn’t much better. When putting my luggage in the back, the driver asks if I’m alone. While the question is harmless, I can’t help but slip into my dark place. I begin crying, and though the poor guy tries his best to console me, I assure him through my blanket of tears that I’m all right.

  My chest feels tight and it’s as though I’m in a constant struggle to catch my breath. I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on my relationship with Jack, and I keep wondering if I’m upset because I loved him or because I trusted him.

  In books, when it’s true love—the kind that makes angels sing and women quiver with delight—there is never an ending like mine. Could I have been in love with a man who could trample my heart like he had? How could I have not seen it coming? If I loved him, like I thought I did, wouldn’t I have sensed his unhappiness? I wish the questions in my mind would silence themselves, but they seem to be multiplying.

  I make my way into the hotel, check in, and slip into a pair of jeggings, tossing a beige tunic on top. Sliding my feet into my nude ballet slippers, I look around the empty and lonely room. A flash of Jack hits me, and I decide it’s time to make my way to the hotel bar. The place is swanky, with crystal chandeliers and colorful tiles all around the lobby, I feel a little out of place. I glance around, expecting people to be staring, seeing me for what I feel I am, an impostor, but instead it’s like I’m not even there.

  It would be far too embarrassing to ask for a table for one. I’m afraid if I did, I might lose control and burst into tears again. Instead I make my way over to the bar and have a seat on one of the seats covered in soft black leather.

  The bar tender is handsome; he looks at me, lifting his chin as if to ask me what I want, yet remaining completely silent.

  “What’s popular?” I think I sound like a tourist. I’m sure I do. He says something to me, but I can’t hear over the noise in the bar. I hope he suggested a drink as I nod my head and smile. He walks away. Much to my delight, minutes later he returns with a mixed concoction, and I hand him my room key to start a tab.

  He walks away. Leaving me here, alone, with just my thoughts. Dear God, the last place I want to be is alone with my thoughts. I’m rethinking my grand plan to run away from the problems in my life. My stomach is wildly shifting, and I will myself not to be sick. I am not a drinker. In fact, I only drink in social settings and limit myself to two. I don’t like how stupid I seem to get with the third drink.

  Jack drinks. I think it’s something learned from his father. It’s not surprising; if I were Jack’s father, I would drink, too. I can’t imagine the stress he must endure being married to Jack’s mother. She comes from money, and her disdain for those that don’t is obvious. On more than one occasion she informed me that I should be quite happy that I managed to “bag myself a Fletcher” as she would put it. Jack’s dad came from money, too, but he never struck me as particularly mean. Not like his wife. Honestly, he never struck me as anything. He was quiet and spent most of the time I was around in his home office. They were brandy men, Jack and his dad. I remember one year when I found a vintage decanter set and gave it to his father for Christmas. The grumbles under his mother’s breath about it being a flea market find had made me want to snap the tall, thin woman in two.

  “Another fruit cup?” the gentleman asked, leaning across the bar to make eye contact with me. I look down, surprising myself as I see I have already drained the sweet concoction to the bottom. From what I can gather, it’s a gin-based drink with some ginger ale and spices mixed in. I grab the orange slice from the glass and smile.

  “Sure, why not,” I reply with a smile, agreeing to a second round, and slip the orange slice between my lips. A jolt of orange flavor laced with alcohol bursts into my mouth. I jump in my seat as the piano player begins tickling the keys behind me, having returned from a short break. I giggle at myself, thinking perhaps my drink choice is a little strong for me.

  I watch the young and toned bartender as he prepares my beverage. He tells me his name is Garrett, and his delicious accent lingers in my ears. From the corner of my eye I see a stout gentleman staring at me. While he isn’t exactly unattractive in the face, his body has clearly never seen the inside of a gym. I feel nausea grow in the pit of my stomach when he moves in my direction. I scold myself for looking around. Eye contact always invites the creepers.

  He sits on the stool next to me; I can feel the heat coming off his sweaty body, and the cheap fabric of his suit brushes against my arm. I close my eyes, hoping the man doesn’t speak to me—

  “That must be one delicious drink you’re having,” he says, shouting over the noise in the bar. My nose twinges as I smell the alcohol on his breath. I have to look away to get a breath of clean air.

  “Excuse me?” I reply with a sigh, glancing ever so briefly in his direction. Hoping my body language will be enough for him to catch the hint. It isn’t.

  “Well, I’ve sat there watching you, and I can’t help but wonder if you’re waiting for someone.” I detect a Southern accent. How do I come all the way to England and find a drunk American to hit on me?

  I choose not to answer. This doesn’t seem to faze him.

  “Here you are,” the handsome bartender, Garrett, says, delivering me my drink. This time it has an umbrella.

  “Thanks,” I say with a smile and then grab his hand before he can slip away to help another patron. “Could you put this on my room?” I lift my eyebrows as if code to say ’… and hurry.’

  “Of course,” he replies, swiping the room key in front of me and returning it promptly. I slip the plastic rectangle into my pocket, careful not to look away from Garrett, fearing the sweaty man might continue to talk to me.

  “So you’re staying at the hotel, too? Business or pleasure?” the man on the stool next to me asks before taking another sip of his watery scotch.

  I hesitate, not wanting to answer, but if I keep ignoring him he might become belligerent. I breathe a sigh of relief when Garrett hands me the receipt. I scribble the tip and an illegible etching of my signature. Standing, I take my drink in my hand and glance at the sweaty man before I excuse myself, “I’m sorry, I have to go meet someone.” Lying in situations like this is completely acceptable I decide.

  Holding the drink tightly in my hands, as if it were keeping me afloat, I make my way back out to the lobby. I’m meeting someone … what a joke. Here I am in London, with no clue what to do with myself. The last thing on Earth I w
ould want to do is travel all over the world alone, yet here I am, wondering what in the hell I was thinking.

  “Can I help you find something, miss?” a man in a nice suit asks me. I assume he must be a concierge of some kind. At first, my instinct is to say I’m fine, but it’s obvious to anyone I’m not.

  “Is there a place I can go to find out about fun things to do while in England?”

  “Of course, straight across the lobby, the first hall on your left, there is a stand with brochures.”

  “Perfect,” I reply, making my way across the massive room in the direction he indicated. Just as promised, there is a massive display of brightly colored, tourist-friendly flyers and pamphlets. They advertise anything from a double decker bus tour to a group trip exploring Big Ben and the London Underground.

  Overwhelmed, I use my free hand to retrieve one of each off the display. I don’t look too closely at any of them, deciding I will examine my options once I am back in the confines of my room. The solitude that had so frightened me when I arrived at the hotel now seems like a piece of heaven.

  I step onto the empty elevator, relieved my ride to the thirty-third floor will be alone, drinking my fruity gin mixture in peace. No sooner than I allow my shoulders to shift into a relaxed position, a hand slips in, pressing the doors open. Staring at me through the crack is a face I can’t look away from. His jaw line is sharp and fierce; a five o’clock shadow is barely visible. When he smiles at me it’s like his entire face is smiling, including his sparkling blue eyes. I feel a tingle in places I haven’t felt tingle in a long time.

  “We almost missed it,” he says to me, laughing.

  My smile is wide as I process his statement—we?

  The specimen of heavenly perfection makes his way into the small elevator car. I take a deep breath when I see, trailing closely behind, a woman of equal beauty. Their fingers intertwined, she whispers something in his ear. I wish those were my lips against his ear. She giggles, unable to take her eyes from him long enough to even notice me. I can’t say that I blame her. I tuck the massive stack of advertisements behind my back and press my body deeper into the corner of the elevator.

  They look so in love, or perhaps it’s lust. I wonder if Jack and I ever looked that way. I don’t remember ever standing so close to him. Jack is handsome; I’m not sure why I never showed him such affection. I hold my breath, not wanting the gorgeous woman to notice my pathetic and disheveled existence.

  The elevator stops at the twenty-first floor. They get off; the man smiles over his shoulder, mumbling something about having a good evening. It’s clear he wants to be in their room as quickly as possible. The doors close, and I ride to my floor in silence, looking down at my frumpy clothes. Even in jeggings I still would prefer to be in pajama pants. My cheeks are hot with embarrassment. I rush out the door and to my room, gulping down the last of my drink and setting it on the ground in the hall for the cleaning crew. All I can think about is comfy clothes and watching mindless television until I fall asleep. This is the exact reason I came on this adventure. To not do the thing I am about to. But tonight, I need it. I can’t stop myself. I need just one more night of complete self-pity.

  I toss the advertisements onto the spare double bed, and once in my pajamas, I flip on the television. I only make it through thirty minutes of a gossip show before drifting off to sleep.

  The morning greets me with a headache, and I wish I’d remembered to drink a glass of water after my cocktail. I grab the travel bag that contains my roving pharmacy and toss it on the bed, causing the pamphlets to scatter. I hadn’t even had a chance to glance at them last night before falling asleep.

  Unzipping the bag, I flip through, looking for my cure. Gas pills, water pills, birth control—guess I don’t need to take those anymore—vitamins, and then finally, exactly what I need. I pull out the bottle of Ibuprofen and groan; I think how unfair it is that most people drink half a dozen cocktails without this punishment, but for me it’s two.

  I toss back a couple pills, swallowing hard. As I place the container back in the bag, a flyer catches my eye. My heart stops. I do a double take before leaning down and grasping the unassuming print ad. In bold letters I see the words Mr. Darcy. My heartbeat quickens. I grip it tighter and begin reading the tan, plain, non-assuming ad.

  The Three Horseshoes - A traditional English Coaching Inn, situated in the heart of the South Downs National Park, with an excellent restaurant serving home-cooked, locally sourced food to complement the award-winning ales from Fullers Brewery. We have 2 resident chefs preparing food for our bar menu.

  We have four comfortable well-appointed guest rooms, two en-suite. There is ample free parking with space for motor home stopovers. In the summer you can enjoy our pretty, secluded garden and in the winter our lovely log fires.

  Jane Austen’s house is 3 miles away in the picturesque village of Chawton. Be entranced by walking the grounds where Mr. Darcy was dreamed up.

  This is where I need to be. It is as if a force unknown is trying to send me a message. The idea of walking the grounds Ms. Austen once did has the hair on my arms standing up. This was a strong woman. A woman who never married, yet seemed to find contentment in her life. Maybe I’ve been going about my life all wrong. Perhaps assuming I would find love and a family was my mistake. Whatever clarity I seek, I’m sure it is in Chawton.

  Picking up the phone, I call down to the front desk to let them know I’ll be checking out and a need a cab to take me to Chawton Village. I then begin shoving things wildly into my bag. The excitement courses through my body. I gather up the pamphlets to put them in my bag as well. I hesitate. Pulling open the drawer to the nightstand, I drop them in. After all, I have a plan now; I don’t need those anymore. I’ll leave them for the next lonely soul trying to figure things out.

  A few minutes pass. I throw my hair in a ponytail, put on only the basics when it comes to makeup, and take off for the lobby. My adventure is finally beginning, and I have an amazing feeling about it.

  I watch the scenery pass by the window. Big open fields of green, trees older and larger than anything you would ever see in my downtown Chicago neighborhood. The cab driver waves at a passer-by, and immediately, the cozy, friendly feel of this place consumes me. Chicago is often described as a big city that has the feel of a small Midwest town. But here, in this rural paradise, there’s an atmosphere I never imagined existed in the real world.

  Whenever I think of England, London comes to mind. A bustling metropolis with a magnificent history. Crowds shifting through the streets, rushing from point A to point B, living their busy lives, just like home. But here in the English Countryside, there is a magic that’s hard to describe. So far on this cab ride, I’ve seen a horse pulling a wagon, children playing in a field, and a young woman riding a bike down a side street. The last might not seem like that big of a deal, but for Christ’s sake, the bike had a basket on the front of it with a bouquet of flowers poking out. I didn’t realize people lived like this anymore.

  “It’s just up ahead, miss,” the gentleman with olive skin calls back to me from the front seat. After an hour-long ride from London, I’m relieved to hear I’ve finally reached my destination.

  My heart rate picks up. I have no clue who anyone is in this small town, nor do I have a plan as to what I am going to do here. There is nothing to be excited about, nothing for me to be looking forward to; yet I find my adrenaline pumping. The sad part is I’m excited because I have experienced so little in my life. Even the mildest form of anticipation seems to send me into a frenzy.

  As we turn on the old gravel road, the stone building comes into view, and I’m in awe of the charm and classic beauty the place exudes. It’s as if the structure came out of the pages of one of my stories. Over the large, black wooden door is a sign that reads: THE THREE HORSESHOES. Off to one side of the entrance is a bike stand and on the other are some patio tables with outdoor seating.

  Window boxes overflowing with random flowers
line the wall of the second story. I hope one of those windows will be to my room. My mind shifts for a moment to a thought that is only just now registering. Panic washes over me as I wonder if there will be only one common bathroom for guests. I’ve always wondered how people are able to share a bathroom, a place where you take care of your most intimate business. Shaking my head, I try to force the thought out of my mind. This trip is not about focusing on the things that give me discomfort, but instead experiencing adventure.

  “Miss,” the driver says to me. “Back where we turned onto this road, if you would have kept going for another two miles, you would have hit the little town of Alton. There’s a market there, and it even has its own steam railway. I suggest visiting during your stay.”

  “Thank you. I’m curious—how far away is Chawton?”

  “Jane Austen fan, huh?” the man remarks, and I’m impressed by his keen observation.

  “How did you know?”

  “Chawton is pretty small—not a lot of other reasons to visit there. You can get exact directions at the inn, but it’s roughly three miles.” The car comes to a stop, and the driver turns to face me. Over his shoulder I can see the meter and hand him the necessary payment.

  He smiles, offers me a business card, and informs me that if I need a ride back to London at some point, he’d be happy to come and fetch me. As I exit the vehicle, the man jumps out, retrieves my bag, and asks if I know when I might be departing.

  I hesitate before saying, “To be honest, I have no idea.”

  This statement results in a puzzled glance. “Well, you know how to reach me. Enjoy your stay.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, watching the driver as he pulls away. I turn and walk in the direction of the inn, dragging my wheeled luggage behind me. I see a sign at the end of the bike rack that reads: Bicycles Free to Borrow, property of The Three Horseshoes.

  What a magnificent idea, I think. I smile, and laugh inwardly as I imagine someone trying to ride a bicycle while intoxicated.