by Wendy Owens
The next day Kenzie had gone with me to deliver the official break up speech. I’m not sure if I could have resisted his charms in my current state of mind; for that, I will always be grateful to her. Jack pulled out all of the typical statements one would expect in a situation like that. ‘It was just that one time,’ which of course I didn’t believe, and ‘I still love you,’ which again, I didn’t believe and was now quite confident the slime-ball had never loved me. The condo was in my name since I was the one with an actual job while he was in law school, so I told him to get his crap and be out by the time I got back. For dramatic effect, I also threw the engagement ring at him. I remember the sound as it bounced across the wooden floors. I half expected it to be waiting for me on the counter when I returned, but it and Jack were gone.
Jack wasn’t one to take things lying down. The next morning he was back, begging for another chance, asking to come home. I still shudder when I think about the display that happened on our front stoop. It was worthy of the Jerry Springer show. I stood quietly while Kenzie berated Jack for being a piece of scum. He tried attacking Kenzie, telling her to mind her own business, but that only made my conviction in what I was doing all the stronger. The last thing I had said to him was, “Please, just go. I don’t love you anymore.” I think he knew I was lying, but he left. Maybe he thought time and space would cause me to change my mind.
Looking back, it didn’t feel like I was actually in my body. I couldn’t imagine myself saying or doing any of that when it came to Jack. But I did, and these past four weeks Kenzie has been my rock. Even when I hatched my crazy scheme of finding myself, she was there, backing up my decision with nothing but support.
I have—had—a job I loved. I was an editor for a publishing house. I loved books, so it was like a dream job for me. When I told Kenzie my plan to quit my job and travel the world, I’ll admit she flipped out at first, but once I explained she could live in the condo for half the mortgage payment, she was sold. I think she would have done anything to get out from under her parents’ roof. I like to think she also believed in the idea, but I’m not even sure I think it’s that great of an idea, so I didn’t push the subject.
You probably shouldn’t make major life decisions right after your heart is broken. In fact, that’s probably written in many self-help books. But that’s exactly what I did. Two weeks ago I decided Chicago, and all the things in it, were merely painful reminders of Jack and our history together. I wanted to go somewhere I could get back in touch with the real me. It made sense two weeks ago, but now I’d realized something—something that was even scarier than a life without Jack. I have no clue who I am, and I’m not sure if I ever did. I met Jack so young, and he became part of my identity while it was still forming.
How do you find yourself again if you’re not sure who the hell you ever were? I began selling my possessions, at least as many as I could in two weeks. While I’m away, Kenzie can sell more for me. This money will help pay the other half of the mortgage and bills she needs help with while I’m gone. I also have some savings; after all, Jack always told me I needed to be responsible for the sake of our future.
I also decided to take the money Jack’s parents had given us for the wedding and use it to fund my travels. Now, I hadn’t actually gotten permission for this last part, but honestly, after what went down between us, I doubted anyone was going to say anything. I even had the funds in my personal account for the honeymoon. If I live frugally, it should be enough to keep me going for quite a while.
“Are you even listening to me?” Kenzie demands, her wavy red hair bouncing up and down as she speaks.
“Huh? I mean, yeah, of course I am.”
“You’re such a terrible liar. You have your passport, right?”
“Yes, I have my passport, for the tenth time,” I huff, sitting up in the chair, noticing a noise outside my window.
“Then we better get moving. The cabbie has been honking for so long I think his head might explode if we keep him waiting any longer,” she informs me, glancing out the bay window and waving at the impatient driver through the rain.
I smile. I can’t believe this is actually it. I’m saying goodbye to my home, to my friend, to the only life I’ve ever known as an adult, and setting off for the unknown.
“Thank you,” I whisper, standing and looking at her. Kenzie’s eyes look wet. She’s always very emotional, so we are a great balance to one another.
“Oh, shut up already, this is what friends do.” She waves me off, her voice cracking slightly.
“Especially when they get cheap rent on an apartment in exchange,” I jest, trying to smile, though my heart isn’t in it.
“Well, there is that.” Kenzie laughs, tossing my backpack over her shoulder and grabbing an umbrella from the stand next to the door. “Come on, let’s not start with goodbyes. It’s just going to piss me off or make me cry. I don’t know which, but one of the two.”
I follow Kenzie down the stairs, glancing at the door across the hall. I wonder if Elsa the Barbie would report back to Jack I was leaving on a trip. I don’t want to wonder anything about him ... or her for that matter. Damn him.
“So I never asked you, why England?” Kenzie inquires as she hands my bag to the impatient cab driver.
“Why not? Seemed like as good a place as any,” I reply, staring at her, wishing I could take her with me. “Plus I thought it was a good idea to start with a place where I could speak the language.”
“Excellent reasoning my dear.” Kenzie giggles, shifting the umbrella to her other hand. “Call me as soon as you get there, promise?”
“Of course.” As I hug her, it feels like I might never see her again. I know this isn’t true, but everything has begun to feel so uncertain in my life. I’m ready for an adventure—ready to become the heroine in the books I love to read. Now if I can manage to make it to England without having an all-out panic attack, everything will be perfect. At this point, I’d do anything to forget what has happened, and I’m confident the answers I seek lie over the ocean.
Chapter Two
I’ve lost track of the number of times Kenzie has called or texted me since I landed. Her concern has become smothering. I’ve done as promised and checked in with her as soon as I’d arrived, but that has not been enough for her.
Kenzie and I went to high school together. She has been a fixture in my life since we were crawling in and out of each other’s windows as kids. Part of the baggage that comes along with a friendship that is as seasoned as ours is that you know each other’s dirty little secrets. Mine was my mother. She wasn’t what I would exactly call terrible, but she definitely was not born with a maternal instinct. Kenz always picked up on this and, in a way, she tried to fill that role for me on and off. Which is hilarious considering she has her act together the least out of anyone I know.
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 m
ake 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 would 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.
