Wanderlost (22 page)

The doors to
the elevator slide open to the opulent hotel lobby, where a cluster of senior citizens sits in a grouping of chairs arranged in a circle. The smallest woman wears an Austrian woodsman's hat, a knight's breastplate, a gypsy skirt, and a pair of tulip-painted wooden clogs.

I get a lump in my throat because they're holding hands and I'm guessing they're praying for Mr. Fenton. I've only thought of him a hundred times since waking up forty-five minutes ago and it still doesn't feel real. None of yesterday feels real. I wish like I've never wished for anything before that we were all back in Cinque Terre, lounging at one of the outdoor cafés, sharing Mr. Fenton's pesto focaccia and people-watching. Sam could dump all the ice cubes he wanted down my back and I would just laugh.

But no.

Sam is very definitely not interested in laughing with me or kissing me or even talking to me, as evidenced by the total
radio silence on his end. I stood in the hallway outside his door this morning for something like ten minutes, trying to work up the courage to knock, but in the end I chickened out.

If he's too hurt (or angry?) to reach out to me even though he has to know I'm on a train in three hours, I need to respect that, right? It doesn't feel great. In fact, it feels like crap.

If Sam is determined to avoid seeing me, I'm going to have to live with that. But no way am I leaving without saying good-bye to everyone else. No way.

I was crossing fingers I'd find them here, ready and waiting despite the fact their bus doesn't depart for Barcelona for another hour. I glance around to see if Sam is somehow here too, but I don't see any sign of him so I step into the lobby.

Emma smiles when she sees me and extracts one hand from Mary's to wave me over. “Wanna join our sit-in?” she calls.

I cross the room quickly. “Um . . . sit-in? Like they did back in the sixties?”

“Oh, darlin',” Hank says, “you should have been there. The sixties was quite the experience.”

Emma says, “Bah. I had three kids under the age of five when that decade got revved up. I'm making up for some lost time here. That Sam better listen good or else I'm liable to take things to the next step.”

“Next step?” I'm afraid to know. What does she mean by
sit-in
? And what does Sam have to do with any of this?

“Bra burning, of course,” Emma answers.

“Uh, sorry I have to ask, but what would a bra burning have to do with Sam listening good? And what is Sam listening to anyway?”

“To you, of course.”

To me? This is for my benefit? I love that after everything I did, these guys are fighting my battles for me, and I'm sure I don't deserve it. I can't believe I don't get to finish this trip with them. I was just getting good at things.

“You all are the best,” I say, smiling sadly at each of them. “But I don't think Sam is very interested in what I have to say and I found out last night that I'm heading home. So you'll have him as your tour guide from here on out. I couldn't let you leave without saying good-bye.”

Mary rolls her eyes. “Well, Sam's made up his mind, but his mother is another story. You see,
we're
the paying guests. And as such, we have a say in this. We called her this morning, woke her up and everything. We told her we wanted you to lead our tour or else.”

“But I—”

“Don't get your panties in a bunch, she said no,” she continues. “She's not carrying insurance on you, so she can't have you stay on even if she wanted to. But she did give us the option of cutting our trip short. She's gonna refund our unused days and give us a generous credit on a future tour. We took a vote, and without Mr. Fenton and without you, well, the trip just wouldn't be the same. And we don't want to be on it anymore.”

“So we're all headed to Amsterdam with you, on our bus,
to catch flights home,” says Dolores. I'm as surprised to hear her speak as I was yesterday, considering it's her daughter and Sam on the other side of this mess.

She sees my surprise and nods. “I'd rather get my follow-up X-ray at home anyway. I talked to my daughter about you. Said how wonderful you've been to me. I believe she actually fell out of bed when I told her how much I was enjoying myself. I know she'll come around and I intend to see to it personally. Now, I'm not going to get involved where you and Sam are concerned, but you're a good girl and you deserve to have him hear your side of things in person.”

“I'd love to have the chance, but I don't think he's too interested in talking to me,” I say, sighing.

Dolores scrunches her face up. “Well, if I have to pull the ‘do it for your dear old gram' card, you better believe I will.”

“Not necessary, Gram.”

At his quiet voice, I spin. Sam is standing directly behind Hank with his hands stuffed in his pockets. My breath hitches in my throat, but he's avoiding my eyes. He also looks terrible. His clothes are rumpled like he slept in them and there are dark circles under his eyes. Worst of all, the trademark grin that
is
Sam is entirely missing.

When he says “You want to talk?” his eyes are still on the ground, so I'm not even completely sure he's addressing me until Emma gives me a shove. I trail him out the door and when I glance behind me at the group, everyone gives me a thumbs-up. I can't help but manage a grateful grin back.

It fades as I follow Sam to a bench outside the hotel, the same one I sat on for hours yesterday waiting for him to show up. I know Sam won't let me off the hook as quickly as the other members of this tour, and I wouldn't expect him to. They're friends and sweet people, but at the end of the day I'm their tour guide. I really hope I'm more than that to Sam.

We sit for a moment in silence before I can't take it anymore. I have to know where his head is. “I'm really sorry, Sam.”

He nods, still not looking at me.

“Sam?” I ask, pleading with my voice. Finally he risks a glance in my direction. When his eyes find mine, I say it again.

“I'm so, so sorry.”

He doesn't respond, but he doesn't look away either, so I gather my courage.

“It's not like I set out to lie to you. I didn't even know there
was
a you when we were concocting this. My sister and I thought we were planning things out so well, but it turns out we didn't think any of it through. Not how it would feel, anyway. To have to lie so often and for so long, to so many people.”

“Are you asking me to feel sorry for you?” Sam asks. His voice is soft and low.

“No! No.” I sigh and we're both quiet for a moment. A fancy sports car pulls up in front of the hotel and its purring engine sounds like the Lamborghini's, which makes me think of Mr. Fenton. The reminder feels like a fresh sucker punch. I wait for the worst of it to pass, then try again with Sam.

“You have to believe me, I wasn't trying to hurt you. Or anyone on the trip. But especially not you. Especially not after everything we—after everything you told me about your dad—and, well, after everything.” My hands flutter helplessly to my lap and I know I'm not explaining this well at all. When we were lying in his bed, I felt like we opened up to each other, like we made promises, even if we weren't saying them out loud. I know we got close on a totally different level and I also know how much worse that made it for Sam to find out I was lying to him. If the situation were reversed, I would be incredibly hurt too, except I could never imagine the situation being reversed because Sam would never do that to me. Of course, I'm sure he thought he could say the same about me.

“I hated lying to you,” I say plainly.

“But you still did it. Hundreds of times. Actions speak louder than words, Aubree,” he answers.

My name on his tongue sounds foreign.

“And sometimes the reasons behind the actions speak louder than the actions,” I reply, raising my voice just a little. I need him to hear me. He has to hear me. “It wasn't about deceiving you, it was about
protecting
my sister.”

He's quiet again, and his gaze returns to his hands in his lap. “I really don't understand why people feel like they have to protect others with lies.” I know he's referring to his mom and her deception about his dad and I feel like the dirt caked in the bottom of my sandals.

“It's not the same thing, Sam, and you know it,” I whisper.

“Well,
you
knew that lying is a pretty big sensitive spot for me. When you lied about speaking Spanish, it made total sense to me that you would just check that box to land a job you thought you wouldn't qualify for. It wasn't
that
big a deal. And then the celiac thing. To be honest, I thought it was sweet you would go to such measures to impress me. I was flattered you liked me enough to come up with that crazy story. But this, Lizz—sorry,
Aubree
. This is different. How could you let things go so far with us without telling me the truth?”

He's not wrong. He steals a glance at me and I bite my lip.

“I know,” I whisper. Then I face him. “But Sam, it
was
me this whole time. Me, Aubree. No matter what name I was using at the time, it was all me inside.”

His voice is rueful when he says, “Yesterday I went through this loop of all our conversations, trying to figure out what parts of them were a lie. Everything? Just some? Like, when you told me you were taking graduate classes at Kent State.”

I murmur, “I really am going there this fall. But as a freshman.”

“Right. What about ‘confessing' to me your big dream about running for office.”

“I don't have a clue about my future,” I whisper.

Sam nods. “I have an easier time believing that. The campaign stuff didn't feel like you. The
Sound of Music
geekdom?”

My heartbeat quickens and I'm desperate for him to know the real Aubree. “Me. All me! I promise.”

He nods and I finally get a tiny smile from him. “I kind
of thought so. Hard to fake that much enthusiasm. The picky-eating thing, the way you take your coffee?”

I take his hand in mine and place them on my heart. “One hundred percent Aubree. I couldn't eat a bratwurst right now even if you told me that would be all it would take to forgive me.”

This time his smile is a little wider before he drops his eyes back to his lap. “I was sort of hoping those were the real you.”

It hurts to breathe. That's how much I'm holding in how badly I want to kiss him, to show him that part was all me too. Every time.

“I wish Mr. Fenton was here,” Sam says. “I feel like he'd know what to say right now.”

Me too. Then my stomach gives a flutter when I realize he already
did
say it. I squeeze Sam's hand. “Mr. Fenton, he, well, he figured things out pretty quickly . . . about who I am, I mean. He didn't completely approve, but he did help me a lot. And he pushed me to be honest with you. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I swear it's the truth. . . .”

Sam squeezes my hand this time when I break off speaking. It's not much, but I'll take it.

“The reason I was going up to Mr. Fenton's room in the first place yesterday morning was to talk to him more about how to tell you. He'd been helping me sort things out about that.”

Sam looks at me, his eyebrows raised. “You were planning to tell me on your own? Before you got caught at the embassy?”

I nod as hard as I can. “Mr. Fenton thought I owed it to us—you and me, us—to be honest with you. I did too, but I told him I was afraid you wouldn't forgive me.” I wait for him to react, but he doesn't. He's back to studying his lap, but at least he hasn't removed his hand from mine.

“Mr. Fenton said he knew you would, because you're an old soul and old souls know their way around forgiveness.”

Sam still doesn't say anything. Finally he turns his eyes to mine. “He said that about me?”

“Yeah.”

Another long silence.

“The whole train ride back, talking to my mom, walking around every square inch of Monaco, I kept telling myself that you're just some girl I've only known a few weeks. I should be able to just brush this aside and get back to my regular life.”

Tears prick behind my eyelids as I whisper, “Yeah?”

“But if it were true that you were just some girl, it wouldn't hurt this bad.” He says the words so softly I almost can't make them out. “You're not some girl. Not even close.” Then he's quiet for another long moment and I ache from head to toe. I wipe a tear from my cheek with the back of my hand as Sam watches, then looks away.

The silence stretches on until finally he says, “I really can't take lying, Aubree. I just . . . can't. How do I know you wouldn't do it again?”

I whip my head up to look at him as my heart squeezes with hope. He glances at me but then back at his lap, where
he picks at the hem of his shorts. I don't care. He opened the door a crack and I intend to push my way in. I peer into his face until he looks at me.

“Because I wouldn't. I won't hurt you, I promise. And I won't lie to you. Ever. I'm just figuring some of this stuff out for myself, Sam, but I swear, this is one lesson I've learned for life.”

He holds my gaze, searching my eyes for something. I will myself to show him everything I did the other night. What's in my heart. Finally, after what feels like a hundred years, he exhales and drops his eyes and my stomach falls into my shoes. Until he looks sideways at me with a small smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle in the adorable way they do when he teases. He says, “This is going to take some getting used to. Me being the older, wiser one of us.”

I exhale too, trying to process his words and the smile in his eyes. Is he saying what I think he's saying? My insides start doing a Snoopy dance, but I try to keep my face composed.