Wanderlost

by Jen Malone

  He’s right. The drop is several feet straight to the murky water. I nod my thanks, but Sam doesn’t release my hand. Instead he laces his fingers through mine and resumes walking. I force myself to ignore the internal reaction that causes and instead take in the medieval architecture and the way the moon is hanging in the sky, so low it almost touches the church spires.

  “Do you ever think about what it would be like to be their age?” Sam asks pensively, and I know he’s speaking about our passengers.

  “You mean old?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean having most of your life behind you and knowing it. Like, obviously there’s still plenty you can do or see—I hope, or else Mom would be out of business—but all the major decisions would be behind you. What to do for a living, how many kids to have, where to live, the kind of person you want to be. Don’t you think that would be weird?” Sam asks.

  I consider his question. “In a way. But in another way there’s something kind of comforting about that. You can just do whatever you want to do at that point. You don’t need to try to impress your relatives, or please your parents, or anyone, for that matter. You don’t need to worry about choosing the wrong career or the wrong person to marry. You just get to enjoy the time you have. It sounds kind of nice, if you ask me.”

  “Yeah, I hear ya. I stress all the time about the whole ‘what do you want to be when you grow up’ thing,” Sam says.

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, mostly because I don’t want to grow up in the first place,” he says, ducking his head.

  “Okay, Peter Pan.” I squeeze his hand and he answers with a squeeze of his own.

  “I’m just saying. For example: this whole thing with the swim team suspension. It sucks and all, but at the end of the day people sort of expect kids our age to mess up. We get this limited-time pass where it’s like, ‘Oh well, kids will be kids.’ And I feel like I’m so close to the end of that. In a few years, when I graduate and I’m out on my own, no one will be saying that anymore. If I mess up then, I’ll just be some loser.”

  He shrugs and I laugh. “What makes you think you aren’t now?” I ask.

  Sam punches me on the arm with his free hand. “Okay, smart-ass. What do you want to do with your life?”

  “For a career, you mean?”

  “Sure, career, yeah. Or not. However you want to interpret that question . . .”

  I tuck my hair behind my ear and study the cobblestones. I think of Elizabeth and try to answer like she would. “Well, I want to work for the congressman and learn all that I can about running a campaign. Of course, I have experience on the college level, but I mean professionally. The idea is that one day I’ll be able to run for office on my own platform of women’s rights. I want to promote strong, independent women everywhere.”

  Screw this. I draw a deep breath and speak from my heart.

  “To be honest, I don’t really know what I want from the future.”

  Sam’s eyes widen and he studies me, encouraging me to continue. I look out over the river and say, “I know I don’t want to end up the old lady who eats dinner with her forty-seven cats every night. And I want kids. Marriage, white picket fence.”

  I grin as I think of something else. “Actually, I don’t need the fence, but I do want a big old house with a walk-up attic I can convert to my bedroom. I always thought that would be like sleeping in an indoor tree house. And a fireplace in the kitchen. I mean, in every room, if I could ever find that, but definitely in the kitchen because my feet are like icicles even in August and I like hanging out in the kitchen best.”

  Sam smiles his encouragement, so I keep going. “I always assumed I’d stay in Hudson or nearby, close to my family. I can’t imagine not having them around.” I study the ground. “But I never knew all this was out here. I’m thinking maybe I should start to venture outside my comfort zone a little bit more.”

  His hand squeezes mine again and his eyes are on me when I bring my chin up.

  “Well, you do lead a kick-ass sing-along. I think you outside your comfort zone is a sight to see,” he says.

  I cover my face with my hand. “Ugh. Can we never speak of me singing again?” Then I take a deep breath and get serious. “But what happens between now and then? That’s a giant question mark. When I even try to picture me at a job, it’s as if my brain can’t find any picture that works.”

  Sam stops walking and turns to me, dropping my hand in the process. Confusion wrinkles his brow. “But what about the campaign?”

  Oh. Crap.

  For two measly minutes, I let myself forget. And look where it’s gotten me. I slip my hand behind my ear and subtly work loose the hair I tucked there so that it dangles in front of my face, forming a curtain between Sam and me.

  Think, Aubree, think.

  “The thing with the congressman, well, it’s a job, and not many of my classmates have managed to land one of those, so when I got it I figured I’d better not turn it down if I don’t want to have to live on ramen noodles for the next five years.” Oh shit. Are ramen noodles gluten-free? Double shit. Does he know the congressman? I wouldn’t want him telling the guy his newest employee is anything less than thrilled. I barrel on before he questions it. “And I mean, the campaign of my own? That’s just a bit of a pipe dream, if you know what I mean.”

  I force a laugh to cover my nervous rambling, but I’m not convinced Sam is buying it. He studies me for a second, then says quietly, “Right. Of course. Makes sense.”

  Does it? Do any of my lies make sense?

  Sam turns to study the water below us. We’ve stopped in front of a café and this section of the canal has a railing lining the edge. Sam rests his elbow on it and he leans over to peer down. “You know that thing you said a few minutes ago about getting past an age where you feel like you have to impress relatives?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think that happens?” he asks.

  I think about the events of the past few weeks and I so badly want to answer honestly because I certainly have a lot to say on the subject, but I’m not at all prepared for where that conversation could lead.

  Beside me, Sam raises his eyebrows, and I realize I haven’t answered him. “Sorry,” I say. “I sort of wandered off there. Um, to tell you the truth, I don’t really know.”

  “Who are you trying to prove yourself to?” Sam asks.

  I lie and say, “My mom. You?”

  “My mom too, I guess. Mostly my dad.”

  “I thought you said your dad wasn’t around.”

  Sam yanks a leaf off an overhanging tree beside us and begins shredding it, dropping tiny bits into the river below and watching the current carry them off. “Yeah, he’s not. I haven’t ever met him. But I want to. I’m just waiting for the right moment, ya know? I want to do something really cool first. Something that will show him what he missed out on.”

  “Wow. I can’t believe you’ve never met him.” I try to imagine life without my father—goofy as he is—and can’t.

  “Nope. In fact, for the first twelve years of my life, I thought he was dead. And then we had this project in history class where we were supposed to research our family tree. I snuck into my mom’s room when she was at work to look for my birth certificate and instead I found their divorce papers. Turns out he hadn’t died at all; he’d just deserted us.”

  “Your mom told you he was dead? That is . . . but . . . why?” I’m floored by this.

  Sam laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “She thought she was protecting me. She says I’m better off without him in my life. I didn’t get it for a long time. I’m not sure I totally do yet, but she insists I’ll understand when I have kids of my own. She claims that she would have said and done anything to keep me from hurting or thinking any of it was my fault because abandonment like that could scar a kid for life and she didn’t want that for me. To be honest, I think all she did was heap onto the pile. It’s not like she saved me from the abandonment issues. She just added trust is
sues on top of them. I mean, I was completely upset that she’d lied in the first place, but it was worse the way she kept it going all those years. If I hadn’t found those papers, I’m not sure she’d have ever confessed to me, which is like a total kick to the gut, you know?”

  Um, yeah. I do. I feel like shit right now. Obviously I’m not deceiving him about anything on that scale, but the guy just came right out and admitted his trust issues and I’m lying right to his face twenty times a day. “Wow. I’m—I’m so sorry,” I say, not knowing what else to add to make him feel better.

  Sam shrugs and pulls down another leaf, continuing to tear off pieces. “It wasn’t your lie.”

  Maybe not, but I’ve told him plenty too. If he ever finds that out, he’s going to hate me. The certainty slides like a brick to the bottom of my stomach and lodges itself into place. Once again, my brain screams that I need to put a lock on any feelings I might be starting to have for this guy. Once again, my feet stay planted.

  “I’m sorry, I completely dumped on you there. I didn’t mean to bring the mood down,” Sam says.

  “That’s okay,” I say. I’m quiet, though, still taking it in. His issues, my issues.

  “It’s your fault, you know. You shouldn’t be so easy to talk to.” Sam loops one arm over the railing, the rest of his body facing me.

  I shiver when a breeze comes off the water and Sam nudges closer. I counter with a small step back before saying, “I think maybe it’s just easy to talk to someone on a trip like this, you know? We’re completely removed from our real lives, we’re in this foreign place, and you don’t have to see me after the trip. . . .”

  Sam studies me for a moment, his gaze locked on me, and I forget to breathe. “You think that’s all it is?” he asks. The lights from the nearby café are reflecting off the water and making Sam’s eyes shine. In the corners are the featherlight lines that deepen when he smiles, but he’s not smiling now. In fact, he’s looking at me so intently, I might melt into a puddle.

  “Probably?” I whisper, still caught up in his stare.

  “Nope. Sorry, but I don’t think that’s all it is,” he murmurs, leaning over to me in slow motion. His eyes dart to my lips, then back to my eyes. Lips, eyes.

  Before I can react, he places his mouth softly on mine. His arm leaves the railing, settles on my back, and tugs me closer, while his other palm rests warmly on my arm. My eyes flutter shut.

  His kiss is soft and hard at the same time. Sweet but questioning. I sigh into his lips. It’s perfect.

  When I pull away, his hand at my back steadies me as I blink at him a few times. A breeze blows strands of my hair across my lips, where they stick. Sam reaches up and gently frees the tendrils.

  “I’m sorry for that,” he murmurs, and I don’t even want to guess what emotions he’s seeing on my face. Because I’m feeling all of them. Surprise. Guilt. Total giddiness. His eyes haven’t left mine and I open my mouth and close it again. What is it I even want to say to him right now? Sam’s eyes drift to my lips again.

  “No, actually. I’m not. Not even a little bit,” he says. His hand tangles in my hair as he pulls me into him and uses his other hand to cup my face. Without taking his eyes off me, he lowers his head until his lips are on mine, their warmth chasing away the cool breeze off the water.

  After the initial surprise wears off, I snuggle closer, kissing him back.

  So much for a clean escape.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Prague has a McDonald’s too. I know this because the next day I’m sitting at one, blissfully inhaling a cheeseburger with a bun AND a crispy apple pie (which, joy upon joy, they actually fry here instead of baking like at home) before anyone from my group (well, more specifically, Sam) spots me.

  I may be recently converted to the wonders of the world outside the 44236 zip code, but being open to new discoveries does not yet include cuisine. Especially in a place famous for goulash.

  To be honest, I’m also hiding out a little bit while the rest of the group wanders through Prague Castle. As in love as I am with Europe, I am palace’d and castle’d out at the moment, so I jumped on Sam’s offer to stick with everyone on their guided tour while I grabbed a coffee.

  Coffee, fried apple-y goodness. Potato, potahto.

  To be even more honest, I also need a little more time to process last night’s kiss—check, make that kisses, because we stayed by that canal for a long, long time.

  I experienced major jitters this morning when I saw Sam outside the hotel loading luggage and they didn’t really go away during the bus ride here, even though he was sitting with Dolores three rows behind me. The way he smiled at me like we shared a delicious secret the one time I snuck a peek back at him was positively heart-melty and I don’t know if I can handle heart-melty. Oh God, but I kind of want to.

  Hence the current head-clearing space.

  In other not-so-shocking news, I have a new favorite city. I know, I know. But Prague is so beautiful and ancient that it feels like medieval (400–1500 AD—yes, I remember, Mr. Fenton) knights should be walking down the street. All the buildings have clay-colored red roofs and there are cobblestones and gas streetlights everywhere. We’re staying in a hotel in the castle district of town, right by the river and the base of the Charles Bridge. It’s like something out of a dream, complete with swans floating around in the water. For real.

  It’s a pretty intense climb between our hotel and the top of the hill where the castle sits but it was too short of a distance to take the bus, so we just moved slowly and gave Mary and Emma the option of going into every store selling marionettes and Czech crystal (I guess it’s world famous), which was basically all of them. Since Prague is part of Bohemia, Emma also insisted on buying a long flowy skirt and a bandana for her hair. The woman sure likes her getups.

  I toss the evidence of my Mickey D’s binge in the trash can and sneak a peek up the street for my crew before ducking out of the restaurant. I told Sam I’d catch them back at the hotel, and I’m heading in that direction when I spot a sign for an internet café at the base of the hill. I’ve sent Elizabeth one email since our talk in Germany five days ago and I’m overdue for a call. Maybe a face-to-face conversation over Skype will help get rid of some of the tension our last one had.

  I pay for fifteen minutes and log on to the Skype account Mom had me set up so we could video chat with Elizabeth at college. Within seconds I’m checking the corners of my mouth for ketchup remnants while I listen to the computer ring.

  A small square appears and then blows up. Elizabeth’s face fills the frame, her familiar room in the background.

  My pesky throat lump is back at the sight. Everything looks so, just so . . . home. A tickle forms just north of the throat lump and my eyes get a tiny bit watery.

  “Aubree!” Elizabeth’s eyes are wide. “Where are you? Prague today, right?” Her expression is wary, like she’s not sure what version of me she might get. Maybe I deserve that.

  I smile to let her know I’ve moved on from our last call, when I said “screw you” and hung up on her. To my relief she smiles back.

  “Yep, I’m in Prague. It’s so beautiful, you should see it.”

  Her eyes get wistful and her voice is soft when she says, “Yeah, I wish I could.”

  I know Elizabeth is way more concerned about losing out on her dream job versus having to give up this trip, but it still must sting that I’m here and she’s not. We never even discussed that and she definitely never complained about it even once. It suddenly hits me that I’ve been doing all this grumbling about Elizabeth being self-absorbed, but what if I have been too?

  I never considered what missing out on this trip to sit home would feel like to my sister, who not only has the travel bug big-time but also hasn’t stopped go-go-going in the entire time I’ve known her. I wonder what this last week has been like for her? I bite my lip and feel a thousand times more sympathetic toward her than I have since our scene at the airport.

  She studies s
omething over my shoulder. “Is that a real stone wall behind you?” she asks.

  I glance behind me at the exposed stone on the inside of the internet café. “Yeah, I guess. This whole city is about a million years old.”

  She laughs. “More like a thousand. Haven’t you been keeping up with my binder?”

  But the way she says it is teasing, not accusatory, and I grin. Obviously there’s no way I’m telling her that binder could be anywhere between here and whatever trash dump is nearest the Philadelphia airport.

  It feels good to laugh with her.

  “Okay, now are you ready to tell me about all of your adventures?” she asks.

  “Are you sure? It won’t bother you?”

  I tilt my head and study her, but she seems completely sincere when she answers. “Of course not! I wanna hear.”

  “Okay, so, not to rub it in, but man the Alps are crazy huge. They make a total mockery of the top of the ski lift at Mad River Mountain,” I tell her. “And get this! We went off book a little to do a Sound of Music tour in Salzburg.” I add, “With the tour operator’s permission, of course!” when I see her expression turn a little hesitant. (FYI: not telling her about Sam, but he shares blood with the tour operator, so I’m figuring that counts. Plus, it was his idea[ish] to begin with.)

  Elizabeth smiles. “Hey, do you remember how funny you were when I tried to get you to reenact the wedding scene from Sound of Music with me? You must have been, what, six? Seven?”

  “Ten,” I answer. I remember it perfectly. Elizabeth’s high school was rumored to be staging the musical that fall and, in typical Elizabeth fashion, she was determined to rehearse ahead of time so she would be a shoo-in for a leading role, even though she was only a freshman (she got it, by the way). Her two best friends were at Girl Scout camp that summer and it was also the year our pool had gone in, so we’d been spending a ton of time in the backyard, swimming and playing badminton. But that day Elizabeth wanted to practice the wedding scene, while I was very insistent there was no wedding scene.