by Jen Malone
I know that’s probably not the end of the discussion about all this—or even close to the end—but for now I dry my tears and tell my family a little about my adventures. At one point, Elizabeth winks at me when I catch her eye while Mom is asking a question, and it makes me feel as though, even if things aren’t perfect between us at the moment, we’ll figure it out.
I feel a small weight lift off my shoulders. Even if Sam never forgives me, at least my family will. I’ll always be the baby, but maybe I don’t have to take my role quite so literally.
There’s only one more set of people I need to confess to.
I make myself comfortable on a bench outside and wait for someone to return, whether the seniors or Sam. As it turns out, no one does for two hours. Just as I’m getting ready to give up, the bus pulls up in front and my group piles off.
I greet them as they come down the stairs. When everyone is clustered outside the bus, I say, “Do you think we could find a place in the lobby to talk?”
Emma looks at the expression on my face. “Is this about Mr. Fenton?” she asks.
“No. This is about me.”
I wait until everyone is gathered in a grouping of chairs to one side of the lobby. I look at the trusting faces peering at me and I almost lose my nerve. I started this trip asking WWED, but today it isn’t about what Elizabeth would do. Besides, I think I might be better off from now on asking WWMFD: What Would Mr. Fenton Do? Or better yet, What Would Aubree Do?
Aubree would do this:
“I need to tell you all something and I want you to know that it’s really hard for me to say to you when you’ve all been nothing but kind to me.”
I look at each face. Emma with her tiny frame that completely out-hiked me in Cinque Terre, and Mary with her not-so-tiny frame that she didn’t let hold her back from skinny-dipping with style. Hank and Maisy, back to sitting on top of each other again. I guess the death-of-a-tourmate grace period has ended. I save Dolores for last because she’s the hardest to face. I feel like we formed a bond back on that beach, but that doesn’t trump the fact that she has her grandson to defend.
This sucks. If the skinny-dipping day in Cinque Terre is going down in history as a top-ten day, then surely today must be a bottom-ten day. But I have to do this. I have to.
“The truth is that I’ve been lying to you about who I am. My older sister, Elizabeth, is the one who was supposed to lead this tour, and I’m Aubree. I’m here in her place, but I couldn’t be honest about who I was because we didn’t want anyone to know Elizabeth couldn’t fulfill her job duties. I was trying to help her, but helping someone shouldn’t mean hurting others, and I realize that now.”
I spit it out in one breath and then hold my next one. No one so much as blinks. Are their hearing aids turned off?
“Um, did you all hear what I said?”
“We did, honey. It’s just that we already knew.”
My mouth drops open. “How did you—”
I can’t even finish I’m so shocked.
“Well, it turns out our Mr. Fenton, may he rest in peace, is a total lightweight when he drinks, as he did a wee bit of last night, and the people he confided in are old biddy gossips,” Hank says with a grin.
“Who are you calling old biddies, you . . . you . . . Texan, you?” Mary swings her pocketbook in his direction.
Um, what is going on here? Why are they joking around with one another and not screaming at me?
Emma watches me carefully. “It’s true, Sweetpea. After his third bourbon, Mr. Fenton was confessing to crimes he committed when he was seven.”
“Crimes?” I gape at her.
“Oh, just breaking the neighbor’s window with a baseball. Nothing major. But then he got to you and we couldn’t shut him up,” Mary adds.
“So he told you—”
“Everything,” Emma says.
“And you told—”
“All of us,” answers Hank. He’s smiling too.
“I don’t understand. Why aren’t any of you angry?”
“What’s the point in that? Are you sorry?” This from Emma.
I nod, confused.
“Were you trying to hurt us?” Mary.
I shake my head. This is so strange.
“Was your heart in the right place?” I can’t believe this is Dolores talking!
I nod again, slowly this time. But it was her mom and her grandson and their company I messed with. Why isn’t she angry?
“Don’t see what the problem is, then,” says Mary. “C’mon, ladies. I don’t know about you, but I’m beat. It’s been one hell of a day.” She grabs Dolores and Emma by the hand and pulls them in the direction of the elevator. Hank and Maisy remain cuddling, so I turn to them.
“I—I don’t know how to apologize enough, I—”
Hank looks up from gazing into Maisy’s eyes. “Did you say something, darlin’?”
But as I turn from them, he tips his hat and winks at me.
Never have I been more aware that I am not wise to the ways of the world. But I’m also not complaining about that just now.
After more time on the bench outside, I finally give up on waiting for Sam and head upstairs. Mary was right. It has been a hell of a long day, in every sense of the word, and all I want is to crawl between my sheets.
I’m just drifting off to sleep when the phone by my bedside rings.
“Sam?” I hope against hope I’ll hear his voice calling me Dimple on the other end of the line.
There’s a pause and then a sigh. “No, Aubree, this is Teresa Bellamy.” Oh. I can’t get a read on her tone. Is she furious with me? How much does she know? She called me Aubree. I sit up in bed and clutch the phone, my heart pounding.
“Um, hi. Hi. Before you say anything, I just want to say how completely sorry I am. I never meant for any of this to happen. I . . .” I trail off, unsure what to say next.
Teresa’s voice is kind, but resigned. “I’m sure you are. I’ve spoken with Sam and he’s brought me up-to-date on the situation. I appreciate how hard you’ve worked these past few weeks, but I’m afraid I can’t let you continue as guide for the remainder of the tour. You understand this, I suspect?”
I murmur a “Yes” while my heart sinks into my stomach. I expected as much, but I wasn’t really prepared for it.
“Good,” she answers. “I heard you and Mr. Fenton had gotten quite close and I’m very sorry for your loss. I know you’ve had a difficult day, so we’ll save any further discussion about this other issue for when you’re back in the States, alright? I’ve arranged for a ticket on the eleven o’clock train to Amsterdam tomorrow and the front desk will have it printed and waiting first thing in the morning. By the time you get to the Netherlands, I’ll have sorted out the date change on your flight as well, so please call in when you arrive there.”
I’m numb, nodding, until I realize she can’t see that. “Okay,” I murmur.
“Get some sleep now, Aubree. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
The line goes dead and I stare at the phone in my hand for a second before replacing it in the cradle.
That could have gone so much worse. She could have screamed at me, demanded I be brought up on charges of fraud (okay, I’m not entirely sure about that, but still. It could have gone much, much worse).
She sounded as deflated as I felt. I wonder what Sam’s version of events was, how much he told her about us. Anything? Everything?
My day ends the same way it began (minus the boy next to me, which is a definite key difference): curled up in bed, staring out the window, going over and over things in my mind.
THIRTY
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 pret
ty 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.”
