Wanderlost (16 page)

Sam's hand on my elbow steadies me. I sigh at how delicious it feels, then jump away. Out of the corner of my eye, I'm positive I see Emma nudge Mary and point in our direction. Great. Just great.

Sam tilts his head, and his expression is somewhere between puzzled and amused. “Not here,” I whisper/hiss, jerking my head in the direction of Mary and Emma.

Sam follows my head motion and bites his lower lip as his
eyebrows go up. Now there's no hiding his amusement. “I get it. We're on the down low, Agent X?”

“The very down low,” I whisper, because Mr. Fenton and Dolores are making their way toward us.

Sam steps closer again, hands raised in surrender. “If you insist, but it's gonna be tough not to touch you all day.”

His voice is low and warm and teasing and I just want to grab his hand and run us to a hidden spot under the bridge. Instead I force myself to turn my back on him and very deliberately march over to Mr. Fenton. “How are you enjoying Prague, you two?”

Mr. Fenton smiles easily. “Very much, Lizzie. I was just telling Dolores that if you stand on this bridge during the summer solstice and look up at the St. Vitus Cathedral, the very last ray of sun to touch the cathedral hits at the exact spot where St. Vitus's remains are buried. Is that impressive planning or what?”

I nod and shuffle lightly away from Sam, who has come up beside me and is feigning great interest in Mr. Fenton while trying to surreptitiously brush his fingers against mine again. I swat them away with a small smile on my lips this time and from the corner of my eye, I see Sam grin. My insides go all bubbly, like someone just opened champagne in my belly.

The rest of the afternoon we spend wandering very slowly around Old Town. I'm ready to jump out of my skin, having Sam so close and not being able to touch him. Actually, I'm about to jump Sam. I can tell he's every bit as attuned to me,
because whenever I “accidentally” bump my hip against his or I step so close behind him that my breath tickles his shoulder, I feel his whole body tense up.

We're trailing a few feet behind the seniors and I'm about to go certifiably crazy from all the amazing tension between us when Sam, in one fluid motion, grabs my hand and tugs me into a doorway tucked into the cobblestoned alley we're walking down. He pushes my back against the wall and tangles his hands in my hair, kissing me so passionately that I now get that whole “weak in the knees” expression. My legs feel like rubber glue. Just as quickly he pulls back and steps into the alleyway, whistling innocently as he catches up with the others. I, on the other hand, can't move. Like, physically can't move.

When I join the others a full three minutes later, Sam is the picture of innocence when he asks, “Stop to tie your shoe?”

I'm wearing sandals.

I need another doorway right this very second.

I glance at him and he subtly winks at me. God, this boy.

I do my best to throw myself into playing doting tour guide, fishing out the first aid kit from my backpack when Dolores gets a blister and finding Mary's reading glasses in the bottomless pit she calls a pocketbook. All afternoon, every move I make, I can feel Sam's eyes on me. It's . . . well, it's kind of thrilling.

After dinner (no roll, plain chicken breast, a PowerBar in the stall of the ladies' room), we all see a performance of
Don Giovanni
at the National Marionette Theatre. Apparently, this
is some big thing in Prague. There are smoke machines going during the performance and everything. And forget yodeling a la the
Sound of Music
puppet show. We get Mozart (the dude sure got around Eastern Europe).

I have a seat next to Sam, and he keeps shifting so that his leg brushes against mine and I place my hand low between our seats and wait for him to do the same. When he twines my fingertips with his, I have to suck in a breath. He squeezes gently and rubs circles in my palm with the pad of his thumb. To be honest, I spend way more time focused on this than the marionettes.

But when we spill out onto the street once it ends, I find the one thing that could take my attention off of Sam. Prague at night. “It's so beautiful!” I gasp.

The cobblestones twinkle under the flickering flames of gas lamps curving down the narrow alleyways of the old section of town. It feels like I'm in another century.

Emma slides into place next to me. “This here is why I booked the trip.”

I understand perfectly. The night's warm and a tiny bit sticky, but the atmosphere is otherworldly.

“I'll tell you what this city is, it's romance,” says Mary, never far behind Emma.

“So true,” answers Emma. “Too bad we're all withered up and old. You'll have to settle for a stroll with an old friend instead, Mar.”

Mary links her arm through Emma's. “Hey, speak for
yourself on that withered-up-and-old thing. Except . . .” She pauses and winks at me. “I do think we can live vicariously through some of us here who might be single
and
full of youthful promise.”

I begin backing away. “Oh, no. Um, I don't think . . .”

Just then Mr. Fenton appears with Dolores at his side and Sam a few steps behind.

“You know, Dolores and I were just talking about what a nice night it is for a leisurely stroll along the Vltava River. Don't you think us old folks should trot ourselves off to bed and let our young friends here enjoy a walk?” Mr. Fenton says.

Who needs eHarmony when you have the Granny and Gramps Matchmaking Service? I catch Sam's eye and my cheeks flush pink. But he doesn't look embarrassed at all. He looks amused.

“Well, if you're sure you can make it back to the hotel on your own,” Sam says, palms to the sky in a who-am-I-to-protest gesture.

“Oh, no. I'm the tour guide. I insist on getting you back safely,” I say, holding my ground.

“I see. Let's settle this once and for all. Lizzie, which way is our hotel?” Mr. Fenton looks smug.

Ummmmm. I have a map of the city in my backpack for just this kind of situation, but I'm guessing from the victorious looks on everyone's faces, they're not gonna let me grab it. I point behind me and try to sound authoritative. “That way.”

“Enjoy your walk,” says Mr. Fenton. He gestures in the
complete opposite direction. “Anyone over the age of sixty-five, follow me.”

Emma, Mary, and even Dolores smile and waggle their fingers in my direction as they fall in behind Mr. Fenton. I turn to Sam helplessly. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

“Nope.”

“Are we going to let them get away with it?” I ask.

“What do you suggest? We hold a trial and hang them from the Old Town bridge tower for incessant meddling? I kind of thought meddling was what grandparents lived for.”

“What do you think gave us away?”

Sam coughs. “Probably the way you can't stop undressing me with those swoony eyes. Geez, I feel like I'm on the cover of
Tiger Beat
or something.”

I swat at him for the hundredth time today and he captures my hand easily and tucks it inside his own. I am suddenly filled with warm, happy thoughts about my mutinous crew.

“Who cares what gave it away,” Sam murmurs, stepping close and gently backing me against the wall outside the theater. He takes my other hand in his too. “Cat's out of the bag, so now I can do this any time I want. Which has basically been every second of this day.”

Stepping in, he places his lips on mine and steals my breath. Even as my eyes close, I can still sense the flickering gas lamps on the street corner. I hear the soft strums of guitar music from a street café a little ways off and feel the uneven
cobblestones under my sandals. This place is magical. All of it.

Sam brings our entwined hands up and tucks my elbows against my hips as he sighs into my mouth. I think he's feeling the spell of this place too. His kiss isn't urgent like earlier, but soft and sweet. I untangle our hands and wrap my arms around his neck as Sam deepens our kiss. It feels like I could float away as his hands circle my back.

How could I have ever imagined
this
would be my summer?

“Up for a
walk? It's a free-choice afternoon and I choose you.” Sam slides behind me and whispers in my ear.

My insides feel like they're wrapped in an electric blanket and getting warmer by the second. Getting close to Sam is really stupid and potentially threatening to everything I'm here to do for Elizabeth, but not getting close to him feels completely impossible.

I turn to face him. “Sure! Give me a few minutes to grab my stuff from my room.”

I'm deciding right here and right now to just let it happen. I'll worry about the fallout later. For now, we're in Venice.

Venice!

After two hours of walking around, I'm ready to make another declaration. Venice is my new favorite. Okay, I
know
. I say that everywhere. But really, it's like Amsterdam with all the canals (or probably it's more that Amsterdam is like Venice) but it's also a little bit more mysterious and just more . . . edgy.
Every time we take a turn, I'm convinced we'll never in a million years find our way back to our hotel. I can barely do that when there's a grid pattern, and here we're talking bridges everywhere. But Sam keeps saying “Trust me,” so I do.

The irony is not lost on me.

He steers us to St. Mark's Square with the pigeons and the Basilica and the Caffè Florian and all the long striped poles where the gondolas are docked and bobbing in the water. But I prefer the surprises of turning corners and finding hidden squares with laundry hanging above our heads and tiny bubbling fountains.

Sam is a far better tour guide than I am. He's no Mr. Fenton with all the dates and facts, but his anecdotes come from experience, unlike mine, which come from Sam's iPad. He tells me about coming in the fall, when half the city floods with the tides and there are narrow wooden platforms people use instead of sidewalks and all the Italian women put away their fancy Italian shoes in favor of tall rain boots (which I'm sure are still somehow fabulously stylish). And he likes to point out everything, like those posh Italian women, or the little boys in an intense soccer match in the street. Or the patisseries with their colorful windows and the souvenir masks dangling from the street carts as we cross yet another bridge over a canal. I feel like he's letting me see everything through his eyes, bringing me into his world.

“I've always wanted to come one year during Carnevale. I mean, it's a total tourist trap, but they still hold the fancy balls
where everyone comes masked. Don't you think it would be fun to be someone else entirely for a night?” Sam says.

As a matter of fact, I know a thing or two about being someone else entirely.

I feel like a Ping-Pong ball the way my emotions are jumping all over the place today. Walking around hand-in-hand with Sam makes me feel like we're a real couple, and just hours ago I decided to take things as they come with him and try to enjoy our time together, but the guilt about all the lies between us is killing me. It's taken up residence in my stomach and it's like I swallowed an avocado pit. (Not that I'd ever eat an avocado.)

Although speaking of eating, maybe there
is
something I can be honest with Sam about without putting Elizabeth's future in jeopardy. We pause on one of a hundred different bridges that all look alike, arching over a canal. This one even has a gondola passing underneath. I wonder if those guys ever get tired of striped shirts and “O Sole Mio”? Sam leans over the railing to watch the boat disappear underneath the bridge. When he straightens he catches sight of my expression and his eyes go wide.

“Uh-oh. I don't really like that look.”

I sigh. “We need to talk.”

“Four worst words in the English language.” He leans over the railing again, I think to buy time. When he looks at me again, he's clearly hurt. “Don't say it. Please. I know I'm too young for you by some people's definition, but I don't care
about that. Nobody here cares about that. The past few days have been . . . and I just . . .” His eyes rest on my lips for a second before he jerks them back to the water below us. He whispers, “Just please don't, okay?”

He thinks I'm putting a stop to this? Is he crazy?! And did he just give me a whole speech about how much he doesn't want to stop either? My heart does a little salsa dance around my rib cage and I can't keep the smile off my face.

“It's not that,” I say.

He takes a deep breath and exhales. Then his eyes go wide. “Did I just make a total fool out of myself? Because sometimes I get ahead of myself. I'm not talking about telling someone I love them at the end of my very first phone call with that person or anything on
that
level of ridiculous or anything, but . . .”

I punch him in the arm, still smiling. Then I grab his shirt in my fist and tug him in for a kiss. A kiss I hope conveys how very much I do
not
think he made a fool of himself. And how very much I do
not
want to stop kissing him. At all.

“Wow,” he says when we break apart. “Let's have this talk more often.”

I laugh, then grow quiet. Sam tilts my chin up with his finger and says, “Hey. Hey, you can talk to me. About anything. I hope you know I'm not just here for the kissing. Although I'm not
not
here for the kissing, because that's pretty great too.” He chuckles and brushes his lips across mine, whisper soft. He moves his lips to my ear and whispers, “But not just the
kissing. Promise. Talk to me.”

God, this has to go well because if I mess things up with this guy . . . plus, his reaction is going to tell me everything I need to know about how I can expect him to react to the much, much bigger lies if I can ever bring myself to confess to those someday far, far in the future.

Sam steps back and I play with the hem of my T-shirt as I finally work up the nerve to say, “Um, so, I, well . . .” I keep my eyes fixed on the water below us. Another gondola passes under our bridge and a tourist riding in the bow of the boat snaps a photo. I look away, at Sam, whose eyes are fixed on me. “I haven't been
completely
honest with you about something.”

I'm scared to even utter those words, knowing how strongly he feels about lying. The last thing I expect is for him to say, “I know. I already know.”