I step from his side to walk ahead of him a little, parting the sea of people in our path so he has more space to breathe. I reach a hand behind me and say over my shoulder, “We’re almost out of this alley. Then it’s just a block or two to our stop.” My worry eases when his clammy palm slides over mine and I clasp it tight, all the way out to the cross street, with its wide sidewalks and way fewer souvenir-hungry tourists.
I give West’s hand a final squeeze of reassurance before letting it drop. “That was intense. Sorry if I added to the overstimulation with all my rambling,” I say with an awkward laugh.
He rubs both hands over his face and blows out a breath before shaking his head and looking at me, his eyes thankfully focused and clear again. “No, it wasn’t you. I just…It was getting hard to breathe in that crowd. I’m okay now.” With a shy smile, he adds, “Thanks for looking out for me.”
“Of course. I only wish I’d noticed sooner, instead of being so caught up listening to my own voice.”
“Hey, stop that,” he chides. “I don’t blame you—I’m a big fan of your voice, too.”
I bump my shoulder against his while mentally sending a wish out to the universe or whoever else is listening:Please, please let me keep him.
We reach our bus stop just as one of the tour buses is approaching and find seats in our go-to top-front spot. I sink into the hard plastic chair, suddenly feeling the soreness in my feet now that they’ve stopped moving. I’ve almost forgotten what we were talking about, when West says, “That tour really brought out your Dr. Lovett Junior, huh?”
He gives me a teasing grin that makes me want to duck my head into my T-shirt like a turtle retreating into its shell, but sadly, I have no such anatomical hiding place. I’m stuck with covering my eyes with my hands.
“Oh god, no,” I groan.
West chuckles and bumps his shoulder against mine. “What? I love that you’re so passionate about history, ancient civilizations, all of that. It’s amazing that you found your thing so early and grew to love it more than ever.”
His words send reality crashing into me like a double-deckerbus. A reality I haven’t fully let him in on, I realize. But we’re on a long stretch of the route heading to the outskirts of the city, so it’s as good a time as any to open that door.
“Yeah, uh, about that,” I begin, fixing my gaze on the road ahead, now following the coastline. “I’m not really sure it’s ‘my thing’ anymore.”
West’s head rears back so aggressively, I see it in my periphery. “I’m sorry—did body snatchers get to you in the last five minutes? Because the girl who was just reciting verbal love letters about a bunch of holes in the ground is basically a next-generation Indiana J—”
At the sharp look I shoot his way, a smile splits his face wide and he points an accusatory finger at me. “Ha! See? That was atest, because the Cammie Lovett I knew was a staunch believer that Indiana Jones, while giving the field a badass reputation, was less of an archaeologist than a glorified looter, and she was quick to correct the record whenever his name came up.” He pauses, brow furrowing as his gaze drifts sideways. “She was also weirdly into Harrison Ford, even as older, present-day Indy.”
One thing about me that hasn’t changed and never will, much like Harry F’s hotness.
I sigh and face forward again. “I had somewhat of a wake-up call recently, and it’s made me reconsider things. I applied to a field school that I thought would be a dream come true. It’s pretty exclusive, so I probably should have known better, but I was so sure I’d get accepted. I mean, I’ve only been hearing how smart and special and interesting I am sincebirth.” My laugh is mirthless. “But I didn’t even make the waitlist.”
“Cam…” West starts, and the pity in his voice makes me want to “hop off” this bus while it speeds down the highway.
“It’s okay. I’m okay, because it’s the reason I’m even here now, for one thing. But I also think I needed that—I’ve coasted long enough on my mom’s name, on the Bambina stuff, and I know you said you didn’t mean the no-personality thing, but you weren’t totally off-base, either. I think I made the love of archaeology so much of who I am that it became this…crutch? I haven’t really done much for myself before, haven’t had to figure out what I could be good at or passionate about. Trying to find my dad, it’s partially to understand more about who I am and where I come from, partially in the hope of forming a relationship with my other parent. But it’s also, I guess…to prove to myself that I can do it.”
West is silent, presumably processing everything I’ve confessed. Maybe struggling to form a response that’s not “About time you got hit with the humility stick! Welcome to the real world, Bambina di Nepo!”
But of course, the words he eventually finds are the opposite of harsh. “Cammie, you know that one rejection from one program doesn’t have to change the whole course of your life, right? Whatever you’ve convinced yourself lately, youarequalified and capable and brilliant and passionate. So what if you knew what you loved from the jump? Some people just luck out early.”
My lips twist and I look out toward the bay as we ride higher up a hillside. A large part of me wants to take his words as truth, but my cynical side still resists, tells me I just want to keep coasting through on credit I didn’t earn. More powerful than either of the warring emotions, however, is an exhaustion that’s quickly pulling me under, between the busy day behind us and the important night to come. I don’t want to talk about my personal crises anymore.
“You might be right,” I concede, mostly to bring things to a quicker close. “But if you don’t mind, can we just…chill for a while?” The question fades into a yawn, and West eyes me with a knowing smile, one that tells me we’re hitting pause on this conversation rather than stopping it entirely.
“I wouldn’t mind kicking back and enjoying the ride until pizza time,” he agrees. “You can take a nap, if you want—I downloaded a podcast I haven’t had the chance to listen to yet. It’s an interview with one of those researchers working on the Herculaneum scrolls, like we saw at the museum in Na—Okay, covering your yawn with your hand doesn’t make it less offensive.” West gives me a flat look, and I hold my free hand up with apology as another yawn hits.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help it,” I say in drawn-out yawn-speak.
“Yeah, yeah. Pretend indifference all you want, but I know you know that project is cool as hell.”
I snicker while he leans over to get his headphones out of his backpack and pops one in the ear not facing me. As he queues up his entertainment, I angle myself a little closer to him until my head can rest against his shoulder. I feel himpause for only half a second before he shifts lower in his seat, giving me easier shoulder-resting access.
“Hey, should we move downstairs, or under the shade in the back?” he suggests gently. “Your face is getting a little pink.”
With my eyes already closed, my consciousness quickly slipping, I roll my head from side to side. “I’ll be fine, Mom.”
He lets out a weary sigh and I grin to myself. I assume the issue’s been dropped, that he’s only getting more comfortable as he does some more adjusting of his position with minimal jostling of my head.
But then the world on the other side of my eyelids gets dark. Opening them doesn’t help, either. “What the—” I start to sit up, to pull at whatever kidnapper-style burlap sack has been tugged over my head, when a hand presses me back to West’s shoulder.
