Dylan didn’t understand why she was still so upset with her dad, but fortunately had quit pressing Aimee for an explanation since it only ended in a staring match between the two of them. She hadn’t forgiven Dad yet, probably never would, but if it made Dylan happy, then she would compromise her feelings and make a half-hearted effort to get along.
“Okay, Dad,” Aimee agreed, then she jumped exuberantly into the passenger seat of Dylan’s FJ and clicked on the seat belt. Dad reached in and kissed her on the cheek before she had a chance to divert her face, and he choked out softly, “I love you.” Aimee squeezed a smile between her narrowed lips and retorted, “I know, Dad. Take care of yourself. Okay?”
As planned, Chels was waiting at the airport when they landed in New York City. It only took three weeks for the big city to transform her. Aimee almost didn’t recognize her as she weaved between the exiting passengers going the opposite direction, waving excitedly while trying to reach them. She looked like she had just fallen off some runway; totally chic and drop-dead gorgeous. But Chelsea's beautiful, long, strawberry blonde hair was gone. Short, brown flirty layers softly framed her face. Only her big, blue eyes and pretentious grin gave her away.
Aimee savored every minute of the next two hours they had together. Even though they talked on the phone or communicated on the PC a couple times a week, it wasn’t the same as sitting here in person with Chels. Dylan practically had to drag Aimee away so they could get through the international departure on time. With hugs and kisses they both said a dozen good-byes, and Aimee had to make a million promises to come visit her in a few months before Chels would let her go. Dylan finally grabbed Aimee's hand and pulled her with him. Aimee watched Chelsea strut away in her four-inch black stilettos, then like two kids heading off on their first trip to an amusement park, Aimee and Dylan raced to the gate to board their flight for Rome.
Eleven hours and fifty minutes later the two were flying down a street in Rome in a taxi driven by a madman. A lit cigarette hung precariously out of one corner of his mouth and out of the other side, hostile Italian obscenities spilled incessantly at the other wild drivers in their tiny cars, most of which Aimee didn’t recognize. She clamped onto Dylan’s arm just in case they crashed. His driving reminded Aimee of an American sixteen year old male on steroids. Not a minute too soon, he whipped into the front of their hotel and screeched to a halt. In two seconds they bailed out, chunked a bunch of Euros into the driver’s hand that stretched out of the window, then rescued their bags. It took Aimee another two hours to get her stomach turned right side up from the taxi ride to the hotel.
The itinerary had them traveling insanely through Italy in a week. Dylan was their very own tour guide since he had visited Italy with his dad and Gretchen. Every moment during the day was crammed with running frantically from one tourist spot to the next trying to experience Italy like most American tourists, and every night was a lazy, moonlit fantasy.
Seven days later, they boarded a train in Milan bound for Paris, the City of Lights, but for the two it was the City of Love. The entire first day was spent inside their hotel room overlooking the Eiffel Tower. It was so totally romantic. The day flew by and dusk was emerging. It slowly enveloped the city while they watched from their bed. The twinkling lights were only barely visible in the setting sun’s red glow as it struggled for a few minutes longer to illuminate the Parisian streets. Dylan and Aimee watched through the window until the sun finally disappeared below the horizon and the Eiffel Tower brightened the sky with its millions of lights. Lights from every corner of the city effortlessly managed to chase away the darkness. Dylan held Aimee in his arms, her cheek rested on his cool, bare chest. He lightly stroked her arm with his thumb sending delightful chills through her body.
“Mmmm,” Aimee hummed softly, “I hope heaven is as good as this.”
Dylan chuckled and squeezed Aimee a fraction of a bit tighter. “Yeah, it doesn’t get any better than this, does it?” He looked down at Aimee suddenly. “You sure you don’t want to go out on the town tonight? We can catch a really nice dinner somewhere close, I bet. I mean, we’ve been in bed all day. Not that I’m complaining. Actually, I could stay here with you the rest of our time in Paris, but I’ll do whatever you want to do.”
Aimee tucked in closer and answered, “I want to stay here, right here in this bed with you. We can see Paris tomorrow.”
“Whatever your heart desires.” He snuggled back and lifted Aimee's hand, then coiled his fingers through hers. He held her hand close to his face to admire her ring.
“You still like?” he asked as he reached over and turned on the bed lamp, then picked up her hand again to study the ring. The lamp’s soft white glow casted diamond twinkles through the lacy, silver web.
“I love it,” whispered Aimee, “and I love you.”
Dylan kissed the ring, then laid their tangled hands on his chest and said, “I love you more.”
Chapter 19 déjà vu
Their time in Paris was over and Aimee and Dylan were leaving it behind rapidly en route to London. After two large cups of coffee at the station, Dylan stepped away in search of the restroom. With her head propped lazily on her palm, Aimee stared blankly out the window at the French landscape blurring by waiting for him to return.
In a sleep-deprived daze, Aimee failed to notice that fifteen minutes had passed since Dylan left. The couple behind her arguing in French brought Aimee out of her trance. She glanced down at her watch. How friggin’ long does it take to pee, anyway, she wondered.
The two continued to argue in their language for a couple more minutes. Dylan still hadn’t returned. Aimee was really starting to worry so she decided to go looking for him. As Aimee stood to leave, the man looked up briefly and smiled. His partner poked him with her elbow and they started arguing heatedly. Aimee continued into the next car. Only a handful of passengers filled the cabin. A couple of families, probably American tourists like Dylan and herself, and several young couples all speaking French fluently, occupied the seats here and there. An attendant chatting with one of the passengers blocked the aisle. He obviously didn’t see Aimee next to him, so she waited impatiently for him to finish. Finally, he turned around and smiled at her. Aimee had learned a couple useful phrases in French for their trip.
“Excusez-moi s'il vous plaît. Parlez-vous l'anglais?” she asked.
“Oui. Yes, Madam. May I help you?” he answered in perfect English.
“Yes. Good. Well then, can you tell me where the restroom is?”
“Why yes, Madam. If you will go to the next car you will find a restroom.” He smiled and stepped back allowing Aimee enough room to continue past him.
“Merci,” she answered halfway smiling, and then slid by to continue her search for Dylan. She jiggled the knob on the restroom door, and it turned. Slowly, she pushed open the door and peeked in. Empty. Now she was really getting worried. Aimee looked around nervously. No one even looked up.
Aimee scurried to the next car hoping to find another restroom…and Dylan. But, no restroom, and no Dylan, so she kept going. The door to the next car was stuck tight. She yanked with all her strength. It didn’t move. Aimee peered through the window into the car hoping that someone would notice and assist her. She only saw the tops of heads, and no one spotted her. With every ounce of power she could muster, Aimee tugged at the frozen door. Suddenly, it loosened, and she lost her balance and fell through the opening into the next car.
“Damn…” ripped out under her breath when she hit the floor. Ignoring the pain, Aimee doggedly pushed up into standing. Wild hair covered her eyes, and she pawed at the loose strands to get them out of her face so she could see. She quickly checked the faces of the passengers. Everyone quietly sat in their seats. Her heart jumped into her throat.
This can’t be real! This has gotta to be a sick dream!
Jack Reynolds, his skin black and peeling off his body like brittle, old wallpaper, sat in the front. A few seats behind him was the young gir
l from Washington, still draped in Aimee's t-shirt. Her entire throat was bruised dark blue. The young backpacker who had fallen and become trapped in the ravine was a few rows back. Faces of almost every victim Aimee had failed on her journeys stared at her with despair.
Too scared to move, but too mortified to stay, Aimee inched towards the back. Finally, a few rows from the end she glanced back praying that it was all a dream. But they were still here, and everyone was turned around in their seats watching her. No one uttered a word. She had to escape this nightmare!
She whipped around and noticed someone sitting in the last row. For a few seconds, Aimee paused trying to suppress her fear. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and shook her head as if that would erase everything around her. She peeked back again. They were still all staring at Aimee with the same helpless look. She clamped her eyes hoping to squeeze out their faces.
Wake up, stupid! She had to be stuck in a horrible nightmare, but if this wasn’t a dream, she must have finally cracked like everyone feared. Geez, I should have listened to Dad and gone back to therapy! After a few seconds, Aimee gulped a chest full of air and turned back to the last passenger. Slowly, she opened her eyes, but stared straight ahead through the window of the closed door. Out of the corner of her eye, Aimee could see a woman with long, blonde hair sitting in the window seat. She gulped another breath, and gradually eased her face around.
The air stuck like glue in her lungs, and her scream stuck with it. In a subdued, but beseeching voice her mother cried, “Please, Aimee, please seek others to help you...”
Aimee freaked, and busted through the next door hollering for Dylan at the top of her lungs.
“Dylan! Dylan! Help! Help! Omigod, where are you?! Please, please don’t leave me here!” Tears gushed down her face as she tore to the other end of the car trying to outrun the madness. Without stopping to see what she was running from or where she was running to, Aimee forced her weight against the last door and fell through. She could only think of one thing; find Dylan! He would protect her. She looked back quickly, but no one was there. Aimee swallowed a huge breath of air and whipped back around to search the last car of the train. Dylan had to be in this one.
In the final row, an arm dangled over the armrest into the aisle. It looked like a man’s arm. Aimee's pulse suddenly quickened.
“Dylan! Omigod, I’ve finally found you!” she whispered. Without thinking, Aimee flew towards the back, but when she got about ten feet from it, the arm jerked away. She jumped. But nothing happened. After a few seconds, her heart started again. She took another breath, unable to exhale, and tiptoed the last few steps until she stood dead even with his seat. She kept her eyes pinched shut, too afraid she would find Dylan no longer her Dylan, that he too had somehow changed into some kind of freak.
But someone forced her head around. She clamped shut her eyes. A voice ordered, “Open your eyes!” She obeyed, and their eyes met. Joseph’s face sparkled like a rare diamond. He spoke in his British accent, “Here you are, Aimee. I was beginning to worry something had happened to you.”...
…Aimee awoke shrieking. Dylan instantly smothered her into his chest. Everyone in the rail car around them was definitely alarmed by Aimee's peculiar behavior. Once awake, the screaming quickly died into bawling, then with Dylan holding her tight, it finally dwindled to a subdued whimper. The older man across the aisle with nervous, twitching eyes, leaned over and asked Dylan with a very thick German accent, “Sir…sir…iz there…uh…iz there nzeething I can do for your friend?”
Dylan replied, “Thank you, sir, but I think she’s okay now. I appreciate your concern.” He contrived a smile, and then turned his attention back to Aimee. The man continued to watch her for another minute definitely unconvinced she was fine. Slowly, he returned to the newspaper he was reading before her screaming rudely interrupted him, but he kept peeking over at them while Dylan continued to console her. Aimee buried her face in Dylan's warm chest. He held her, ignoring the embarrassing stares and whispers of the passengers around them. He softly said, “Shhhh, babe. It’s okay now. It was only a bad dream. You’re safe, Aimee.”
After a few minutes her whimpering died into silence, but she kept her head resting on Dylan’s chest listening to his heart. It beat slow and strong. The rhythm pounded with such intensity she knew it would never stop. Finally, Aimee peeked up into his face. The mascara had washed down her face. Dylan smiled when he should have laughed. She looked hideous. He licked his thumb and gently rubbed her cheek to erase the black smudges. Lovingly, he gazed into Aimee's eyes, and then leaned down and kissed her tenderly on her forehead.
“Oh, Dylan,” cried Aimee, “it was awful! I couldn’t find you. You left me, and I couldn’t find you any...”
“Shhh. It’s okay. You just had one of your bad dreams. It’s over and I’m still here with you. I’ll always be with you. You never have to worry about me leaving you.”
She laid her cheek back on his soft t-shirt. She felt totally humiliated, yet the sensation of his body against her face pacified every nerve ending. It was amazing how something as hard as marble felt so comforting.
After a few minutes Aimee heard the lady in front of them tell her husband the train should be in London in about thirty minutes. Aimee slowly sat up, stretched, and covertly turned around to check who might still be watching them after the ruckus she had caused. Thank goodness no one seemed interested in her any longer. She tugged at her shirt, brushed her fingers through her tangled locks, and halfway attempted to swipe off the remaining makeup. She must have been a mess because Aimee heard Dylan chuckle under his breath.
“What?” Aimee leered at him, then inhaled a deep breath.
Dylan just smiled at her, and shook his head. “That is sooo why I love you.”
“What? What is why you love me?”
“It’s never dull when I’m with you.”
Aimee shook her head and snickered.“I love you, too.”
Dylan quickly answered in a serious voice, “I love you more.”…
…England was sadly the last stop of their incredible journey to Europe. They planned only to be in the U.K. for four days before flying back to the States; a couple days to sight-see in London, a day and a half touring the countryside, and the last day trekking back to London to fly home.
Dylan's dad, Greg Townsend, had a branch in London and a small flat. He also had a couple cars parked onsite for his use whenever he was in the country. Greg let Dylan and Aimee use the flat and a car while they were in England. Dylan decided they would drive up to Cambridge, then down to Wiltshire to see Stonehenge. He let Aimee pick the sites in Paris, so he got to choose where they would venture the last few days of their trip. It didn’t really matter to Aimee as long as she was with him. If anything, this trip had proven one thing to her; Dylan was as much a part of her as her own blood, flesh, and soul. No matter where he went, she’d follow, and she knew he felt the same. They were destined to go through life together; partners until death…and then, if God was merciful, through eternity. Aimee would just have to pray and have faith he wouldn’t get sucked up with her on any of her journeys. That could never happen!
Dylan leaned impatiently against the column next to the car, fretfully twirling the keys around his forefinger while he waited for Aimee to come out of the flat. He had already crammed all of their luggage into the tiny trunk. As she approached, he reluctantly held out the keys. Aimee just sniggered and snatched them.
This morning Aimee pleaded to Dylan to let her drive since they were leaving London. Dylan insisted he drive. In a nice way so he wouldn’t hurt her feelings too badly, he told Aimee her driving sucked, and he preferred returning to Medford…alive. But Aimee told him he was totally wrong. Only one of her accidents was her fault; the one where she backed out into Benny’s monster truck, and it would have fatally wounded just about any car as big as it was. And, she reminded him, he couldn’t count the little mishap she had in Eugene a few weeks previous when she passed ou
t in her car. It wasn’t moving, and nothing happened to the car. And the one where she was purposely run off the road and almost killed certainly wasn't her fault. Traveling was wreaking havoc on her otherwise perfect driving record, but Aimee couldn’t tell Dylan the real reason for her lousy record.
“Besides,” Aimee argued, “every American should experience zipping around in a tiny car in the wrong lane with the steering wheel on the wrong side of the dash at least once in their lifetime.”
Dylan wasn’t amused. He obstinately refused, at first, but Aimee kept pestering in her irresistible, charming female way until he finally agreed to at least let her bet for it. Paper, Rock or Scissors - winner drives. On three he played rock…and Aimee played paper.
So, as Aimee approached Dylan, she victoriously whipped the keys out of his hand and arrogantly jumped into the driver’s seat. She ignored Dylan’s grumbling as he crushed his six foot two frame into the tiny passenger seat, crunched up his legs under the dash, and hastily grabbed for the seat belt. Aimee smirked again, turned the key, and jerked away from the curb.
Navigating through London with the zest of any British driver was like playing one of James’s video games, which Aimee was lousy at. She always lost within a minute or two of playing. She managed to at least stay in her lane while they raced along with Dylan barking directions. Dylan’s loss of the bet meant he was in charge of taking pictures and spotting all the famous sites. Aimee needed to keep her eyes on the road and her hands on the wheel. Not one picture had been taken, yet. Dylan’s fingers would have to be pried off the armrest when they got to Cambridge. His eyes, too, were glued to the road straight ahead, no venturing left or right out the window at the London scenery. Occasionally he stole a peek at the map on his lap, then barked more orders at Aimee where to turn. She chuckled to herself. Aimee rarely saw this side of Mr. Always Cool Townsend. Nothing seemed to faze him, except for his ex-girlfriend, Brandi Peters…and now Aimee's driving.
The Weird Travels of Aimee Schmidt: The Curse of the Gifted Page 39