Page 10 of Road Trip to Forever
I can’t sit still, always on the hunt for the next adventure. A life of independence. A meager savings account but plenty of plane tickets and passport stamps. Memories money can’t buy, like riding through the streets of Paris on the back of a scooter and cliff jumping into the Mediterranean, my skin burning under the summer sun.
He likes to spend time at home. I want to see the world.
We’ve grown from the little boy and young girl who spent their nights staring at the sky and dreaming on a shooting star, but our friendshipworks. It’s strong and sturdy and perfect.
We never fight, and when I’m away, we rely on technology to make sure we’re near at risk of drifting apart despite the thousands of miles separating us.
A flurry of text messages from sunrise to sunset. Him calling on his way to work to curse unreliable public transportation. Me FaceTiming from eight time zones away while I hold up a fresh baguette.
A picture of Patrick in bed, lamplight bathing his face in soft hues of yellow and gold. A book in his hands and a smile curving his lips.
All the voice messages I’ve kept from him because I love to hear his voice when I’ve been gone for far too long.
Like him bouncing around gift ideas for Teacher Appreciation Day. No more mugs or gift cards, he said firmly, but maybe T-shirts with something witty written on them?
Why red sauce is superior to white sauce on pasta.Flavor,he told me, pausing to apologize to someone he ran into on the sidewalk.It’s much heartier, Lola.
A rant about why dogs shouldn’t wear clothes or socks or reindeer antlers at Christmastime.
Cats too, he added, half an hour later as a distracted afterthought.
A six-minute diatribe about whichStar Warsmovie is the best. He gave up after going back and forth with himself to order a burrito and never picked a favorite.
Still, after all these years, we don’t have any secrets.
And that’s how I know that Patrick is, without a doubt, keeping a secret from me now.
“You’re not mad?” I ask, tabling his behavior to dissect later.
“Why would I be mad?”
“Because I’m bailing.”
“Lola.” Patrick laughs. The deep rumble echoes off the walls and works its way into my bones. It settles there, like a sip of hot cocoa on a cold winter day. A scoop of ice cream in scorching heat on a summer afternoon. Pleasant and nice and a much-needed imaginary hug. “I could never be mad at you for living your life. Where are you going for the date?”
“Dinner at a Mexican restaurant with unlimited chips and queso. It was impossible to say no.”
“Foodisthe way to your heart. I’m surprised you aren't already there. Lined up outside, waiting for the clock to strike five,” he says.
“I wish I was going with you to The Garden. I miss everyone.”
“I’ll tell them you say hey, and we’ll celebrate with them when you get accepted to the show.”
“IfI get accepted to the show.”
“It’ll be a whole spectacle. Confetti. Streamers.” He waves his hand around, imagining where he’ll hang decorations. A poster boasting “Congratulations!” and a balloon archway. Bright colors. Glitter too, probably. I can see the steely glint he gets in his eye when he sets his mind to something and fully commits.
“Streamers? Who the hell is going to do all this decorating?” I ask.
“Hell, I’ll get those annoying blower things. It’ll force Eavesdropping Evan next door to buy earplugs,” he says, steamrolling past my question. “Payback for when he stole your newVoguemagazine and never gave it back. There will be snacks. Cheetos. Chocolate ice cream. All your favorite foods.”
“You say this like it’s a sure thing.”
“Because, Lola,” Patrick says. He reaches out and curls his thumb and pointer finger around the curve of my chin. He eases my head back so I can look at him. I see the fan of his dark eyelashes. The color on his cheeks—he’s definitely sunburned. The way his bottom lip bends into a crooked almost-smile. Our gazes hold steady, neither one wanting to be the first to break. “It is a sure thing.”
“I’m scared,” I admit. “What if I get accepted, go all the way down there, and they hate the designs I’ve spent hours on? I know criticism is part of the job, but I like to pretend what I do is good.”
“What if you go down there and they love your designs?” His smile stretches wider. I see the whites of his teeth. The crinkles around his eyes that have gotten deeper with age. The perfect divots of dimples chiseled in his cheeks. His Hopeful Face. “What if everything goes right?”
