Page 109 of Road Trip to Forever
It was our first time out in public as something more than friends. We’re pulling back the curtain of our relationship and revealing this new title to the world. Touching him freely and showing affection is exhilarating. Getting to kiss his cheek when he sat by my side and listening to him answer questions made my heart full, knowing there’s a space for him inmyspace, that my two worlds are able to coexist without any strife or strain.
It was easy, a reassurance that we can be two different people with two different lives but still come together and celebrate the each other’s accomplishments.
We made our way back to the room around two, stomachs full from the buffet and cheeks sore from laughing so much. I fell asleep after Patrick helped unzip my dress, dozing peacefully until my alarm sounded ten minutes ago.
I rub my eyes and roll over in bed, grinning when I see Patrick. He’s still asleep, one arm above his head and the other holding onto my hip in a vice-like grip. Now that he’s allowed to touch me, I’ve learned he doesn’t want to stop. He finds any way for us to have physical contact, even if it’s our pinkies interlocking as he hands me the tube of toothpaste in the bathroom, brushing our teeth side by side.
That made me smile.
I kiss his cheek and slip out from under the sheets. I know he he can’t function without caffeine or food immediately after waking up, so coffee and a breakfast sandwich from the shop downstairs sound like a good idea. It’s the fuel we’ll need for our busy day.
I throw on his T-shirt and a pair of jean shorts, leaving the room as quietly as I can. Patrick doesn’t stir when I close the door, his eyes still closed and his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.
The line for food is long, and I get sidetracked talking to a couple I met last night. They created a label together, she tells me, but she’s the real visionary, he adds. I wish them good luck with the show, and by the time the two egg and cheese croissants and drinks come out, I’ve been gone for almost an hour.
I balance the cups in the crook of my arm and hold the bag of food in my teeth. I check my phone, surprised to not find any missed texts or calls from Patrick. A flicker of worry lights up inside of me as I hustle back to the room because he never sleeps this late. I tap the key against the lock and open the door, standing in the entryway.
“I’m back and I have breakfast,” I call out through the living room.
I don’t get a response.
I was expecting to find him sprawled across the couch in his boxers, a pencil behind his ear and the crossword puzzle in his hands, but he’s nowhere to be found. The curtains are still drawn and it’s dark, making it difficult to see.
“Patrick?” I try again, the worry increasing to panic.
There’s a groan from the bed, a sound coming from under the pile of covers on the bed that echoes through the room. I drop the food and drinks on the glass table and hurry across the floor. I find his head peeking out from under the fluffy white comforter I had wrapped around my body a short while ago.
“Hey,” he whispers, his voice cracking.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you sick?”
I sit next to him and touch his forehead, checking for a fever. He didn’t sound like this last night when we fell asleep wrapped around each other. My legs were like vines, clinging to his body anywhere I could find space.
“Migraine,” he answers. It sounds like there’s a patch of dust clogging his throat. “A bad one.”
“What do you need?” I ask, ready to jump into action.
Patrick shakes his head and throws his arm over his eyes. “Everything hurts so bad. It’s never been like this. My vision is blurry. I’m nauseous. The pain—fuck. It’s awful. It’s like a hammer to my skull.”
His excruciating pain is probably because he’s deviated from his regimented routine: eight hours of sleep in his own bed every night. Five servings of fruits and vegetables a day. A half a gallon of water before lunchtime, and another half in the afternoon.
He never stays out until two in the morning, consuming pounds of fried food and a couple beers. I’ve thrown a wrench in his day-to-day life, and I feel immense guilt at the realization.
“Where are your pills?” I ask.
“Already took two. I’m okay. You need to get ready for the show.”
“The show is tomorrow,” I say, keeping my voice soft as I brush a piece of hair away from his forehead. “I have nowhere else to be.”
“What about the networking event? You have a poster with your name on it. A booth and designs you get to show off.”
I was looking forward to today, a chance to tease some of my outfits in a less-formal environment before things officially kick off tomorrow. The board of directors thought free admission for the public would drive interest in the show, and from what I’ve heard, they’re expecting thousands of people to stop by throughout the week.
As much as I want to be on the convention center floor, talking with fellow designers and meeting the judges who will be critiquing my work, I need to be here with Patrick. He’d stay back for me, and Iwantto stay with him, making sure he’s okay.
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll see all of them tomorrow. You’re my priority,” I say honestly. “Tell me what you need.”
“A shower, but I’m afraid to stand up. I tried before you got back and I felt dizzy.”
