Page 11 of Road Trip to Forever
“All these unknowns are terrifying,” I say. “The fear of rejection sucks, doesn’t it?”
“It definitely sucks, but that’s why I’m here. You’re not alone.Neveralone. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” I say. “Never alone.”
“I believe in everything you do,” he adds, as if he hasn’t said enough of the right things this afternoon.
“Thank you.” Tears sting my eyes, and I blink the emotion away before they can fall. “I think I’m going to take a nap. You can hang out here if you want. I’d love it if you stayed.”
“Sounds good. I have some work I need to catch up on,” Patrick says.
“End of the year stuff?”
“Yeah. No one talks about all the paperwork a principal has to do.”
“Funny. I thought all you did was paperwork,” I say. “Piles and piles of paperwork.”
“Don’t forget watching macaroni shoot out of noses. I do that too.”
“I bet your educational leadership classes didn’t prepare you for such an undertaking.”
“They did not. I am wildly unqualified for all this responsibility,” he says.
I hum and stretch out my legs. My calves end up in his lap, and he drapes a blanket over my lower half. A gag gift he got me for my birthday four years ago, with his face plastered on the fleece three dozen times.
“Will you wake me up in a few hours?” I ask.
“Of course. You’re sticking around for a while, right? No other trips planned?”
“Nope. I’ll be here for a couple months.”
“What are you going to do with your free time? You haven’t been home for longer than a week or two in years.”
“Get accepted to the fashion show, hopefully. Take on more commissions. Film some new videos. I’m tired. I’ve been on the move for so long, I need a break.”
“If you’re tired,” Patrick says, “then you should rest. There’s nothing wrong with slowing down.”
“I’ll be doing lots of resting. I’m also going to find ways to bug you. You’ll be downright sick of me soon, Patrick Walker.”
“Doubtful. At the very least, maybe the subway system will run smoothly since you’re home. Lola Jones: a champion for the people.”
“That’s a nice campaign slogan.” I reach out and thread our hands together, giving his palm a squeeze. “Thank you for picking me up. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for being here.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he says, squeezing my palm back. “Sweet dreams, Lo. It’s good to have you home.”
“It’s good to be home. I missed you, Patrick,” I say.
“More than the donuts?”
“No.” I turn on my side and press my face into a decorative pillow. A button makes an imprint on my cheek. “Never more than donuts. But you’re a very close second.”
“To be fair,” he says as I slip away into a dream, “I’d pick the donuts too.”
THREE
PATRICK
The Garden isloud when I walk through the double wood doors.
