Page 122 of Road Trip to Forever
“Fuck,” I curse. Then, remembering I’m in front of the woman who could determine the future of Lola’s career, I wince at my choice of words. “Sorry, ladies. I apologize for the vulgarity.”
“Don’t worry. I said a whole lot worse than that when I found out about the crisis five minutes ago,” Janet admits.
“Is there an extra model?” I ask. “Someone else who can fill in? I’ve seen three hundred people walk through those doors this morning. Can’t any of them do it?”
“No. We’ve allotted the exact number of models to pieces on the runway,” the assistant explains.
“Plus, I’m not sure we’ll find someone who fits in the clothes in time. Something to add in for next year,” Janet adds, making a note on the top sheet of paper and circling it six times. The tip of her pencil breaks and she lets out a frustrated sigh.
“I could do one less design,” Lola says. She bites her bottom lip and her eyes flick down to the floor, disappointment flooding her features. “I won’t be penalized, will I?”
“Absolutely not,” Janet answers quickly, seemingly elated we’ve found a solution. “I’ll mention what’s going on to the judges and—”
“No. Fuck that,” I bark out, apologies for my language forgotten, and all three heads turn to stare at me. “You’re not changing your lineup because someone can’t handle their liquor and didn’t show up on time, Lola.”
“What do you propose I do?” Lola snaps back, her voice rising in steady increments with every syllable. “I can’t make a model appear out of thin air, Patrick.” Her hands shake and a single tear rolls down her cheek “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I’m taking this out on you when it’s not your fault.”
“It’s okay, honey. I know you’re frustrated,” I say, keeping my tone soft. I rub my hands up her arms, getting rid of the goosebumps and pulling her close. I glance over at Janet. “How much time until you absolutely need someone in line to walk the runway in Lola’s clothes?”
“Twenty-five minutes.” Janet checks her watch and blanches, her face turning pale. “No. Twenty minutes.”
“Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to do it,” I blurt out before I can talk myself out of a plan I’m making up as I go. A plan I’m not sure will even work.
Lola’s chin jerks up and she stares at me. The woman holding the garment bag lets go of the hangers, the canvas gathering in a heap next to the wooden clipboard that slips from Janet’s grasp.
“What? Patrick, you’re not a model,” Lola says.
“My Hanes briefs don’t scream couture to you?” I joke, and none of the women laugh. It’s a feeble attempt, a desperate Hail Mary I’m throwing at the end of the game with no time on the clock, trying to do something,anythingto wipe the devastated frown off Lola’s face and clear the tears from her eyes. “I’ve worn the suits before. Dozens of times. You used my measurements to make them.”
“To pose for pictures, not walk in front of a thousand people. Even if the clothes do fit, you won’t know the marks to hit.”
“I saw some of the women’s show yesterday. At the very least I know to go to the end of the stage, pause, then come back. All those years of watchingAmerica’s Next Top Modelwith you taught me something, Lo. I’m not totally clueless. I can do it.”
“Patrick,” she whispers, and I hear the fear behind my name. Years of her hard work is threatening to come undone, all because of someone else’s mistake. “I don’t know if it will work.”
I step toward her and wipe away her tears with my thumbs. I cup her cheeks and give her a gentle kiss. She tastes like syrup and powdered sugar from donuts, lingering spearmint, and the bright Florida sunshine.
“It might not, but I want to try. I know you can do things by yourself,” I say. “You’ve been doing them effortlessly for thirty-four years. But I’m here, sweetheart. I’m willing. Let me help. I want to help. Those people deserve to see the beauty of your art.Allof your art.”
Her nod starts off weak, growing more resolute as she ponders the idea and becomes more onward with the plan. Lola’s a pragmatic woman, taking her time to see the big picture and not make an impulsive decision based on emotion.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay. Yes.Yes. That would… Patrick, are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
“You’ll have to wear makeup.”
“Sounds like the time you used my cheeks to learn how to contour.”
“Your picture will be in magazines,” Lola says. “People will find your social media accounts. I know you like your privacy. I never even show your face in my photos because I know how much you value your privacy. Who knows what the people on the internet will say?”
“Fuck ’em,” I answer. I drop my hands to her shoulders and give her arms a gentle squeeze. “I don’t care what they’ll say. I’ll be wearing your clothes, and that’s all that matters. Do you know how cool that is? You’ve come a long way from that shirt you sewed me for my thirteenth birthday.”
A laugh slips out of her, and the tension in her shoulders begins to loosen. “The front and back were two different lengths,” she says, sniffing and wiping her nose.
“And look how far you’ve come,” I say. “I want to do this for you.”
There’s a moment of tense silence while I wait for Lola to make her decision. I don’t think Janet is breathing and the assistant scoops up the suit from the floor, her hands trembling.
