Page 144 of Road Trip to Forever
“Can I have your spare ticket to the Met Gala?” Rebecca asks, and I laugh.
“If I get an invitation, I will take all of you to the Met Gala. Thank you so much for your help today. I appreciate it more than you know.”
“I have an important charity event next year. Will you make a suit for me?” Noah asks.
“Of course I will, but only if you’ll install some of the hanging lights for me. You’re the tallest one of the bunch,” I say.
“You’ve got yourself a deal. Lola Jones, designer extraordinaire,” he says, kissing my hair in the most platonic way possible.
“Hey. Hands off my girl,” Patrick says.
“Sorry. I thought this was the part of the afternoon where we all say how we’ve been in love with her a while now and—oh wait. That was just you.”
I grin at my friends and the family we’ve created, feeling nothing but happiness and pride. I’m so thankful for everything in my life and everything that’s yet to happen. I don’t know what the future holds, but with all of them by my side, I know I can conquer anything.
FORTY-TWO
LOLA
“Do I have paint on me?”I ask.
Patrick licks his thumb and wipes it across my forehead. He turns my cheek from side to side, inspecting my skin. “Not anymore. Problem solved.”
“This is why I keep you around.”
“Because I clean up your messes?”
“Exactly,” I say.
We file into the elevator at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel and I press the button for the Presidential Suite where the shoot and interview will take place. Eight photographers and eight interviewers are waiting for me. Waiting to splash my clothes and name across the pages of magazines for thousands of people to see. Sitting on a coffee table or in a doctor’s office waiting room. On someone’s bedside table. There might be a kid out there who looks atmydresses and designs and uses them for motivation to chase their dreams.
The thought alone makes me want to burst into tears.
I expected to be more nervous as the elevator climbs higher and higher to the top floor, but I’m not. I’m oddly calm as Patrick taps his foot and holds my hand. I’m at ease as he runs his finger over my knuckles and kisses the top of my head. It almost feels like I’ve ascended over the point of a pyramid, the downward journey far easier than the rough climb it took to get here.
All those years of jammed sewing machines. Dresses with misplaced threads and incorrect sizing. Learning how to work with leather and chiffon, doing my best to not get frustrated or give up when I didn’t grasp a concept right away.
When my name announced at the fashion show, it was the first time in my life I felt a true sense of belonging in this career. Art in any form—literature, clothing, music, dance, whatever—is subjective. It’s hard to predict what someone will like, what trends will continue to be popular, and how different istoodifferent.
Trusting the process and believing in yourself when you have ways to measure tangible success ishard.It’s telling yourself you can even when you often truly believe you can’t. It’s trying again when something doesn’t work, a second time then a third, until you see the positive result. Shutting down the voices that try to pull you in eighteen directions with eighteen ideas.
I’ve never thought I deserved success. I’d always hoped I’d achieve it; everyone does. Dreams are what keep us afloat. The reason we get out of bed in the morning and stay up late, putting hours and hours and hours of hard work into our craft. But now, as the doors of the elevator open and we file into the ornate entryway, I know Idodeserve this.
I’ve worked my ass off to get here, and today, I’m going to enjoy it.
The foyer is bright with high ceilings and white paint. There’s a long table with expensive vases and decorative bowls, and the marble floor is so pristine I can see my reflection in it. Chattering voices and the clicks of cameras echo down the hall and we follow the sound to the grand living room.
I’ve never been on this side of a photoshoot before. At the few shoots I’ve been a part of, I’m the one fixing a last-minute outfit blunder off to the side, hidden away by strategic posing to capture someone’s best angle.
“Lo.” Patrick’s fingers wrap around my wrist. His touch is warm, grounding, and I feel the buzz of energy and excitement in my chest calm to manageable with his gentle touch. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I glance at the room ahead, the dozens of people mulling around the large lights and backdrops. An entire window is covered in a white sheet and the furniture is neatly arranged. “The nerves just hit me.”
“Want to turn around and leave? I can have the car pulled up outside in less than a minute.”
I laugh, bursts of tension rolling off me in waves with his suggestion. “We can’t just leave. These people are here for me. Okay, that sounds incredibly selfish. They’re here for us, because I wouldn’t be here without you.” I roll my shoulders back and put on a brave face, determination outlining my features. “I’m okay. Really.”
“You’re never alone, Lola,” he whispers in my ear, the assurance like a flower blooming amongst a patch of weeds.
