Page 17 of Road Trip to Forever
“I wear my heart on my sleeve, you know? My feelings… I think they might be too big, Patrick. Too much. I laugh too much. I cry too much. My brain is too much, jumbled and disorganized chaos almost all of the time. My wholebeingis too much. I’m a mess. And, it’s become abundantly clear through shitty dates at Mexican restaurants that others think that, too.”
I don’twanta relationship. I’m happy without the agony of wondering when someone might walk away and how soon I’ll wind up alone. I’m good without having my passions mocked and the traits I loathe about myself prodded and picked apart, displayed for all the world to see. They make me feeldifferentwhen all I want to be isnormal,and it’s exhausting having to defend myself. It makes me want to never socialize again.
I let out a breath. I didn’t mean for our night to take a turn. To sour the mood and strip myself bare, letting Patrick see these parts of myself I’ve been grappling with lately. My inability to focus without medicine. Not letting someone finish their sentence before I jump in, eager to add to the conversation. The hyper-fixation on an activity or food or outfit for three to four days before I’m bored, wanting nothing to do with it ever again. I’m exposed, unwoven. Teetering close to the lines of sadness and loneliness, yet something stops me from completely falling over the precipice.
Him.
“Did someone call you a mess, Lola?” Patrick’s voice is low, a vicious undertone to the question. I hear that protectiveness he’s always shown, and my heart thaws half a degree. It gives me an ounce of hope that there are good people left in this world, and one of them is sitting right in front of me. “Because I willkillthem.”
“It’s a self-diagnosis. A reflection when I’m alone in my hotel room sort of thing. When I’m missing my dad and remembering all the good times we had together.”
“Don’t do that,” he says. The harshness shifts, his words serrated with the altruism I adore about him.
“Do what?” I ask.
“Make yourself small and diminish all your wonderful qualities when you should be proud. Don’t think these parts of you are wrong. They aren’t. You’re so special, Lo. Fuck anyone who thinks otherwise,” he says. “So you interrupt people sometimes? Big deal. Your brain works faster than everyone else’s. You’re not being rude. You’re just…” He rolls his lips together, deep in thought. His eyebrows furrow and he takes a minute to find the right words.Studious Face. Contemplative Face. I’m Going To Find A Way To Make You Feel Better Face.“You think ahead. That’s hardly a crime. And your laugh? Your laugh is one of my favorite things about you.”
“You like my laugh?”
“Of course I like your laugh. How could anyone not? It lights up an entire room, like the sun on the first afternoon of spring,” he says. “You know what I’m talking about, right? That day after months of bitter cold when you walk outside, look up at the sky, and there’s so much warmth. It makes you happy and complete. Thatis what I feel every time you laugh. I feel whole.”
My bottom lip wobbles, and the coil in my chest turns snug. I think my heart skips a beat or two. That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, the single compliment from him worth more than a million from anyone else. “What about when I cry? I do that a lot, too.”
Patrick chuckles and opens his arms, an invitation there. I all but shove my forgotten plate to the floor and make my way into his embrace.
“You’re keeping people employed,” he murmurs in the crevice behind my ear. The small secret sliver of space that turns my insides into molten lava. “The folks at Kleenex thank you for your generous displays of emotion so they can put food on the table for their families. You’re doing the world a favor. There’s talk of a statue. Or a bench with an inspirational quote:to all the tears I’ve yet to cry.”
I laugh at his ridiculousness. “Isn’t that a country song? Or a teen movie?”
“No,” he says. “But we should make it one.”
“How was The Garden with everyone?”
“It was fine.”
“Fine? That’s an interesting way to describe a night out with our friends.”
I break away from his hold and look down at him. The movement shifts us into a more intimate position. I’m on my knees between his parted thighs. His palm rests on my hip to keep me steady, and his thumb presses into the inch of bare skin between the end of my shirt and the top of my khaki shorts.
Heat pools in my belly and glides through me like oil. Patrick’s thumb moves half a millimeter higher to just below my belly button, like that single inch of skin he’s touching isn’t sufficient and he needs more.
I suck in a breath and stare at his palm. His fingers flex, as if he’s holding on to a thread of careful restraint he badly wants to cut with a pair of scissors and sever in two.
We’ve always been affectionate with each other, a shared love language of physical touch. Long hugs and piggyback rides. Legs squished together on the couch and using one blanket for a scary movie instead of bothering with two.
I’ve never thought anything of it. That’s what best friendsdo. It’s what we’ve always done.
This, though, feels different.
It feels intentional, a purpose to his fingertips pushing deeper into my flesh and the way his eyes hold mine. They’re a shade darker than normal as he watches me, a characteristic far from friendly behind the green. His grip tightens, a fleeting flash of pressure on my skin before his hand falls to his side and he clears his throat.
“Henry and Emma are skipping the bachelor and bachelorette parties,” he says, the first to break the silence. He glances away, taking a reluctant interest in his shirt.
“And not having a party has you all melancholy?” I ask.
“I am not melancholy.” Patrick fiddles with his sleeve, and I think he’s trying to break free from the starchy material holding his arms hostage. “They also want people to donate to charities instead of giving them gifts. It’s a great idea.”
“I don’t understand how this makes the night fine,” I say. “What a crappy word choice. I remember when you went on a rant about how it’s the worst adjective in the English language.”
