Page 39 of Road Trip to Forever
“I will not confirm or deny that I spent over a hundred dollars on a nice pair of ballroom dancing shoes.”
“You’re a modern day Fred Astaire.”
“Yeah right. I’m not entering a competition anytime soon. Do me a favor and keep this between us? Henry really wants it to be a surprise for Emma.”
“I will. I promise.” I touch the dimple on his cheek. “You’re a good friend.”
“That’s what love is,” he says. “Seeing what makes someone happy and wanting to be a part of it. Being excited about what they’re excited about, even if you couldn’t care less.”
“There’s Mr. Romantic. Did you all have fun at these lessons?”
“We had a blast. We were the only men in a group with fifteen women, all old enough to be our mothers. They got a kick out of it, and they’re all insistent we come to Barbara’s retirement party in a couple of months.”
“Who’s the best dancer in the group? It’s Noah, isn’t it?”
“Jack, believe it or not. I had to assure the instructor he wasn’t angry at her. The frowning is natural for him.”
“That doesn't surprise me as much as I thought it would.”
The music stops, loud voices and hearty conversation filling the air. We pull apart and step away from each other.
“Need a break?” Patrick asks.
I nod. “And a donut from the dessert wall.”
“Greatest party idea ever. Over-under on how many donuts you’re going to eat? I’m saying at least eight.”
Jo waves at us from a table, and I see the rest of our friends also taking a minute to catch their breath with plates of food and cold drinks.
“I’ll take the under,” I say as we move off the dance floor. “Only because there are some fried mac and cheese balls I can’t wait to get my hands on. Hey. How did you know where I was when you got here? You didn’t answer my texts. I searched high and low for you and came up empty—”
I get cut off, slipping on a wet spot on the ground left behind from a spilled beverage. My knees buckle and I almost fall. Before panic about crashing to the floor can set in, Patrick’s arm is around my waist to steady me. He looks down at me with a smile on his face. His eyes twinkle, and butterflies take flight in my stomach at the sight.
“You’re my favorite girl, Lo,” Patrick says. It’s a quiet admission, one that almost gets scooped up by the cool summer breeze sneaking in through the open windows. “I always know when you’re nearby. I look for you everywhere.”
The words are an arrow to the bullseye of my heart. All I can do is nod, grateful for the distraction when we’re handed a plate of food and a disposable camera to take a group photo. I spend the rest of the night floating, feeling high above the crowd.
When we split a cinnamon sugar donut and Patrick leans over to brush a crumb away from the corner of my mouth, my throat goes dry. When he brings me a fresh drink, muttering under his breath aboutfrat bros, my palms turn sweaty where his fingers brush against mine. And when he looks at me at half past eleven with a sleepy grin that tells me he’s utterly exhausted and asks if I’m staying at his apartment, I’m struck by the realization that every minute with him solidifies what I’m learning to be true.
I no longer see my best friend asjusta friend.
Patrick drives us home, humming along to the tune on the radio. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, the leather his drum set as he performs a proud concert for one. The noise doesn’t bother me at all, because it makes him happy.
The phrase Patrick said earlier in the night echoes in my head, unrelenting.
That’s what love is.
I think I might be in a heap of trouble.
ELEVEN
PATRICK
Lola standsat my stove and flips a pancake with a spatula. It sizzles in the butter-coated pan and she lets out a pleased sigh.
She barged into my apartment half an hour ago, the supplies for breakfast in a reusable shopping bag hanging from her arm.Sustenance, she told me as she clicked on a burner and the clock chimed six a.m., the nourishment we’ll need for a long day of wedding festivities.
“Almost ready?” I ask.
