Page 41 of Road Trip to Forever
“Nope.” I spear a bite of pancake and pop it into my mouth, ignoring her puppy dog eyes. “I’m going to make you wait. Patience is a virtue, Lola. You love surprises, and I know you’d be pissed if I caved and spilled the beans. Instant gratification isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, my friend.”
“Fine.” She adds a vat of syrup to her plate. “You win.”
“I love when that happens.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. What time are you meeting the guys to get ready?” she asks.
“Around ten. Henry said something about a very expensive whiskey, a very old bottle of wine, and some photos. I don’t remember the order though, and I kind of hope the whiskey comes first if I have to pose for pictures. What about you all?”
“Nine. We’re doing hair and makeup at their apartment, then jumping in a limo that will take us to the museum to get dressed and do final touch-ups. I had no idea it took so long to get ready for pictures.”
“Probably to keep peace and order. Imagine pulling up to the ceremony with only a few minutes to spare. It would be chaos.”
“I kind of like chaos,” she says.
“I know you do. You thrive on it.”
We eat quickly, and when we’re finished, Lola stands and takes our plates to the sink. A fork clanks against the stainless steel and rattles the empty glasses. She leans against the counter and folds her arms over her chest.
“We have time before we need to leave. I’m going to get your suitcase and watch you pack some of your clothes. A sock, at the very least. Or a shirt. It doesn’t even have to be clean.”
“I didn’t realize the woman who doesn’t unpack for a week when she gets home from a trip would be this committed to filling my suitcase.”
“Please, Patrick. It’ll help me sleep tonight. You make actual lists about what you want to bring, but you refuse to put the clothes in your bag until the last minute? It makes no sense. Where is the consistency?”
My lips twitch.
I think she’s three seconds away from forcing me to shove jeans and underwear in my bag, and I like watching her squirm.
“Fine,” I relent. I heave a sigh and stand, my chair scraping over the hardwood floor. “You win.”
We walk down the hall to my bedroom and I take a seat on the bed. Lola dives into the closet headfirst, an eager ball of energy. A tie comes flying out from the depths of the walk-in space, followed by a pair of pants I haven’t worn since college.
“You have a lot of shit in here,” she calls out, a shoe landing near my feet.
“It’s not that bad,” I say.
Ten minutes later, my barely used suitcase is pushed free. The piece of luggage rolls into the opposite wall and falls to the floor.
“Are you secretly a hoarder?” Lola asks, heading back into the closet for round two. Apparently she’s just getting started.
“I like to hold onto things. There’s a difference. Remember the time capsule we made in school before Y2K? It’s under a shoebox somewhere. The floppy disk inside might be worth millions these days.”
“Sounds like the definition of a hoarder to me.”
“Says the woman who keeps all of her boarding passes and buys a magnet from every city she visits. You can’t even see your fridge anymore.”
“Hey! That’s different. That’s for the memories. Things to look back on to remember my travels.”
“And floppy disks aren’t kept for the memories?”
A loud thud echoes through the room and rattles the walls. I hear a grunt and something gliding across the floor.
“What—dammit—the hell is in this heavy box labeled kitchen supplies? Seems a bit counter-productive to keep your mixers with sweaters. Is it a body? Am I going to be in a documentary?”
“Shit,” I curse, realizing too late what she’s talking about. “Lola. Don’t.”
I stand and pull the closet door open. My heart plummets to the ground when I see her weasel out a cardboard box and push it to the middle of the room. She drops to her knees and pulls apart the flaps, her smile twisting into a thin line.
