Page 59 of Road Trip to Forever
Not working.
I click my phone closed and flip through the hotel directory on the desk. The folder is sticky, and I grimace as I turn the page. There’s a room service menu, directions to the gym, and a midnight ghost tour offered in the cemetery across the street. I wonder if I can convince Lola to do one tomorrow night.
“We have a problem.”
I turn to find her standing with her hands on her hips. Her hair is wet and one of her socks has slipped halfway down her calf, while the other one is on inside out.
“What’s up?” I ask, specifically focusing on anything except the spot on her thigh where her sleep shorts end. High up, just under the hem of her tie-dye T-shirt, where her skin turns less tan.
“There’s only one bed,” she says.
“No, there’s not,” I say. “There’s—” I snap my mouth closed and stare at the bed in the middle of the room. The lone bed I could’ve sworn was two earlier in the night is now a single mattress, barely larger than a full. “Is it possible someone came in and switched the furniture?”
“Patrick.”
“Lola.”
“What do we do?”
“I can take the chair.”
“The chair,” she repeats, walking toward me motioning for me to get up. When I stand, she spins the desk chair in a circle. It squeaks, and we hear a screw pop loose. “This chair?”
“Yup,” I say. “Should be fine. Who needs lumbar support, anyway?”
“I don’t think I’d be able to sleep knowing you were miserable. We’ll share. It’s no big deal. Build a barrier if you care so much. It doesn’t bother me.” Lola grabs a magazine from her suitcase and climbs onto the bed, the side closest to the window. She slips under the sheets and pats the pillows behind her. “You know what? After further review, it’s not the worst place I’ve ever slept.”
“I’m not sure I want to know where else you’ve slept,” I say.
I find my sleep shorts and toothbrush and shut the bathroom door behind me. Steam fills the room as I turn on the shower. I shuck off my clothes and kick them aside, stepping into the steady stream of water.
Lola and I have shared a bed before, back when we were eleven and our families took a trip out to the Cape over the summer break. A rented bungalow right on the water, with a wraparound porch and curtains that billowed in the breeze. No air conditioning, just some rickety old fans. We could hear the waves crashing outside and watched the sunrise over the sand dunes.
Our brothers got the bunk beds, leaving Lola and me squashed like sardines in a twin—my legs hanging off the mattress and her stealing the covers.
We stayed up late and whispered about the ocean, the seashells we found, the ice cream we were going to eat the next day. I was clueless about girls, didn’t know the first thing about love or relationships or what the hell attraction was. I just I knew I liked being with her.
There, in the quiet of night while everyone else slept, it was only her and me. No responsibilities. No chores or homework. No sports practice or familial obligations. We simplywere, and no one else mattered.
My days started with Lola’s half-awake smile and my days ended with her face six inches away from mine. Her hair smelling like salt and the sea as she curled on her side and told me why today was the best day ever, and how she couldn’t wait for tomorrow.
I could never wait for tomorrow either, because it meant another day with her.
When she’s in town, we share a couch for movie night, accidentally falling asleep halfway through the film. A dimly lit room. A shared warm blanket, her calf slung over mine. It’s never anything intimate, only a few hours of close proximity until I wake up, my muscles cramping and my back stiff. I’ll climb off the cushions and carry her to her room, tucking her under the covers and saying good night.
And sure, there was also the other night in the guest room where my eyes got heavy and her voice lulled me to sleep. But it was only for a few hours. Another accident, totally unplanned.
Like that damn kiss at the wedding I can’t stop thinking about.
This cramped and tiny hotel room, with a questionable chandelier and a very small mattress, is not the place to share a bed when I can’t stop thinking of Lola in less-than-friendly terms. I don’twantto stop thinking about Lola, and sleeping next to my best friend while I imagine her with her hands against the wall and my face between her legs feels immoral.
I rinse myself clean, my muscles turning languid and pliant under the water pressure, the only impressive feature of the room. I sigh and close my eyes, grateful for a few minutes of solitude after a long day. I don’t want to be away from her, and I know Lola would never ask for some time alone, but I understand how she operates. She likes people, loves the socialization and camaraderie of friends, but she also likes time for herself. Time to unwind, time to reflect and catch her breath.
During the day, she’s like a hurricane, moving from point to point as quickly as she can. She jumps between projects without a concrete plan because that’s how her brain operates—a little different, but no less substantial than anyone else’s. In fact, it’s better because it’sher, unique and wonderful and one of a kind.
Lola settles when the stars come out. There’s a heavy exhale, a relaxation. She grows quiet, and I love getting to see the side of her so few people know. Peace cloaks her, and it’s like she finally allows herself to slow down. She’ll tilt her head to the side, beaming at me from across the room with a slow and easy smile, and I can tell she’s perfectly content, nowhere else in the world she’d rather be.
The water turns cold, and I shiver at the change of temperature. I turn off the shower and grab the spare towel from the rack, drying my body from head to toe. I slip on my shorts, quietly open the door, and tiptoe back into the room.
