Page 61 of Road Trip to Forever
His Gleeful Face: unbridled bliss, teeth and eye wrinkles and the shake of his shoulders. The dip of his head and his palm against mine. It’s beautiful, free, and vivacious, so perfectlyPatrick. The day is young, and I’m close to exploding with delight. It’s barely started, and we still have so much left to do, but I already know it will be cemented as one of the best days of our entire lives.
“Remember when you had your Bowie era? We watchedLabyrinthevery other night.”
“My mom wouldn’t let me get a lightning bolt tattoo. I was so pissed at her,” he says.
“You were twelve, Patrick.”
“So? Your mom let you dye your hair when you were twelve.”
“With washable dye for Halloween. You know how furious she was when I dyed it for real at sixteen.”
“Livid. She was livid,” he says, recalling the time I hid in the treehouse until my parents went to sleep so I could avoid being grounded.
Patrick brought me a bowl of popcorn and a bag of M&M’s, mixing them together while I asked if the streaks of pink were too dramatic. He shook his head and told me he really liked them.Badass, he said as he popped a kernel in his mouth. From that day on, I made the color a permanent fixture in my hair.
“She got over it eventually. Come on. I have a tour booked for us. We’re getting special treatment today.”
Our guide, Darla, takes us through the museum. She gives us detailed explanations about each exhibit and a behind-the-scenes look at the makings of models and interactive displays. We spend hours in rooms featuring the Wright Brothers and Destination Moon. We study the old Eastern Airlines airplane hanging from the rafters in the atrium, snapping a picture to send to my mom. Later, in the planetarium, Patrick almost falls out of his seat while we watch the film Worlds Beyond Earth, leaning over to whisper,Aliens, Lola. I told you they were real.
It’s fun.So much fun.
I haven’t laughed this hard in months, and my cheeks hurt from the sheer joy of it all.Thisis what I miss when I’m away and traveling. The excitement of experiencing something wonderful with someone you love.
We have lunch in the Mars Café, where we share a sandwich and an order of French fries. After, we part ways with Darla, going through the exhibits a second time at a leisurely pace. We read every placard, study every timeline, and take a picture at every photo spot, cheesing into the camera with our cheeks squished together.
It’s late afternoon when we step back outside, the sun lower in the sky and the humidity burnt out of the air. Patrick pulls me into another full-body hug and refuses to let me go.
“I can’t think of any other way I’d want to spend my day,” he says.
“Hold that thought, pal. We’re not finished yet,” I answer.
“There’s more?”
“One more thing, if you’re up for it.”
“With you, Lola, I’m up for anything.”
He kisses the top of my hair, then my forehead and cheek in quick succession. It’s far more affection than he normally shows me, slow to pull away and put space between us. I wait to see if it feels weird or uncomfortable, some shudder to run through me, but it never comes. It’s the most natural thing in the world, like we should’ve been acting this way for years.
I like him.
I like him so much.
“I’m not sure how you can top my new favorite museum, but I’m excited to see what else you have up your sleeve.” Patrick’s voice catches on a laugh as we head away from downtown, out to where the bars are less crowded and the sidewalks are less busy.
His cheeks are fire red from the heat. There’s dried sweat on our foreheads from miles of walking, and a fresh sunburn blooms on the back of my neck. We’ve taken the scenic route to our next destination, stopping for chocolate ice cream cones at the National Mall. Wandering into an independent bookstore and buying the one romance novel on the shelf we haven’t read yet. Eating sandwiches from a food truck parked on the sidewalk—a BLT for Patrick and a grilled cheese for me.
“Almost there,” I say.
I check my phone for the tenth time and see we’re exactly where we need to be: outside a nondescript building. No markings on the door, no sign of what kind of business is on the other side. It looks unoccupied, forgotten in favor of the nicer, newer developments across the street like an apartment complex and health food store.
“Uh, Lo?” Patrick glances up at the facade and frowns. “I’m confused. Are you sure this is the right place?”
“Yup.” I push open the door. A bell jingles over our heads, and I smile at the kid behind the counter. “Hey. We’re here for a seven o’clock reservation. It should be under Jones.”
“Lola,” Patrick whispers. His fingers curl around my arm and his eyes dart around the room. There are no couches, no chairs, not even a television hanging in the corner. “Does this involve a cult? A sacrifice? I was kidding about the kidney thing, you know.”
“You trust me, right?”
