Page 63 of Road Trip to Forever
My back arches. I stand on my tiptoes to get closer to him. “What?” I ask. “Me in a laser tag vest?”
“In a laser tag vest. Not in a laser tag vest. You always, Lola.” His knuckles brush against my cheek, and I let out a sigh as my heart races in my chest. “Buckle up, buttercup. I’m going to enjoy the hell out of this.”
* * *
“Watch your right side,”Patrick barks out from behind me. “You only have one life left.”
“I see him,” I answer.
I roll out of the way of imminent danger, bruising my ribs but successfully avoiding the hit. Hank and his team areruthless.They’re a gang of four middle-aged men who spend their days challenging cocky teenagers to a round of laser tag and mopping the floor with them.
Patrick and I are giving them a run for their money, a crowd allegedly forming on the other side of the two-way mirror. I can hear the cheers when we advance closer to our target—a fake copy of the Declaration of Independence—and the groans when we lose another life. It’s been eighty-five minutes of running, jumping and strenuous physical activity, and we’re so close to the finish line. To victory.
“Dammit,” someone curses from around a corner. “She’s too close.”
“Go, Lola, go,” Patrick bellows.
I forgot how competitive he is. All those years he played baseball in high school and won the state tournament are coming back with a vengeance. I thought he tore his ACL earlier, watching as he gripped his calf after he jumped to safety behind a wall. He shooed me away when I asked if he wanted to tap out, gritted his teeth, and took off again.
“Almost there,” I murmur, reaching my hand out to grab the corner of the laminated replica of one of our nation’s most important documents. It nearly slips from my grasp but I hold on to it tight, tucking it close to my body.
The house lights kick on, industrial-sized bulbs brightening the space in an instant. I don’t have time to react to the sudden change before I’m scooped into Patrick’s arms.
“We won. You wereincredible,” he says. “My laser tag superstar.”
“Me?” I poke his chest, the shirt damp with sweat and suctioned to his body. “I haven’t seen you move that fast since 2003, when an ice cream truck came down our street and you pushed a toddler out of the way for a popsicle.”
There’s a bruise under his eye where he got elbowed, the skin already turning a nasty shade of purple, a small gash below his hairline after losing a battle with a door, and a cut on his elbow, just above his funny bone. The wounds don’t hold a candle to his megawatt smile, the most dazzling thing I’ve ever seen.
“We need a time machine so I can go back and do that again and again,” Patrick says.
“I think you need to amend your post-retirement plans. If the escape room doesn’t have any laser tag or semi-professionals chasing you around every corner, is it even worth it?”
“The barrel roll was impressive, Lo. A game changer.”
“Hey, you two.” Hank approaches us and unbuckles his pink vest. He’s flanked by the other guys in his group, all wearing pink too. An homage to his wife who’s recovering from breast cancer, he told us before the game with misty eyes, and I could tell right away that he’s one of the good ones. “Congratulations. No one has solved the clues that fast in ages. Our winning streak was close to five hundred matches.”
“I have so many questions about how you all are so stealthy,” I say.
Hank winks. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” He looks at Patrick. “You and your girlfriend are a lot of fun. Come back anytime, free of charge. I’ll make sure my nephew gets you set up with the gold membership card.”
“Are we joining a secret society?” I whisper to Patrick.
“We’re going to have to come back every year,” he whispers back. “Make it a tradition.” He reaches out and shakes Hank’s hand, not bothering to correct him on the girlfriend title. I like how it sounds. “We appreciate the hospitality. Drinks and dinner are on me at the bar I saw around the corner if you all feel up for it even though we kicked your ass.”
There’s a round of rousing laughter. We hang up our vests and rack the guns. The kid from the front desk gives us two VIP cards and we make our way outside. My heart skips a beat as Patrick’s hand finds mine and it skips another as he swings our arms back and forth, the rowdy group heading down the sidewalk toward food.
He keeps his hand on my leg at the high-top table after we split a basket of onion rings, his fingers tracing a pattern on my knee. I can’t focus on the stories the group of men are sharing about their former Secret Service days.
I’m too distracted by the way Patrick hooks his foot around the leg of my stool. He drags me closer, an emblem of happiness in a warm room with too many people, too much noise, but the perfect amount ofhim.
EIGHTEEN
PATRICK
Our first stopwhen we get back on the road in the morning is Sweet Holes—a Mom and Pop donut shop outside Fredericksburg, Virginia. We order half a dozen before Lola adds a second box, wanting to try one of every flavor.
I moan around the bite of the honey-glazed pastry, ignoring the crumbs that fall on my shorts. The passenger door opens and Lola climbs inside, two large Styrofoam cups settled safely in the crook of her arm.
