Page 7 of Road Trip to Forever
“Doesn’t matter if I’m happy. Areyouhappy?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I am happy.”
I tilt my chin and look at him. He’s grinning, and the dual dimples etched on his cheeks are as dazzling as twinkling stars in a cloudless night sky.
“Then I’m happy too,” he says. “Come here, Lo.”
I don’t hesitate. I shove my laptop onto the coffee table next to the candle I like to light in the evenings when I open the windows and let a breeze billow through the living room. Maine Summers, it’s called, the scents of ocean spray and sand cherry lingering on the wick and in the surrounding air. For the second time in an hour, I launch myself into his embrace.
One of my favorite things about Patrick is how he hugs. He hugs with his whole being, pouring every part of himself into the places where our bodies connect. Chest, shoulders, arms looped around the small of my back.
It’s careful. Soft. Bone-crushingly perfect.
Of all the cities I’ve traveled to and all the countries I’ve visited,thisis my favorite place in the entire world. A chin on top of my head. Warm breath tickling my forehead. Fingers drifting down my back, then up, calming me in a way only a lifelong friend knows how to do.
It’s like home.
Familiar.
Comfortable.
The spot you can come back to again and again, and not a single thing has changed.
If I could, I’d bottle up this feeling of belonging and carry it in the back pocket of my jeans to save for a rainy day when I’m lonely and missing home. Enjoy it for a little while longer before it slips away and becomes nothing but sand in an hourglass, flashes of memories left behind.
“Thank you for making me apply,” I say into the stitching of Patrick’s shirt.
It smells like lime and coffee and his favorite laundry detergent—a rare impulse buy after falling victim to fifteen Facebook ads. All scents synonymous withhim, a gentle reminder that no matter how long I’m gone, no matter how far I go, when I’m nestled here in his hold, it’s like I never left.
“When you say that,” he murmurs into my hair, “it sounds like I tied you to a chair and refused to let you leave.”
“Stockholm Syndrome,” I murmur back. “You bribed me with donuts. It’s the same thing.”
“Will you write to me when I go to jail?”
“I’ll cut out the comics and send them to you. The crossword puzzles, too.”
“A true friend,” he says. “How’re you feeling about finally hitting submit?”
“Even if I don’t get accepted, this is the first fashion show I’ve ever entered,” I say. “And doing something new is really freaking cool, isn’t it?”
“Cool doesn’t even scratch the surface.”
“Really freaking groovy, isn’t it?”
“Now you’re trying too hard. Quit while you’re ahead,” he jokes.
“A for effort?”
“B minus at best. I’m so proud of you, Lola.”
Proud.
What a wonderful word.
Five little letters that wedge themselves into the center of my chest, loop around my heart, and pull tight. It’s nice for your hard work to be acknowledged, to be recognized and appreciated.
It’s even better when it’s by someone you care about so very much, who’s been there on your journey with you every step of the way.
