Page 77 of Road Trip to Forever
“Mhmm. Whatever you say. We should pack up. We have a lot on the agenda today.”
“Shower before we hit the road, then pack up. Then food. I’m starving.”
“There’s an all-you-can-eat pancake house back in Hendersonville.”
“Are you challenging me to a short-stack eat off, Patrick Walker?”
“I am, Lola Jones. Want to play?”
“Yeah. I do. Game on, Walker.”
I brush past him to grab a fresh pair of clothes. I definitely don’t touch the inside of his wrist as I pass, and I definitely don’t grin from ear to ear when I hear him mumble my name either.
TWENTY-ONE
PATRICK
We don’t talkabout what happened in the tent on our drive to Florida, trading conversation for a playlist that takes me back to when we were teenagers as we cross state lines.
Lola told me she isn’t running, and I’m going to believe her. The last twelve hours have given us a lot to think about. We confessed we’d be open to kissing each other—for real this time—and I all but told her I’m waiting for her. Add in her grinding on me this morning and my hand practically down her shorts and it’s enough to want to turn our minds off for a few hours, an important discussion looming on the horizon.
“This place is massive.” I pull off my sunglasses and look up at the Orange County Convention Center, the building where Lola’s fashion show is taking place.
“Yeah.” Lola stands beside me and pulls her hair into a ponytail. “They host tons of events here at the same time. It’s wild.”
“Make sure we read the signs carefully,” I say. “We wouldn’t want to walk into the regional quarterfinals of the figure skating competition happening on the north side of the building,” I say. “You might get confused.”
“That’s ironic, isn’t it? A state with a temperature hotter than the sun is the one hosting a sport where ice is involved.”
“With Florida, Lola, it’s best to just let it be.”
We unload her garment bags from the back of the Jeep, dozens of metal hangers hooked around my fingers. We climb the stairs to the long line of glass doors, a wave of air conditioning greeting us when we step inside.
“Looks like we need to go left,” I say, nodding toward the sign withFlorida Fashion Showwritten on it in big, bold letters.
“Right looks fun, too. The Postal Workers of America training session.”
“Maybe next time. We need to keep our day moving along.”
“We do?”
“Yup. There’s a strict schedule to adhere to, so fewer inquiries about stamps and more pep in your step to get your name tag, please.”
We take the escalator to the second floor and walk down a long, carpeted hall. After a wrong turn that leads us to a service elevator that smells like rotten eggs, we finally find the room where we need to be.
The space is massive, larger than two football fields, with hundreds of booths set up around the perimeter. Music plays from speakers, and a long runway is being constructed on the opposite end of the room.
“Holy shit,” Lola whispers, her hand finding my free one. “We’re here.”
“Deep breaths,” I murmur. “Let’s check you in, then we can make a lap and see everything, okay?”
Lola gets her name tag and welcome packet. I hand off the garment bags to an assistant, checking to make sure they’re labeled correctly with Lola’s name visible and easy to read. After, we weave our way through throngs of people. Almost everyone waves hello, a mutual level of respect in the room despite not knowing faces and names. A few stop us outright, recognizing Lola and giving her a hug.
Friends from social media, she explains. She introduces me as her best friend. Her road trip companion and reason for staying sane, andhell,I like when she leans into me for support. I rest my hand on her lower back, around her shoulder, at the base of her neck. Anywhere I can reach so I can convey a sense of calm to her.
“This is so cool,” she says as we circle the large room. “Some people here will be the next big things in the fashion industry. The ones I’ll read about in magazines for years to come. We’re going to watch history be made.”
“Or you’re going to make it yourself. Hang on.” I tug on her arm and stop in front of a long banner displaying all the designers taking part in this year’s show. I scan the long list of names, tapping the canvas when I spot hers. “There you are. Look at you.”
