Page 113 of Road Trip to Forever
“You’re a lifesaver.” Patrick kisses my forehead. “How’s everything going so far this morning? How’re you feeling?”
“Fine.” I nod and play with my bracelet. “I just got a ton of information thrown at me and I’m replaying it over and over to make sure I understand it all.”
“What can I do to help?” he asks. “Where do you need me?”
“Out in the audience. I really appreciate you coming to say hi but only staff, models, assistants, and designers are allowed behind the curtain,” I tell him. “Why didn’t I think of hiring someone to give me an extra set of hands backstage? Such a rookie mistake on my part. I read articles that all said to make sure I had a helper. A person who can follow directions well and is familiar with how I like to organize my area.Shoot. I got caught up in a hundred other things and forgot. I guess it’s too late it find a stand-in now.”
“I can fix that.” Patrick reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a long lanyard with his name attached to a plastic holder. “I randomly met someone in the buffet line and when I mentioned you, he said he was a big fan of your work. I asked if there was any way he could get me a backstage pass.”
“Abackstage pass? Patrick, this isn’t an Aerosmith concert, you groupie.”
He grins, both dimples popping under the harsh artificial lighting. “It would be pretty fun if it was, right? The guy told me the only way I could get access is if I was an assistant to a designer. I might have fibbed a little bit and said I was your apprentice, not the guy you’re sleeping with. A perfectly logical explanation as to why I’d want to be by your side.”
“You did that for me?”
“I’d do more detrimental things to society than giving a small lie about being your assistant if it means helping you, Lola.”
I touch his forehead. His migraine finally relented late last night. We stayed in bed all day, enjoying the quiet and eating room service for dinner.
I can tell he’s feeling better. The color is back in his cheeks and his eyes are sparkling again, mischief and glee behind the green, but being backstage at a fashion show is a lot of work. It’s loud and there are strobe effects, coupled with tons of people moving every which way. I don’t want to compromise his health again.
“Any lingering symptoms?” I ask softly. I massage his temples and his eyes close with the press of my fingers into his skin. I add a hint of pressure, just enough for his head to drop back and a soft moan to escape from his lips. “Did you takeyourmedicine this morning?”
“I did. Two pills. I feel as good as new.”
“It’s going to be noisy back there with a lot of sounds. It might exacerbate your pain.”
“The pain is gone.” Patrick turns his cheek and kisses my palm. “I wouldn’t have come down if I didn’t feel up for jumping in.”
“Do you promise you’ll tap out if you start to feel tired or a headache coming on?” I ask. He grins and I run my thumb over his dimple.
“I know the only way you’ll let me stay is if I agree, so sure. I promise I’ll communicate with you,” he says, and I have a feeling he’s crossing his fingers behind his back.
“The second I see you wince, I’m banishing you to the audience, Patrick Walker.”
* * *
Backstage at a fashionshow is pure pandemonium.
I’ve scoured hundreds of blog posts, watched dozens of behind-the-scenes videos, and nothing prepared me for the scope of insanity I would find in the minutes leading up to walk down the runway.
There are people everywhere. Assistants hold up the train of a dress. Models run by with skirts half-zipped. Hair stylists try to add last-minute volume to someone’s ponytail. It’s hot and it’s loud and I’m inlove, ready to enter every show possible so I can come back and do it all over again.
I’m in awe of the production level and efficiency it takes to run a successful operation. I like that there are so many things happening at once, my head on a swivel instead of fixating on one specific situation.
I like hearing my name shouted from fifteen directions and someone giving me a warning that I have eight minutes until it’s my turn on the runway.
I’m giddy when I crouch down and cut a rogue thread from the hemline of the green slacks I’m obsessed with, the pants paired with a yellow blazer and a black crop top. I’m grinning from ear to ear as I ask the girl to hold still while I make a last-minute adjustment, smoothing over the pleats and working out a wrinkle with a steamer.
I love watching the last model in my line gush over the sundress she’s wearing, doing spin after spin and laughing at how the skirt fans out around her waist. I’m in my element and I never want to leave.
I feel like Ibelong.
“I’m going to jump into the audience,” Patrick says, a tape measure around his neck and a spool of thread tucked into the front pocket of his frayed Levi’s. There’s a magnetic pincushion attached to his wrist, which I unhook from his arm. “I want to watch your clothes come down the runway.”
“Are you sure? Someone is probably going to film it. We can watch it online later.”
“Yes, Lola, I’m sure. I want to take my own video and send it to our friends.”
