Page 124 of Road Trip to Forever
“You got this, man,” the guy behind me says.
“Thanks,” I say weakly.
Someone with a headset holds up their hand, counting down from five. When they reach one they point to the guy up at the front of the line, motioning for him to start moving. We shuffle forward one by one, four men disappearing to the other side then five. Then it’s my turn, lucky number seven, and I throw up a prayer to whatever higher power is out there watching this all unfold that I can get through the next two minutes unscathed.
The music is loud as I walk onto the runway, and it takes a second for my brain to remember I need tokeepwalking down the long stage. I take a deep breath and start my trek, one foot in front of the other, again and again, hoping I don’t look like a douchebag or Neanderthal.
The guys are definitely going to give me shit for this.
I keep my chin up and my eyes ahead, just like I’ve seen the other models do. My walking is clunky, out of sync with the beat of the music and hardly professional, but I don’t care. The further down the runway I get, the more I feel myself relax, sinking into the motions and the glide of linen against my skin.
I can fuckingdothis.
There are a million lights flashing in my vision with the spotlights marking the path of the runway and the click of large cameras and smartphones. Through the haze of the fog machine and over the heads of the crowd, the only thing I can see with clarity is Lola grinning from ear to ear, the most perfect smile plastered on her face. Our eyes meet and my body heats. Not from worry or fear or anxiousness, but fromlove.
It’s here, as I pause at the end of the catwalk so the audience can soak in the clothes and throw a wink at her, I realize my heart hasalwaysbelonged to her. Ever since that first day she tumbled out of her family’s minivan and steamrolled into my life knocking away mundane and average and replacing the grays of the world with color and light and so much good.
This hasn’t been a few-months thing.
It’s been an all-my-fucking-life thing.
I love her so much.
Just the sight of her happy and elated makes my chest ache. I want to keel over. I want to jump off the elevated platform and charge toward her, sweep her in my arms, and whisper how much I adore her. How much I want to give her, from now until forever. I may not have a lot, but everything I do have is hers for the taking.
She twirls her finger, reminding me I need to spin and walk away. I didn’t even notice I was at the end of the long stage. I’m too distracted by her beauty, a tape measure around her neck and a white ribbon in her hair, to remember how to move. Keeping my eyes on her, I tap my chest three times, right over my heart, hoping she understands the meaning.
I love you.
I almost burst when she answers with the same three taps back, the smile on her face nearly sending me to space. I retreat down the runway giddily, a pep to my step and a blush on my cheeks.
A grown man blushing because of the attention from a woman?
I’m a fucking goner.
I’ve never had such a strong surge of happiness before, the kind that makes me want to pause this moment and not let it pass. It makes me want to dance. It makes me want to yell. It makes me want to do a lot of things, and at the root of them all is Lola.
There are seven billion people in this world. How lucky am I that the universe brought me her?
When I make it backstage, I’m met with handshakes and clasps on my shoulders. My blazer is tugged off my arms and someone starts to wipe the makeup from my face.
There’s a flood of activity, a rush of people and questions. I look over my shoulder and seeher. Blue eyes. Blonde hair. The most beautiful woman and the sole owner of my heart. She’s grinning wildly, pulling her phone out to take a picture and squishing our cheeks together for a selfie.
“You were amazing,” Lola says. “I’m pretty sure you’re trending on Twitter under: Hot Guy Who Jumps In To Save Fashion Show.”
“I have no clue what trending means,” I answer. “It’s a good thing, right?”
“A very good thing. Will you come with me to do an interview?” she asks.
I nod and follow her over to talk to a journalist from an independent magazine. I listen to her talk about the show and the immense gratitude she has for being invited to participate. When the woman tells her she looks happy, Lola’s gaze meets mine.
“I am happy,” Lola answers. “I’m so happy I think I could die.”
THIRTY-FIVE
PATRICK
I’m being heldhostage in our hotel room bathroom, a chair in front of the mirror and an army of makeup remover products lined up on the marble counter.
