Page 128 of Road Trip to Forever
“Yeah.” I nod twice then turn the bob of my head into a shake. My toes curl into the floor and I rock back on my heels. “I don’t know.”
Patrick steps into the room and pulls me into a hug. I sigh into his skin and run my hand across his back. He’s still warm from bed, the secret cave we created with pillows and sheets and the comforter.
“Talk to me,” he says and we stand there, arms wrapped around each other, dissolving into a serious conversation at half past six in the morning because he cares about my feelings and wants to know how he can help.
“I’m nervous. What happens if I don’t win? I’ve come all this way. It would be a lie to say I wouldn’t be disappointed. I’d be heartbroken.”
“If you don’t win, it’s not the end of the world. It’d sting for a few weeks, but we’d go home and you’ll keep doing what you’ve been doing. You generally like how things have gone up until to this point in your life, right?” Patrick asks.
“Right. I do. I really do. I feel thankful every day thatthisis my life. I love traveling. I love making outfits for other people. I love creating what I want when I want.”
“So if you don’t win, you’ll still love your life. And that’s important.”
“What if Idowin? Hypothetically.”
“If you win, you get to do the things money might have prevented you from doing before. What are your dreams, honey? What do you think about late at night when your mind starts to settle and you’re sorting through the thoughts in your head?”
“I want to open a store,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve ever shared this with anyone besides the journal entries I’ve scribbled down over the last few years, an idea and vision I’d love to see come to light.
“Tell me about this store,” Patrick says, tugging me toward the couch and sitting us down. “I want to hear about it.”
I love how much genuine care Patrick has for the things in my life. He’s not asking to hear because he wants to appease me, a check in the box as he fulfills his duty as my partner. It’s because hewantsto know, and it makes my heart go all fluttery and turn to mush.
“I’d love a spot on Newbury Street,” I start, relaxing into the plush cushions of the sofa and keeping my hand in his. “It doesn’t need to be very big, just a place where I can have racks for my clothes and a couple of couches. Big windows, so natural light can flood in. I hate artificial lighting. It makes people self-conscious, and the last thing I want when someone comes into my store is for them to feel bad about themselves.”
“That’s why you always make us take the long way home when we walk back to your place after dinner at a restaurant. You’re scoping out retail spaces,” Patrick says, connecting the dots without me having to explain. “I get it now. I thought you just really liked waiting three minutes at every traffic light.”
“I can envision the inside so clearly in my mind,” I say. “I close my eyes and I’m there. Vintage pictures hanging on the walls. Jeans that don’t cost as much as a mortgage payment. Dresses for sweet sixteens and homecomings, rehearsal dinners and family photos. My name on the outside with a couple of hearts next to it.”
“What would you call it?”
“Lola Jones Designs. It’s simple and not catchy at all, but it’sme. I’m a designer. It’s taken me a long time to believe that even though I don’t own a brick and mortar location yet, I’m no less valuable than the designers who do.”
“You’re damn right you’re not less valuable,” Patrick agrees. “Everyone’s journey is different. You took a little longer to get to the big stage and that’sfine. You’re here now, with so many incredible ideas I know people will love. Whether that’s in a physical place people can stop by and visit or online where they can browse through your portfolio, it doesn’t matter. Just like it doesn’t matter if you don’t win the grand prize, Lo. You’re already a winner in my eyes. You’re chasing your goals, you’re working hard, and that’s more than a lot of other people can say.”
“I do everything else in life so sporadically, but this… this has been a labor of love. It’s carefully thought out. I know color schemes and the way I would arrange the clothes. Where I would put the dressing rooms and how big of a rug I want on the floor. Knowing Icouldopen a store with the winnings makes me want it even more. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to do it without financial assistance.”
“I’ll help you run overhead costs when we get home. I’ll do some research on property taxes and square footage. You’ll need a warehouse and an industrial-sized order of materials. A handful of employees and someone who handles your social media accounts, because I have a feeling you’ll be too busy to manage them yourself. I can figure out a break-even point for you based on how many sales you’ve done just through commissions in the last year.”
“You’d do all that for me?” I ask and Patrick nods. He looks at me like I’m out of my mind, like there isn’t a world out there where hewouldn’tdo it all for me.
“Yeah,” he says. “Whatever you need. I might not be great with industry lingo, but I am proficient with spreadsheets and data. We’ll do this together, Lola.”
“God.” I groan and bury my face in his shoulder. “Not the damn spreadsheets and data. It’s too early for that.”
“You like data and experimenting. Trying things for research purposes.”
“I certainly donotlike research purposes.”
“Sure you do. You like when I learn that when I do this”—his thumb traces over the front of my shirt, drawing a circle around my nipple—“you dothat.”
I let out a breathy moan, the panic from moments earlier abating the longer he touches me. He spins me so we’re back to front, and he slides his hand under my pajama bottoms.
Soon I forget what I was worried about altogether, the only thing I can think about isPatrickand the mind-numbing bliss he brings me.
* * *
“It’s packed in here,”Patrick says later that morning after a shower and breakfast.
