Page 141 of Road Trip to Forever
Deciding between renting or buying was difficult, and Patrick and I weighed the pros and cons of both. The money from the contest made it possible to even consider purchasing outright, a luxury I wouldn’t have if the results had turned out differently.
Long-term, I want to make this placemine, the creative liberty to do whatever I see fit with colors and layout. The previous owner was eager to sell, ready to move onto new things, and offered an outrageous deal on the property that used to be an art gallery.
I remember what it was like starting out,she told me, waving off my attempts to pay her the full price.Just pay it forward one day.
I plan to, my goal of selling clothes with a price tag anyone can afford at the forefront of my mind.
“I took lots of before photos so we can compare them when we’re done. I really want to smash a wall down,” I say, surveying the room a final time.
The building is in good condition and doesn’t need a ton of renovating. It feels closed off though, with lots of walls sectioning off individual rooms and making the floor plan seem small and cramped. We’re going to open things up and utilize the rectangular shape of the building, drawing attention in through the windows and creating a single sightline to the back of the store.
“And what are you going to wear for the magazine shoot? One of your own designs?” Patrick asks.
“The jumpsuit dress from the finale at the Florida Fashion Show, with the sequins and flashy colors and the cape. I love that piece so much. This sounds incredibly conceited, but it deserves some more recognition.”
“Hell yeah it does. Okay, time to go smash some walls, folks. We’ll see you soon.” He waves to the camera and clicks it off.
“Are you waving to your fans?”
“More like your fans.”
“Do people really care about how we’re going to transform this place? I doubt it.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Lo,” Patrick says. “There are comments on every one of your posts asking for an update on the store.”
“You read the comments on my social media posts?”
“Of course I do. People want to know about the grand opening so they can plan a trip to come and visit. They’re asking when your commissions will reopen. There’s even a debate about what color you’re going to paint the walls. So, yes. They do want to see how much we transform this place.”
“Are you my social media manager now?”
“C’mon, honey. You know I can’t even post an Instagram story correctly.”
No, he can’t. The photos are crooked and everyone’s heads gets cut off. Yet here he is, a camera in hand, a tripod set up in the corner, ready to capture the renovation process from start to finish.
I stand on my toes and kiss him. “You are the best boyfriend ever.”
Patrick slips his phone into the pocket of his oldest pair of jeans—he looksso goodin jeans—and wraps his arms around my waist. “I want to talk to you about something before the gang gets here to help us tear this place to shreds. It involves spreadsheets.”
I close my eyes and pretend to snore. “Is this the part where you start using numbers and data on me?”
“Yup, but I promise I won’t bring it into the bedroom.” He pulls out a piece of folded-up paper from his other pocket. “The check from the contest came through and it’s been deposited in your account.”
He might not be my social media manager, but I asked Patrick to oversee my finances. I trust him. I trust him to be honest with me about business decisions and what makes the most sense for my company long-term. He won’t sugarcoat anything to protect my feelings, helping me reach solutions to problems that might be tough to hear but are the right ones to make.
“That’s good news,” I say. “I have a meeting lined up with someone tomorrow to talk about potentially investing in LJD. He’s helped open some other boutiques across the country and he seems knowledgeable about the industry.”
“About that,” Patrick says. He blows out a breath and runs his hand through his hair. Flecks of sawdust fall from the dark waves to the concrete floor. “I want to invest the rest.”
I blink, not sure I heard him correctly. “Pardon?”
“I want to invest. In you. In this dream of yours that you’ve had since we were kids, Lola.”
“No.” I slip out of his grasp. “No. Absolutely not, Patrick. I cannot ask you to do that.”
“I’m going to invest in this space and your future—ourfuture,” he says firmly. “We’re a team now, honey. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“An investment like this is worth thousands of dollars. I know what your salary is. You’re not struggling, but—”
