Page 16 of Road Trip to Forever
I reach for the pizzas sitting on the coffee table and dole out two slices of pepperoni onto each of our paper plates. Before I can take a single bite, Patrick is already finishing his first slice. I look over and see a string of cheese hanging from the corner of his mouth. An unholy moan catches in the back of his throat as he swallows, the noise echoing through the apartment and making my skin flush a vibrant pink.
Patrick has always loved pizza night, and I’ve always loved that wicked sound.
“This story is going to be good,” he says, his knee knocking against mine as he waits, a man made of exasperating patience.
It’s been almost a week since I last saw him, and the day I applied to the Florida Fashion Show and my ill-fated outing with Jade, the fiddle-leaf-fig lover, are both nearly forgotten.
He’s been busy with end of the year parent-teacher conferences, double checking report cards, and sorting through the lost-and-found bucket he keeps in his office. He sent me a picture yesterday of a single shoe, pink and sparkly with white laces and wrote,I don’t understand kidsunderneath the image.Where’d the other one go? he added.Outer space?
I’ve kept my phone in the living room while I’ve been in my home office, bending over the sewing machine I’ve had for a decade as I rework the same outfit three times—a purple dress that flares at the waist and hits just above my knees. A bow that ties in the back and a scooped neckline that shows off my curves. It’s light and flowy, perfect for summer nights with a skirt that will catch in the breeze when I skip down the sidewalk.
“Why?” I ask. “So you can revel in my misery?”
“I need to add it to your bad date list. It’s been a while. Time for an update,” Patrick says.
“Stop. You do not have a list.”
He holds up a grease-covered finger and pulls out his phone, his lock screen boasting a photo of us at Six Flags New England on a fall day. Patrick has a balloon hat on his head and a superhero cape around his neck. There’s face paint on my nose and cheeks, the design of sparkly butterfly wings catching in the autumn sunlight.
“Here,” he says, a note titled ‘How to Not Piss Off Lola While on a Date’ displayed on his screen.
I groan, and the grin on his lips stretches wider. His eyes twinkle with mirth and mischief. He looks younger than his thirty-four years, turning into a rebellious teenager on a quest to tease the shit out of me.
“Asshole,” I say. A laugh bursts free, and I throw a crumpled napkin at his head. “Okay, let me read.”
I scan the lines, amazed he’s remembered so many details from my past. All the times I recanted my horrible dates to him once I had been marked safe from subpar conversion and an underwhelming connection are laid out in front of me. He’s included his own commentary after each one, and while I’d never admit it to him, that might be my favorite part.
DoNOTpropose on the first date (Paul is a moron).
Be five minutes early, and don’t keep her waiting for half an hour (invest in a watch, John).
Don’t tell her you have dinner planned, then take her to your old fraternity house during alumni week for a hotdog eating contest (she’s not nineteen).
Own a bed frame (people don’t?).
“I really don’t think having a bed frame is asking a lot of someone,” I say.
“It’s not. It’s right up there with wearing pants. Common courtesy, if you ask me. Frankly, I’m still confused why you turned down the proposal. You could’ve ended up as a Guinness World Record holder, Lola. Shortest engagement ever. They would’ve given you a plaque.”
“He had a ring, Patrick, and made me FaceTime his mom. For someone with a phobia of commitment, sitting through that phone call was like climbing Mount Everest.”
“Last week can’t be any worse than making a man cry in the middle of a sushi restaurant.”
“Oh, it was worse.”
“Go on. Tell me what she did so I can add some new material.”
I sigh and rub away the ache between my eyes, the embarrassment of having to relive a conversation I want to forget. “According to Jade, my laugh is too loud, and the things I laughed at weren’t funny. She didn’t like when I interrupted her, and my job—the fashion industry as a whole, apparently—is a joke.”
An irritated grumble erupts from deep in Patrick’s chest with volcanic intensity. “Where the hell are you meeting these people, Lo?”
“Dating apps I’m going to delete later tonight. That was the last straw. Even if it’s just one cup of coffee, I’m not doing it. Single forever. It’s better this way.”
“You just haven’t dated the right person yet.”
“I knew you’d say that, Mr. Romantic. The more I think about it, the more I realize they might not be the problem. I am.”
He blinks and leans forward to set his plate down, staring at me with unwavering focus. “What are you talking about?”
