Page 22 of Road Trip to Forever
I pluck her phone off the ground and hand it to her. “It’s field day at school, and all I need to do is run the dunk tank. Who needs sleep, anyway? Start talking, Jones. I want to hear everything.”
Her grin is wide and her laugh is soft as her shoulders wiggle and she scoots closer. Her head drops to my chest and stays there, as if it’s sewn to my skin. A permanent part of me. I wonder if she can hear my heart pounding through the thin cotton of my shirt, giving away just how much I like her being near me.
“The show runs for four days,” she says, reading from an email. I try to follow along with the bold words, the lingo that makes me want to go cross-eyed because I have no clue what it means, but the bright light from the screen hurts my head and I have to look away. “I need to—Patrick, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I rub my forehead and close my eyes. “Just a headache. Keep going.”
Lola curses under her breath. The mattress sinks. Her knee knocks against my calf. I hear the drawer on her nightstand open and the rattle of a pill bottle.
“One or two?” she asks.
“One. You keep drugs in your room for me?”
“Of course I do.” She drops a capsule into my palm. “I do it for selfish reasons.”
“Like what?” I ask, swallowing the pill dry until a glass of water finds its way into my hand.
“You make the best breakfasts. Life would suck if I had to figure out your waffle machine on my own,” she says.
“I see. All I’m good for is my cooking.”
“And your Jeep. I don’t want to carry my groceries for ten blocks.”
“You’re going to put that in my obituary, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Obviously. ‘Rest in Peace, Patrick Walker. Thanks for driving a big-ass car,’” Lola jokes with a laugh and then touches my shoulder. I relax under the press of her fingers. “Really though, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Keep reading. Please,” I add, because I know Lola can’t say no when I jut out my bottom lip.
She settles against me, her cheek resting on my shoulder. “I need to bring at least ten designs, but I can showcase up to twenty-five in each category. They devote each day of the show to different divisions. Day one is women’s wear, day two is men’s. The third day is gender-neutral designs, and the last day is signature style, where each designer gets to pick two outfits they haven’t previously shown for the final runway walk.”
“Which divisions did you decide to enter?” I ask.
Lola also makes suits, wanting to learn how to get inseams and lengths right for the folks who don’t wear dresses but still want an outfit with shape and style.
She always asks me to try on the completed outfits so she can snap a photo and upload it to her social media accounts, and I always agree, posing poorly in the artistic positions she puts me in and trying not to grimace at my obvious lack of talent.
Positions with my hand on my hip and my fingers hooked around the belt loop of the slacks she stitched. Me from behind and the coat she sewed slung over my shoulder as I stare at the city below, hoping I lookscholarlyandrefined,not like a pompous asshole.
I love the way Lola brightens up when I agree to help, the twinkle in her eyes and the dazzling smile she tosses my way. It makes the reluctancy melt away, warmth settling behind my ribs when she murmursperfectunder her breath and runs her hands over the lapels of the jacket on my shoulders.
“The men’s and the women's,” she says. “Plus the signature style. That one is mandatory. I doubt I’ll get another opportunity like this, so I might as well go all in and enter everything I’m eligible for.”
“And it’s judged, right?”
“Mhmm. By industry icons, models, brand-name designers, content creators with a substantial amount of followers. The grand prize is half a million dollars and a feature in eight different magazines. Do you think we’ll be able to fit a couple dozen garment bags in the Jeep? We’ll also have our luggage. I need to find a suitcase that doesn’t take up too much space.”
She’s talking faster, using her hands to gesture like she does when she’s excited and three different plans have started to form in her mind.
“Easily. We have the back row of the Jeep and the trunk, too. How many people are they expecting to attend?”
“Tons. It’s open to the public.” Realization hits her, and she freezes. The excitement slips out of grasp and disappears into dust as she shakes her head. “That’s so many. What if the clothes don’t fit the models? What if the colors I pick are more of a winter tone instead of summer? What if a zipper breaks and the entire outfit falls apart? I can’t go. They’ll think I’m a joke.”
I pluck the phone from her hand and set it aside. My palm laces through hers and I rub my thumb over the ridge of her knuckles, hoping to work out some of the tension in her shoulders and the panic in her voice.
“I think you should table all of these ideas and worries until the morning, love. You’re tired and overstimulated. Excited, as you should be, because this is fuckingincredible. But it’s the middle of the night. We’ll sit down tomorrow when I get home and make a spreadsheet.” Lola blinks at me under dark eyelashes. “What? I know you don’t feel as strongly as I do about Microsoft Excel, but I’m telling you, Lo, it’s pretty nifty. The shortcuts I can do are—”
“You called me love,” she whispers. “You’ve never called me love before.”
