Page 38 of Road Trip to Forever
I like him.
I like him a lot.
In a non-platonic way. In a I want to wake up next to him in the morning kind of way.
Ilikehim.
The desire to kiss him is stronger than it’s ever been, and with every second he doesn’t look away, I’m certain Patrick wants to kiss me too.
“That kid was right,” he says. “You do look hot, Lola.”
Never in the history of our friendship has he ever called mehot.
That’s a word reserved for clandestine meetings in the middle of the night. Illicit affairs, not best friends.
The grabbing of shirts and the unbuckling of belts in a cramped coat closet, the hope no one catches you but the thrill that someone might.
I like being the object of Patrick’s attention. A hundred people mull around the room, and he’s only watchingme. The building could go up in flames and smoke, and I’m not sure he would notice. I’m not sure I would notice either.
“Thank you,” I whisper. Desire blazes through me so strongly, I think I might explode. “You look really nice too, Patrick.”
His dark blue suit hugs the slopes of his shoulders, the curve of his muscles. Long arms and a broad chest. The top button of his white shirt is popped open, his neck visible under the crisp collar. I can’t drag my eyes away from his throat, the small inch of space under a cluster of freckles and tan skin I’d like to press my lips to and learn what other sounds he makes.
Patrick sets his glass down on the empty table. He hasn’t finished the beverage yet, but he’s drawn to something more important. He hooks his finger around my arm and tugs me toward him. “Do you want to dance?”
I swallow, emboldened by the dim of the house lights above us and the band on the stage. By the way my strong drink ignites my blood and gives me an answer I’m not at all surprised by.
“I’d love to dance with you, Patrick,” I say.
He offers me his hand and I take it—nearly grab for it—and follow his lead to the dance floor. His left palm settles on my lower back, and we begin to sway to a jazz song. The sway turns into a small circle. A spin here, a twirl there when the tempo picks up. Barely a shuffle when it slows, a gentle rock back and forth like a buoy out in the ocean at low tide. For a moment we don’t move at all, standing stationary with our arms wrapped around each other.
One song turns to two, then three and four. Minutes pass. Maybe it’s hours. Perhaps it’s days. I don’t know, I don’t keep track. I’m too immersed in the here and now, a sparkling awareness of his hand moving an inch lower, down the zipper of my dress. I move a step closer automatically, as if on instinct, a part of me knowing exactly where I want to be.
This is what Emma meant by something feelingright.A sign and explanation that isn’t based on logic and reason but emotion. This moment with Patrick is the most normal thing in the world. It’s like we do this every day, two magnets drawn together by an unbreakable bond.
Destiny.
I rest my cheek on his chest. He runs his fingers down my arm. We’re the only people in the world, existing in a secret space. A happy space, a safe space. The treehouse. My couch. The storage room he found me in after my dad’s funeral, sitting next to a mop and a broom, broken-hearted, with no direction forward. He sat beside me in his nice tie and shiny shoes, his arm around my shoulder, and let me cry, not saying a word.
Patrick is there in all of those places.
Heisall of those places.
I recognize the attraction toward him isn’t fleeting, the cause of expensive alcohol and finding solace in the arms of a good-looking man.
It’s a push and pull that’s been brewing and bubbling for decades, always on the edge ofmaybe, now toeing over the line ofwe should try.
He dips me low, the ends of my hair dragging across the floor. I laugh, and the heaviness breaks.
“Where did you learn all these moves?” I ask.
“Henry made us sign up for ballroom dance lessons,” he says. “He has this whole thing planned for the reception. The foxtrot. The tango. It’s going to look like an episode ofBridgerton.”
“You guys been going to dance lessons forweeks?”
“Secret dance lessons,” Patrick says.
“Do you have special shoes? Please tell me you do.”
