Page 4 of Road Trip to Forever
The doors slide open and I make my way into the arrivals hall, greeted with bright beams of sunlight. The air conditioning is cool on my plane-dry face, and the smell of Dunkin’ coffee tickles my nose. Arabica beans, freshly ground. I let out a sigh.
It’s good to be home.
I love to travel, love to see the world and meet new people, but there’s something so grounding and gratifying about being in a place you know so well. My phone buzzes in my purse and I step to the side to check it, narrowly avoiding getting run over by a family of four and a Pomeranian walking off its leash. A slew of text messages pop up on my screen, all coming in at the same time.
Have a good flight!
Crossword clue this morning: eight letters. A person who boasts loudly or exaggeratedly.
Braggart.
What’s a synonym of braggart? Blowhard.
Would’ve been a much better answer.
Note to self: buy eggs.
And milk.
Took a student to the nurse today because he shoved dry macaroni from an art project up his nose.
Remember when you shoved those glow-in-the-dark beads up your nose to see if you would light up? Hysterical.
You landed. See you soon!
I’m about to type out a response to my best friend of twenty-four years when another text comes through.
You’re going to get run over if you don’t stop looking at your phone.
My chin jerks up to scan the crowd. It doesn’t take long to find him; he’s impossible to miss. There, amid a sea of tearful reunions and metal luggage carts, standing a head above everyone else, is Patrick Walker.
He’s holding up a sign with the wordsWelcome home, Blowhard!scrawled across the bright red poster board in his messy handwriting. Smiling, like always, a half beam away from splitting at the seams to a wide, vivacious grin.
He looks just like he did when I left town three weeks ago: brown hair tucked neatly under a baseball hat, long limbs, broad shoulders, a six-foot-five frame, the trace of stubble on his jaw, and green eyes that twinkle in the artificial airport lighting. His cheeks have some color to them, like he’s spent time out in the sun. Probably a weekend at the pool, lounging in a chair while he thumbed through a book.
A sob of pure delight escapes me as I tug my bags toward him, nearing a full-on sprint as I leap into his outstretched arms. It's ungraceful and I come at him from the side, but Patrick catches me with ease, scooping me out of the air and into his hold.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
I touch his forehead and then his cheek to make sure he’s real. Run my fingers over the little scar below his hairline; seven stitches and a jagged white line left behind after a baseball cleat went flying and hit him straight in the head. His grip around me is tight, secure, and he laughs into the crook of my neck as he spins us around.
Real. So real.
“Surprising you. It would be cruel to make you slum it home on the Silver Line after your eight-hour flight from Rome,” he says. “Plus, I couldn’t break our tradition of picking you up. Fifteen times in a row. We’ve got to keep the streak going.”
“You’ve always been superstitious. How many days since an MBTA accident?” I ask.
“Zero. There was a fire yesterday, and people jumped—literallyjumped—into the Charles River, Lola.”
“I leave and this place turns into total anarchy.”
He laughs, a low sound in my ear that warms my insides and makes me feel alive and wide-awake. My exhaustion fades the longer I stare at him and categorize every feature of his face I’ve missed in great detail.
The sharp line of his jaw, the flecks of blue mixed in his eyes. His nose and his neck and the lock of hair slipping out from under the bill of his hat, the wave curling against his forehead in pesky rebellion.
“God I’ve missed you,” Patrick says.
“I’ve missed you too.” I squeeze his arm, and he sets me down. “Where’s the Jeep?”
