Page 6 of Road Trip to Forever
“You know I’m going to come upstairs with you and make sure you actually submit the application, right?”
“Right,” I grumble, resigned.
“You’ve done scarier stuff than this, Lola. You’ve been skydiving, for heaven’s sake,” Patrick says.
“Yes, and the possibility of death by jumping out of a metal tube was more appealing than the possibility of rejection, so that should tell you something,” I say.
The Friday afternoon traffic is light, making the drive to my apartment quick. Patrick parks in the visitor’s spot near the front of my building and helps me haul my bags into the elevator. He taps his foot to the jazz melody playing and I stifle a yawn as I unlock my door, keys jangling when I push it open with my foot.
“Tired?” he asks.
“Exhausted.” I step into the foyer and pull out my laptop, dropping my purse to the floor. I kick off my shoes and nudge them against the wall, next to a pair of leather sandals Patrick left in my kitchen before my trip. “Don’t worry about the bags. I’ll deal with them later.”
Patrick shudders and rubs his palms over his navy-blue shorts. His fingers twitch, ready to shove clothes into a dresser or the laundry hamper, and I canseethe revolt in his eyes at having to wait to put things in their proper place.
“How you can just live your life without unpacking immediately after a trip is mind-boggling to me,” he finally says.
“Pick your battles, Walker. Unpacked suitcases or a submitted application. You can’t have it all.”
“Application,” he says like a kid in a candy shop, eagerness for me to get started evident with the clap of his hands and the guidance to my sofa.
I plop onto the couch I scored from a garage sale last spring—green velvet with antique wooden legs and three square cushions. A steal for the price I paid, almost highway robbery. I balance my computer on top of my knees and type in my password, pulling up the website that’s been taunting me for weeks.
Spurred on by a brief bout of spontaneity somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean after two glasses of red wine and a bowl of chocolate mousse, I started the application for the Florida Fashion Show the night I left on my trip. I hit a roadblock when the plane touched down in Italy though, the wheels on the tarmac a screech of pessimism ringing in my ears, a puncture to my inspiration. Every time I tried to talk about my experiences as a designer, they never soundedremarkable.
Good? Yes.
But impressive enough to earn a coveted spot in the Southeast’s largest show? To be determined.
Patrick takes the seat next to me and taps my hand twice. He lifts his chin toward the computer screen and I nod, his gesture not requiring any words.
With over two decades of friendship, that’s how in sync we are.
He thinks it and I understand it, our minds working as one.
I fill in the parts of the application I’ve been reluctant to finish. The letter of intent and the highlights of my resume condensed into a handful of paragraphs with a grammatical error or two. Sentences about creative vision and industry role models. Where I see myself in five years.
It’s awkward to talk about myself, to boast my strengths and accomplishments and argue why Ishould be chosen over thousands of other talented designers who are just as deserving, but I forge on, fresh enthusiasm behind my typing with my best friend by my side.
I add in the links to my social media accounts, upload sample photos of my design style, and attach a lopsided headshot of myself, inwardly cringing at the image of me boasting a cheesy smile and half-closed eyes.
Patrick took that picture in his living room with a cracked iPhone and a white sheet covering the window behind me to block out the setting sun. He committed to the task, getting on his hands and knees and bruising his shins on the hardwood floor so he could find the perfect angle with the best lighting.
I could never bring myself to tell him it was crooked.
After I input all of the required information being asked of me, I stare at the completed form. The cursor hovers near a small box at the bottom of the website, six letters big and bold.
SUBMIT.
“You can do this, Lola,” Patrick says.
The words are gentle. An assurance, not a demand, and the encouragement dances over my ears and works its way to the tips of my toes. It takes root, blossoming from a seed of doubt into a bountiful tree of hope and belief in a mythical world where I reallycando anything.
A deep breath in, a deep breath out, and I click the button that might change my life forever, channeling courage and optimism.
A new window pops up. Animated confetti springs from the page, a digital celebration, and the slow realization of doing the thing I was terrified of settles in.
“Done. Happy?” I ask him. My legs knock against his chest and he folds his hand over the curve of my knee, just below the spot where my dress ends. Warmth erupts under the tips of his fingers.
