Page 8 of Road Trip to Forever
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I say.
“I didn’t do anything. This was all you,” Patrick answers.
We pull apart, and as he rests his elbows on his thighs, the tattoo that takes up six inches of space on his left arm sneaks out from under his sleeve.
I grin at the sight.
A slice of pepperoni pizza he got three years ago, the result of too much tequila and an unseasonably warm winter night.
We were four drinks deep, giddy as we stumbled down the sidewalk and home from the bar after being out with our friends. Not quite drunk, but well past sober, that pleasant place where everything is funny and wonderful and seems like a good idea. There was no destination in mind, and we were content to stroll until we found somewhere we wanted to be.
He slung his arm over my shoulder, slouching down to compensate for our nine-inch height difference and mumbling about how short I was, even in a pair of cute leather boots. I buried my face in his jacket and called him vertically gifted.Patrick and the Beanstalk, I said as we jumped over a square of pavement to avoid a pile of melting snow, and then he tapped my nose while asking if I had any magic beans.
Bursts of uncontrollable laughter slipped out of us like popped champagne bottles at the stroke of midnight. We were two idiots, no reason for the jubilation besides simply being thankful to be alive and with such lovely company.
And aren’t those some of the best snapshots in life? The moments that make you so grateful you want to shout for joy because you’re with a person who makes you so perfectly happy?
The tattoo started as a joke when I spotted the flickering neon sign and the building with no windows. A dare to see if he’d agree. With a shrug and a mischievous grin, we wandered inside the dimly lit parlor.
The idea of a pizza design came to mind. I blurted it out as I sat on a leather bench in the heated room, swinging my legs back and forth while the world started to spin. I didn’t think he’d go along with the suggestion so easily. Patrick is a planner, someone who pays meticulous attention to details and outlines the pros and cons of a purchase before fully committing to it. It once took him a month to decide on new sheets for his bed, reading review after review until settling on the gray cotton set loved by over thirty-thousand customers.
He surprised me by slapping down his credit card for a spur-of-the-moment appointment with the artist at the shop who had a tiger tattooed on the side of his face, and there was nothing I could do to talk him out of the permanent marking.
It was one of the best nights of my life, and I’m lucky to have amassed a treasure trove full of favorites with him. I smile whenever I see the silly thing, the trophy a fuzzy, distant memory forever immortalized on a patch of tan skin.
“How are we celebrating?” Patrick asks, and I drag my eyes away from the inky design. “You need a nap, obviously. You can’t even keep your head up.”
“I can keep my head up.”
“There’s drool in the corner of your mouth, Lo.”
“That’s just water.”
“Water. Sure.”
“It might be Sprite.”
“You don’t even drink Sprite.”
“I lied. It’s drool from the plane.”
“I knew it. You can’t hide anything from me.”
“Maybe I could.”
“Don’t even try. The gang is going to The Garden tonight. Want to meet up with them later?”
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m busy.”
“Busy?” he repeats. There’s a divot between his eyebrows, a waterfall of wrinkles that cascade down to the bridge of his nose. It’s his Confused Face, the same one he employs when he can’t think of an answer to a difficult crossword puzzle clue or has to pick between chocolate chip cookies or snickerdoodle. I see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to figure out what I mean. “With what?”
TWO
LOLA
“I have a date.”
I stare at the mark on the wall behind his shoulder as I say it, the spot where the paint is chipping and the drywall is starting to show.
