Page 95 of Road Trip to Forever
Maybe in his mind, wehavedone this a thousand times. A thousand daydreams coming true and culminating to this moment, a kaleidoscope of color and feelings and waiting and bursts of magic splintering into confetti pieces of perfection.
Patrick pulls away and an immense wave of frigid cold washes over me with his absence. I’m empty, incomplete. I blink, bringing the blur of lights and people back into focus.
He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear and rubs his thumb across my cheek. “Hey,” he whispers with a smile that rivals the sun. A secret hello just for me.
“Hey,” I say, suddenly aware we’re in public and I’m nearly straddling him, a half second away from climbing into his lap.
I have his shirt in my hands, holding on to the material clinging to the slope of his shoulders. His palm is on my neck, stroking up and down the length of my throat and over the clasp of the necklace hanging against my chest. I let out an indistinguishable sound as he caresses me, an embarrassing noise of approval for him to keep moving, to keep doing whatever it is he’s doing, and a solar flare of heat flashes behind his eyes.
My skin turns hot and I move away from him, putting unwanted but necessary distance between us. Being so close to him makes my mind turn to ash, obliterated shards of sanity and rationality crumbling to the ground and scattering with the wind.
I touch my mouth and run the tips of my fingers over my swollen lips, the reminder of how Patrick kisses like he does everything else in life: with every ounce of himself. Dying moments on Earth and I’m his sole source of survival, breathing life into him with every movement. It’s hot and it’s sweet and it’s both light and heavy, so much conveyed through such a simple action.
I kissed my best friend, and it was amazing.
I break out into a slow grin, my teeth showing and my nose wrinkling. A laugh sits on the tip of my tongue, not because it’s funny but because it’s soright.
“We should do that again,” I say.
Patrick’s eyebrows lift. I didn’t think it was possible for a smile to stretch so wide, but his does. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Yes. Immediately. Right now.”
“If you insist. Thisisthe place where dreams come true.”
He cups my cheek and tilts my head back until all I can see are the stars in the sky and the fireworks above. This kiss is just as good as the first one, with care and consideration andlustbehind it. His smile curves against mine, twin displays of glittering and gleaming elation.
“Do we have to stay until the end of the fireworks show?” I ask.
I run my hand through his hair and tug on the caramel strands against his neck. He makes a noise from the caverns of his chest, deep and low and so unholy.
Iknewhe would like that.
“We can leave whenever you want,” he says. His voice is a little breathy, his words a little slurred around the edges, restraint chiseling away. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah.” I dance my fingers down his jaw, the makings of a beard pricking my skin. “Take me home, Patrick.”
It’s not our home—we’ll have to wait for that—but it’s still a place where I feel safe and secure with him. A place where we can learn and explore and be ourselves.
He stands and helps me to my feet. His hand laces through mine, grip tight and bracing as we work our way through the crowd. We pass masses of people who have no idea that a life-changing kiss just took place on a small patch of grass thirty feet from here. Everything I’ve ever known forever upended and turned on its head.
We’re the lone tourists heading to the parking lot while the rest of the world watch the entertainment. If they asked how I could leave in the middle of something so beautiful, I’d say I have something even more beautiful waiting for me on the other side. A man who adores me, a man whowantsme, a heart more dazzling than any pyrotechnic show.
The ride to the house is quiet, the songs on the radio the only noise in the Jeep. An incendiary energy builds between us, cackling to a crescendo with every mile we drive. Patrick’s hand never leaves mine, our fingers welded together as strong and sturdy as metal and iron.
When we park in the driveway, Patrick turns off the ignition. He jumps out of the car and hustles to my side, hauling me into his arms with a firm hold on the underside of my thighs.
“My bag,” I say as he walks us up the path toward the front door, past the clay pots and the rocking chairs on the porch.
“Fuck the bag,” he answers with gusto. “I’ll get it in the morning.”
I laugh into the crook of his neck, his determination and urgency astounding. He punches in the door code and walks us inside, kicking it closed with his back of his heel. I think his sneaker leaves a scuff mark on the white paint.
Instead of heading straight to the bedroom like I thought we would—hell,I’d even take the couch—he sets me down in the foyer and takes two steps back.
His chest is rising and falling, eyes locked on mine. He licks his lips and his hands tighten into fists hanging by his sides.
“Why are we stopping?” I ask.
