Page 16 of Meet Me Back Here

“But everything will wrinkle,” Forrest starts, reaching for the bag as I practically toss my suitcase to the floor. “Are you even sure you have what you need?”

“You worry too much,” I say, kicking the bag toward my door while bending to grab my purse and laptop bag. Suddenly, I don’t care what’s in that bag as long as we get the hell out of my bedroom and Forrest keeps his hands off my unmentionables. “A little shower steam will make everything right as rain, and I know Arizona is new for you, but I promise it has stores if I forgot anything.”

With an eye roll, Forrest takes the enormous suitcase from me and easily carries it down the stairs before opening the door for my parents. With a quick pit stop to hug Jigsaw goodbye where he’s curled up on my pillow, I clomp loudly down the stairs after Forrest.

Before I can overthink anything else, I head right out the door and toward the car, where Dad’s loading things up with Forrest. I plop down in the back seat and try to rearrange my purse so it’ll close.

Mom comes up to my still-open door.

“Are you alright, amore di mamma?” she asks. Neither she nor my father speaks fluent Italian, but the name is what my great-grandmother called my nonna, and what my nonna called my mother. It settles me, reminding me of the strong women I come from.

“Yeah,” I say, pausing my shuffling as she strokes my cheek. “I’m just ready to go.”

Alternatively, this is a massive mistake, and I’m about to blow up the best friendship I’ve ever had.

Again.

CHAPTER SEVEN

a horse is a horse, of course, of course

SUMMER, 11 YEARS OLD

Istart getting dizzy from how many times I’ve circled the base of our treehouse, so I switch to pacing back and forth in front of the trunk instead.

Where is he?

I check the sparkly pink digital watch Mom got me before summer camp and make sure I have the date right. Then, I count the days on my fingers to be positive, even though I know I haven’t messed it up. Forrest should be home today. He should have been home hours ago.

Summer is usually my favorite, filled with warm sunshine, summer camp, and all the reading I can fit in. But this year, my camp ended the same day Forrest’s started, and I haven’t seen him in a month. After spending every single day at school and most weekends together at least for a little bit, this has been the worst.

I still miss Jenny sometimes, but we don’t really talk much anymore. And I’ve never had a friend like Forrest. It’s always easy to be around him. I can say whatever’s in my head, and he never makes fun of me. He doesn’t talk a lot, but that’s ok, too. Because I do. When Forrest does talk, it’s always something smart. And he’s very funny. He says he’s not, but then why does he make me laugh so much? I want to laugh with him some more and tell him about my camp and hear about his camp, if only he would hurry up and get home.

Suddenly, there’s a sound. A car!

I run down the grass between our houses, stopping just before the sidewalk. I’m supposed to stay in the yard when I’m outside without Mom or Dad. But leaning isn’t against the rules, so I go up on my tiptoes and lean as far forward as I can without falling over to try and see around the bend in our street.

The sun glints off a shiny, pale car. There it is! That’s definitely Forrest’s mom’s car. Finally.

It feels like it takes forever for the white car to pull into Forrest’s driveway, and I’ve never felt so excited. Not even on Christmas or my birthday.

But then Forrest’s mom gets out of the car, and her face isn’t happy when she says, “Hello Camilla.”

Is she mad at me? She’s always been so nice, and I don’t think I broke any rules.

She goes to the back door and opens it, but Forrest doesn’t get out right away. His mom bends into the car and pulls out… crutches?

Oh no.

When Forrest finally hobbles out of the car, all I can look at is the bright blue cast wrapping his right leg from his toes to his knee.

I run up to him.

“Oh, Forrest,” I sigh, finally looking at his face. His cheeks are pink, and his nose is all scrunched up. I think he’s embarrassed. “What happened?”

“I hate horses,” he says. It’s not much of an explanation, but I bet I can guess what happened. At least generally.

“Do you still want to play a little bit?” I ask before turning to his mom. “Mrs. Dane, can he?”