Page 19 of Meet Me Back Here

“I’m so sorry to be that person, and it’s completely ok to say no. I’m not a crazy person or anything who’s going to go off. But would you mind switching seats with my husband so we can sit together? It’ll get you out of the middle seat and into an aisle. He can ask a flight attendant if it’s ok,” she says, her voice light and airy like it’s made of candy, and her eyes wide with anticipation after she finishes her request.

“Oh my god, I wouldn’t mind at all,” I agree quickly, grinning at my good luck. It’s actually perfect.

Boarding is practically finished, so I collect my purse and laptop and am getting up as she’s profusely thanking me. She stands to let me out, and I’m confused when the man beside Forrest pops in headphones and opens a book, not at all looking like he’s ready to swap seats. I’m about to tap him on his shoulder when the woman points to a completely different man standing a dozen rows up the plane.

“That’s him right up there. Exit row aisle seat on the right,” the woman says, leaving me completely baffled.

Say what now?

“Oh! Um… right.” With a very confused glance at Forrest, who looks just as uncertain, I start heading up the aisle. I kind of want to take back my agreement to switch seats, but that feels like a dick move at this point.

The man who is apparently the husband thanks me stiffly as we squeeze past one another. His aisle seat with extra leg room is objectively superior to my middle seat way back in the plane, but I’d switch back in a heartbeat. It’s dumb because Forrest and I weren’t even sitting together, but at least we were closer than this.

My phone buzzes.

Forrest

What the hell is happening right now. Who is this guy if that’s her husband?

Literally what is happening? I lean out from my new seat to look back and find the woman leaning against her husband. The man beside Forrest is still engrossed in his book.

Forrest is usually king of minding his own business, so I am a little amused he’s as interested in this dynamic as I am, and I hope he’ll report back once we land. Maybe they’re all together. Or maybe the first man is the woman’s mistress. Or maybe it’s a really uncomfortable brother-sister situation.

Me

You’ve got six hours to find out

We take off, and I’ve got six hours to sit beside these seemingly ordinary strangers and write. I put it off for a while, distracting myself with the book Forrest brought for me. When I feel like I can procrastinate no more, I flip open my laptop and see it didn’t charge nearly as much as I’d hoped it would before we left, but these seats have outlets, so it’ll be fine.

I’ve long since given up on trying to plot anything. Instead, I start by typing whatever pops into my head. Quotes. Things I need to do. Interesting names I like. Random plot questions. I scroll through random pages on Pinterest, look at pretty pictures of nature, and pop on Reddit to see what people are discussing. At this point, I’ll look anywhere for a story idea.

I keep coming back to the three people from the back of the plane. Then I start thinking about love. And secrets. Forbidden love. For dangerous reasons.

The low battery alert pops up on my screen. At least I now have an excuse to slip to the back of the plane where my messenger bag is so I can get my charger and⁠—

Shit.

I mentally run through my last few moments before leaving the house. I got my purse, unplugged my laptop, slipped it into the laptop bag… and said goodbye to Jigsaw.

I never got the charger from the wall.

I pick up my phone, praying Forrest connected to the Wi-Fi after takeoff too.

Me

I’m so screwed. I left my laptop charger at home, and it’s about to die again. And I might have almost been thinking of an idea. Maybe.

The message shows as delivered, but Forrest doesn’t seem to be responding. Maybe he fell asleep.

I feel like such a fucking idiot.

Then, something bops me on the top of my head. I look up, and there’s Forrest with the notebook that he just tapped me with and a pen in his hand.

“You don’t need a computer to write. You just need you,” he says, holding them out for me.

It’s a thin, plain black notebook, definitely well-loved with all the corners curling just a little bit. I recognize it instantly, the same kind of notebook he’s carried since we were schoolchildren. I bought him his first one.

I told him it was a safe place to keep his thoughts. One look at the notebook tells me he’s been writing something in at least the first quarter of it. Of course I’m curious, but I’d never invade his privacy and look.