Page 20 of Meet Me Back Here

“Forrest, I can’t take that,” I protest.

“You can, and you will. Just start from the back and use as much as you need. We can buy another one when we land or buy you a new laptop charger. Or both.”

When he says it like that, I realize leaving the charger really isn’t as big of a deal as it felt a moment ago. Forrest does that for me. Brings perspective. Reminds me things are going to be alright. Aren’t I the one who just told him Arizona has stores for forgotten items?

I take the book and pen, but snag on his sweater sleeve when he goes to return to his seat. I tug on it until he bends over.

“What’s going on back there? With our new friends?” I whisper urgently, eager for any hint of news.

“I have no clue.” He shakes his head. “She hasn’t even looked at the first guy since her husband sat down.”

“Huh,” is the only response I can come up with. Because for the first time in over a year, the hint of an idea tickles the back of my brain.

CHAPTER NINE

hope, my girl. what the fuck?

Forrest, my laptop bag and his backpack in hand, meets me near our arrival gate at Sky Harbor, and we watch the woman and her husband walk by, followed a short while later by the other man, seemingly now a stranger to the couple. Forrest never did get any more of their story, but that’s ok, because on the rest of that flight, I wrote.

I don’t have a plan yet, but I have an idea. And I have some characters, not based on anybody from that flight. Just vague fictional wisps of something from a tidbit of a thought about the one who got away. I don’t know if it even counts as writing. And some of my “writing” was actually bad doodling. It’s not much, but it’s a lot more than I’ve had in a long time. More than that, I feel excited to keep poking my maybe-story and see where it takes me.

It could just be a placebo effect, but Arizona’s working its magic on my writing muse.

It’s right around nine when we touch down, and after waiting to get our bags and waiting some more to pick up our rental car, it’s nearly ten-thirty before we’re on the road.

Thankfully, driving here is like riding a bike. The perfect grid of major roads spaced precisely a mile apart in each direction couldn’t be less like Boston if it tried. Yes, the layout of Massachusetts roads is quaint and old and charming, but Arizona roads make sense. Novel idea.

Forrest’s head is on a swivel even though the sun set hours ago.

“What is it?” I ask.

“There’s just so much more here than I expected. I’ve heard people say Arizona is a desert, and I guess I expected… sand? I can see way out on the horizon, sure, but there are mountains out there, and just, more.” Forrest nearly turns around in his seat to get a better view of the beautiful lizard design carved into the wall that separates the freeway from the neighborhood it cuts through.

“There’s definitely more here than sand. There’s so much history here that you can feel it—the good and the bad. And there’s a lot of beauty. It’s so much more than a dusty desert,” I say with a soft smile as we continue heading north into Scottsdale.

Forrest looks around, taking in whatever he can see until I pull into our hotel parking lot.

“Woah,” he breathes as he looks up at the sight before us.

We’ll be staying in a converted dorm near campus during the workshop week, so I went big on this one. I have some rewards saved up from my tour stops over the past few years, and since my parents travel so much, they’ve also accrued a ton of hotel points and decided to gift those to me for this trip as an early birthday present to help make this resort stay possible.

The stucco building is decently-sized, but the real reason I picked this spot—besides being able to use the hotel points and their very favorable long-stay rate—is the towering shadow of Camelback Mountain behind it. Sure, it also has a pool, gym, access to the neighboring golf course and all kinds of other resort amenities, but I don’t know how I could remain uninspired with a view like that.

I park and catch a perplexed expression on Forrest’s face when we’re unloading our bags.

“What is it?” I ask.

“It’s… cold,” he says, his tone matching his face. “Not like Massachusetts in February cold, but it’s still kind of uncomfortable.”

Even though he’s wearing the light sweater he had on during the flight, his shoulders give a small shiver.

“Yeah, that happens,” I say with a low chuckle. “Without the sun heating it up, the ground doesn’t hold heat very well, so it does get cold here sometimes at night.”

“While I’m already asking dumb things, what time is it? The car said eleven, but I thought Arizona was three hours back, and there’s no way the flight took that long,” Forrest continues as he sets my bag on its wheels.

“Daylight savings ended last week, and Arizona doesn’t change its clocks—well, most of it doesn’t. So, it’s two hours back from the East Coast until March,” I explain.

Forrest hms and nods his head slowly, like he’s downloading information directly into his brain.