Page 35 of Meet Me Back Here

Raising my hand, I hold our cups up between our faces, breaking our eye contact and whatever bad idea was percolating in my mind.

“I got you the caramel one to try this time,” I say, and he plucks the one with drizzle on top from my grasp.

“You are a godsend,” he says after his first sip, humming deep in his throat.

We sit on the couch with our coffees, and I plan on settling in for another day around the resort, but I can tell Forrest is restless. I think he feels guilty about wanting to stay indoors for another day, and I want to make it better, but I don’t know how. And I just don’t feel good about leaving him behind like he wants me to.

I pull out my phone and start flipping through the open windows I have for things to do in Phoenix until one catches my eye, something I’d seen but forgotten about. I quickly read the description and hop to my feet.

“Alright sourpuss, I’ve got an idea for today. It’s mostly indoors, and I really think it’ll make you feel better if you’re up for venturing out,” I announce.

Forrest looks at me skeptically, holding his cold drink to his pink cheek like I had been doing just a bit ago.

“Will there be cacti?” he asks.

“It’s Arizona. There are cacti pretty much everywhere, but I promise they’re avoidable.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“Trust me. You want to see this,” I urge.

Forrest still doesn’t look convinced, but he pushes off the couch.

With a squeal of delight, I tap my screen to buy our tickets—luckily getting in last minute.

“Let’s go.”

“For the record,” Forrest says. “I’ve always trusted you.”

Forrest opted for loose-fitting pants and a long-sleeved shirt for sun protection. Thankfully, it’s still a little cool out, and I hope that feels nice on the burn as it continues to fade. For the thirty-minute drive, I put the air on, blowing at our feet to cool Forrest’s legs. Peeling is going to be a bitch, but at least healing should be uphill from here.

When he sighs with relief, I wonder if the drive is going to be his favorite part of the day. But then I turn toward the parking lot, and Forrest perks up in his seat, rolling down the window and turning for a better view. When his head snaps toward me, his eyes are wide with shock and glee.

“Is this Taliesin West?” he asks, the same way a kid would react to pulling up to Disneyland. “Are we at Taliesin West?”

I nod. “That we are, you nerd.” I reach out my hand after I finish parking. “Let me see your phone. There’s an app for the audio tour.”

He drops the device in my hand. “Password’s one-seven-two-two,” he offers without me asking.

I freeze with my thumb hovering over the screen. That’s the number for my house back in Hingley. I glance at Forrest to see if he’s going to say anything, to explain the number, to tell me what else it stands for, but he’s rubbing sunscreen on the backs of his hands.

I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.

Once I’ve downloaded the app, I pass his phone back to him, and we head toward Frank Lloyd Wright’s desert oasis and winter home. Future architect, meet architecture paradise.

The ear bud in my left ear tells me about the design and construction of Taliesin West, and the use of local materials so the property would meld with the natural beauty around it, but I spend most of the tour watching Forrest as he moves from room to room with childlike wonder, pointing out aspects of Wright’s style that he studied in school. He also shares unbelievable stories of the chaotic and arrogant architect himself.

Forrest doesn’t shy away from the outdoor portions of the tour, though he does keep us shaded with a sun umbrella he’d found in the car, just in case. But we move lazily through the gardens as Forrest points out the different buildings and their purposes, easily identifying the additions to the original structure like he’s been here a million times. Eventually, I stop the audiotour altogether, preferring to hear Forrest’s excited whispers about the world around me.

I remember reading that the self-guided tour should only last just over an hour, but we take much longer than that with Forrest supplementing the tour information and sometimes just standing and staring at some piece of history before him.

Forrest looks light and happy when I drive us back to the resort. It’s easy to see he’s found something to do with his life that he truly loves.

“Let’s do windows for the way back,” he suggests, already pushing the button to lower the passenger side window.

I follow suit on my side while Forrest finds a country station to play softly in the background. Probably without realizing he’s doing it, Forrest starts singing along with some of the more popular songs.

“That was something else,” he says as we’re walking back to our room. “Thank you for bringing me there. I can’t imagine it was as exciting for you as it was for me.”