Page 36 of Meet Me Back Here

I shake my head. “You know, I didn’t think it would be, but seeing you that happy made it a pretty great day for me too.”

Forrest flings an arm over my shoulders and squeezes me to his uninjured side.

When we get inside, Forrest is still walking on air. After a quick shower each to get the dust off, Forrest takes his new notebook with him to the couch. I try not to stare when he starts sketching.

His joy is infectious though. Inspiring, even. Maybe this place really is made for creativity.

Because I sit beside him with his old, worn notebook… and I write.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

one step, two step, red step, blue step

By Friday, Forrest has started peeling and has the most defined tan lines around his wrists, where his shorts ended, and where his socks began that I’ve ever seen, but with a bottle of moisturizer in tow, he’s feeling well enough to go out for his inaugural In-N-Out burger for lunch. After taking one bite of his animal style fries, he says he can feel the healing speed up.

After Forrest’s request at the gardens to see my real life in Arizona, I’d reached out to my closest friends to see if they had time to go out before Thanksgiving. I missed them desperately, and I was eager to show Forrest what was most important to me out here. The stars aligned, and they all had this evening after work free.

While I could have eased Forrest into my Arizona group with something low stress like a meal, I opted instead to throw him to the wolves. He said he wanted to see my life, so I organized a night out doing one of my favorite hobbies for letting loose when I was in college.

Line dancing.

My love of dancing together with Forrest’s comical apprehension about the chosen activity for our outing are doing a stellar job at keeping my nerves at bay. Thankfully, he’s a good sport, agreeing to give dancing a try, and his self-depreciating humor about what he expects his talent level to be keeps me laughing. I’m impressed he’s so willing to go along with my shenanigans. If I stop and think too long, I run the risk of realizing my worlds are colliding in a big way.

The beer I’m sipping doesn’t hurt either. Forrest said that since I’ve been chauffeuring him around so far, he’d drive tonight, so I’m good to go.

Most of the enormous rectangle room we’re in is lit by bright neon signs dotting the walls, but the large dance floor is flooded with yellow spotlights. Designed to look like a rodeo, I’ve even seen this room host its fair share of mechanical bull nights. But tonight, the polished wooden floor is packed with dancers instead. Everywhere I look, I see blue jeans, big belt buckles, and boots.

About once an hour, an instructor takes us through a few dances, teaching the steps before filling the in-between with other line dancing songs. For something like this, the group is always heavily filled with regulars who know all the dances, and who are usually more than happy to help newcomers pick up the footwork. It’s such a good community that even watching and listening can be a blast.

Since it’s the focal point of the room, the dance floor is surrounded by a high-top counter, broken only to allow people to enter and exit the floor. The rest of the room is filled with old metal diner tables, uncomfortable vinyl chairs, and three long bars along the walls. This place is dark and dated. It still smells a little like cigars even though smoking indoors has been illegal for almost twenty years.

And I love it here.

“I’ll be right back!” I promise the group as I scurry off the floor and head to one of the bars, dropping off my empty bottle and ordering another Mexican beer and a water.

Everything has been going really well so far. As I expected, Forrest and my other friends got along instantly, with all of us surrounding Forrest so he’d have somebody to watch no matter which wall the dance faced and—more importantly—to keep him from slipping off the dance floor should he decide to make a break for it.

After a couple of songs, it’s clear the second reason is unnecessary. While he still sometimes struggles to keep up, Forrest seems happy to at least try every single dance. We’ve been drinking and laughing and tripping over each other all night. It’s been perfect. Better than I could have hoped.

I chug my water and take my beer to the bar top around the floor, setting it down while I catch my breath and look out at the dancers.

Somebody slides up next to me, leaning against the ledge too. She doesn’t need to speak for me to know it’s Melina. When you are as close as Melina and I were, I think your body is attuned to theirs forever. Like Forrest’s and mine are too.

Melina got the distinct displeasure of being my randomly-assigned dorm mate when I first got here. I was a fucking disaster for at least the first month of school—a nervous, naive mess prone to bursting into tears without warning—and not much better for the couple of months after that, but somehow, she didn’t run for the hills.

The woman has the patience of a saint. I think that’s part of why I fell in love with her. After we lived together for that whole sophomore year, while I healed and grew and found my place in Phoenix, Melina and I dated for almost two years. We knew it was temporary because I always planned to move back East after a few years while Melina’s future was here, but what we had was still precious while it lasted.

She taught me how to be still in a way I’d never known before. When I was with her, she reminded me to slow down and see beauty around me, even—especially—on the bad days. She also grounded me and called me on my shit like nobody else had before.

I like to think I helped her be a little more selfish. As the oldest sibling of three with lots of cousins, Melina was always taking care of those around her, something she thrives at. She pulled me out of my rut with that kindness too. But she readily sacrificed what she wanted for the comfort of others, and she didn’t even realize she was doing it. I wanted to make sure she had the same joy for herself that she made happen for everybody else.

When we broke up, it was very much a be happy it happened, not sad it ended kind of situation, and I’m grateful I didn’t lose her friendship after.

“I’ve missed you, cariño. I’m glad you came back,” she says, using my old nickname, something that stuck even after our relationship ended. It’s still loving, just in a new, platonic way.

“I’ve missed you too,” I say, comforted by how easy it is to fall back together like no time has passed. “I should have come sooner.”

I see her curls bounce out of the corner of my eye when she nods.