Page 38 of Meet Me Back Here

When I look back at Forrest, his expression has softened, but the hand he barely touches to my lower back when we walk back to our group shakes a little.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

older or just stupider?

SUMMER, 14 YEARS OLD

It’s a warm but breezy day out, so my bedroom window is all the way open, and I can hear Forrest’s parents screaming at each other clear as day. I guess they have their windows open too. They’re going at it for several minutes before I spot Forrest sneak out his back door and head for the treehouse. I don’t mean to spy on him, but I’m doing homework at my desk right in front of the window. I can’t help seeing.

Just before he steps on the ladder, Forrest’s eyes flick to my window and meet mine. I wait, trying to figure out if he wants to be alone or not. When he looks away, I think he might not want company this time, but then he jerks his head toward the treehouse. When he turns back to me, there’s a silent plea in his gaze, and I’m up, out of my room, and halfway down the stairs in less than a second.

Of course, I swing by the freezer before slipping out the side door and following after Forrest.

When I get into the treehouse, Forrest is leaning sideways against the far wall, his legs bent and his forearms resting on his knees. It’s his side of the treehouse. It’s just how we’ve always divided it, and I’ve seen him there hundreds of times, but it hits me today how much bigger he is than the first time he was up here, the last time that was my side, where I hid from him and his parents.

I couldn’t imagine hiding from Forrest now, but when he presses his palms to his ears and squeezes his eyes closed, it’s clear what he’s hiding from now. He growls in frustration before ripping his hands away from his head and slapping one against the floor, the loud sound echoing but doing nothing to cut through the yelling continuing to come from his home.

Unwrapping the popsicle I brought with me, I pull the halves apart and hold one out toward Forrest. He takes it, but doesn’t eat it, instead flipping the popsicle stick over in his fingers and watching the sticky, melting syrup drip against the wooden floor every few seconds.

I slip my half back into the plastic wrapper, unable to eat it if he’s not eating his.

“I’m pretty sure they don’t even like each other,” Forrest says without preamble. It’s clear he means his parents. “I figured that would be a prerequisite to getting married, but I guess not.”

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It looks like blood as it seeps between the boards, leaving rosy stains in its wake.

“When parents say you’ll understand when you’re older, maybe they mean you need to get stupider, because nothing they’ve done has ever made sense to me. It makes even less sense the more I think I learn about love. Why would you choose to torture yourself and somebody else like that for years when you could just not?” he continues, anger cutting through the intense sadness I can tell he’s feeling.

“Or maybe they did like each other at some point. Maybe it was even the same time as when they loved each other. Or maybe I’ll just understand when I’m older… and stupider.” He stops rotating the popsicle, and the melting syrup begins dripping over his fingers. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“Forrest,” I say quietly when there’s a break in his rant. His parents always fight. This shouldn’t be something new, but it feels different this time. “Did something happen? Are you ok?”

I know it’s an incredibly inadequate set of questions. Clearly, he’s not ok. I’ve never seen him so dejected. Heartbroken.

“They’re getting a divorce,” he says.

Sadly, that’s not terribly shocking news. He’s been saying for a while now that he thought they’d split up, that maybe they should with how much they fought. I guess the reality of it happening is a bit more of a surprise than he expected. Or maybe the sadness it causes is the surprise.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, another expected response that pales in comparison to the deep sorrow I feel for Forrest’s pain.

“It’s not your fault,” he answers with a shrug. It’s like the life has been sucked out of him.

“I know, but I can still feel sorry for you.” I’m doing this all wrong. “What’s going to happen now?”

“Dad’s moving out.” He says it so matter-of-factly. “He already has an apartment in Boston, and I guess he’s moved some things out. Before even telling us he’d be going.”

Oh.

“Forrest…” I start again.

“It’s fine.” He cuts me off, his tone so sharp, I flinch a little.

I try to play it off, quickly becoming distracted by the puddle of soup my popsicle is turning into.

“I’m sorry,” Forrest says quietly.

When I look up at him, he starts eating the remnants of his popsicle. It feels like his attempt at a peace offering for snapping at me. It truly is a mess now, and he struggles to catch the many dripping parts with his tongue.