Page 4 of Meet Me Back Here

“Your dad does,” I snarl. “He said he’s going to tear it down before winter.”

“Oh,” Forrest says, looking thoughtful. “I can tell him not to, since it’s special to you.”

I huff dramatically. This kid is nuts if he thinks it’s that simple.

“It won’t matter. Grown-ups don’t listen to kids.” My eyes burn as I imagine his dad taking apart my special place. Would he use an axe and chop it up? Would he cut down the whole tree?

“No, I’ll make him listen. He won’t take it down.” Forrest scrunches his face until his eyebrows make a straight line right across his forehead. “I promise.”

I squint at him, trying to figure out if he’s lying, but he looks like he means it. I think he’ll try to help, even though I don’t think it’ll work.

“I’m Camilla,” I say, digging deep to find my manners. “I live next door.”

“Hi Camilla,” Forrest says, and that easy smile is back.

“My best friend used to live in your house. She had a dog. Do you have a dog?” I ask, trying to create a list of ways in which he isn’t as good as Jenny.

“I don’t,” he says. “And I’m sorry your friend moved away.”

Something in me wants to like him since he’s being so nice, but it feels like a betrayal to Jenny.

I’m skeptical at best, but his vow to save my treehouse is the first promise Forrest Dane ever makes to me. And he never breaks a promise.

CHAPTER TWO

trick or treat or panic, i guess

PRESENT, HALLOWEEN

“God fucking damnit!”

My calico, Jigsaw, darts under my bed when I slam my hand down on my vanity in frustration. My head jerks toward him, as surprised by his sudden movement as he was by the loud sound my hand made. Poor guy. He’s old and not a fan of surprises.

“Aw, Jig, I’m sorry,” I say at a normal volume, bending over on my stool so I can see his glowing yellow eyes in the dark corner he’s wedged himself in. He blinks slowly, and I take that as him accepting my apology.

This evening is not shaping up the way I’d hoped. I’d intended to be ready early, to be calm, cool, and collected well before Forrest got here. That way, I could pretend I’m a professional instead of the walking disaster I feel like.

To say it’s not going well would be an understatement.

It’s a year after my last book tour, and it feels like very little has changed. I have another author event tonight—a spooky New England authors panel—and I’m wearing this complicated getup in honor of Halloween. The leather harness has more straps than I can count, and putting it on must not be meant as a one-person job unless that one person is a contortionist.

I… am not.

As I straighten back up, I reach around myself, swiping yet again at a strap while it flops uselessly against my back, just out of reach. I end up spinning the stool around before finally pinching the end of the pleather between my fingers. I try to pull it over my shoulder, but the buckle is now firmly tangled in the laces of my corset. Fuck me.

After another fruitless yank, I release the strap and let my head fall back in frustration. I catch sight of my reflection and turn my head from one side to the other. Even after all these years, I still have a hard time recognizing myself in my full author getup. Some days, like today, I hardly feel like a person. Instead, I’m a character, as fictional as the ones in my books.

It was one of Susan’s ideas, a strategy to help me overcome feeling like I didn’t belong. She gave me a role to play. Camilla Viottolo could be uncertain and anxious. Mia Lane was anything but. She told me when I became Mia, I’d be confident, bold, a little eccentric. It worked for a while, but these days I feel like a clown, hiding behind a face that isn’t my own.

I’m the opposite of confident.

I haven’t been able to write a word since last fall.

And nobody knows.

My gaze drops to the little event postcard mailer wedged in the corner of my vanity mirror frame. It feels like the bold font is mocking me.

Desert City University can’t wait to welcome bestselling author and alum Mia Lane as our keynote speaker and creative writing workshop leader!