Page 5 of Meet Me Back Here

There hasn’t been a creative bone in my body for longer than I like to think about. I’ve stared at a lot of blank pages, unable to write anything, but somehow I’m supposed to guide a whole workshop full of people on how to write.

I’m a fucking fraud.

I feel my heartbeat quicken the longer I stare at the event announcement, a tightness in my chest starting to creep in, inch by inch.

When my doorbell rings, it’s like a tether pulling me back to reality, to this room. I aggressively rip the little card away from the glass and shove it in a drawer, slamming it shut with more force than is needed.

I’m fine.

The buckle from my harness bounces against my spine when I stand up, and I tip a little closer to a complete crashout. I snatch it from behind me and make one last attempt to tug it free, but the corset laces it’s tangled on just tighten abruptly, cheap boning buckling and jabbing me in an organ I hope isn’t vital.

I expect I look a little feral when I throw open my front door, because Forrest’s eyebrows jump up. Other than that tiny movement, though, he’s as calm as always, ever my rock.

Well, not my rock. Not like that. Not anymore.

I slouch against the heavy, wooden door so Forrest can come inside. As he passes me, I try to figure out his costume. He’s in slacks and a button-up with a blazer—he’s always dressed a little more formal, even for casual stuff, but he’s got suspenders today, and I get a peek at a fake pistol holstered under one arm. My eyes jump to the fedora perched on his head, and it all clicks.

“A mobster?” I ask, sounding a little like I did when I got my wisdom teeth out thanks to the fake fangs I’ve got in.

Forrest looks over his shoulder and hits me with a devilish smirk, tilting his chin down so he can peer at me over his glasses, befitting a suave 1940s criminal. I close the door, using it as an excuse to look away, or I’d end up staring longer than is socially acceptable.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “Bridget was going to be a femme fatale, but she couldn’t make it tonight. She said she’s really sorry, but there’s this thing with her friends… She asked me to tell you good luck, though.”

She didn’t, but it’s nice of him to pretend.

Bridget is a woman Forrest has been seeing for a little over a month now. She’s nice, forever perky, and not at all a fan of the fact that Forrest and I are close.

She’s not a bad person. On the contrary, she’s objectively great. She’s clever and volunteers at a pet shelter and has an incredible sense of humor. She’s also never excluded me from anything or even said a word about my friendship with Forrest, at least, as far as I know. She’s not one of those “stay away from my man” kind of women. But I can tell it’s not her favorite situation.

I once tried to tell her she has nothing to worry about, thinking it would make things better. But it backfired. She’s so damn polite that she pretended to have no clue what I was talking about. It was awkward as fuck. She’s coincidentally had plans each time Forrest and I have hung out since then.

“Thank her from me,” I say like I’m supposed to.

“I will,” he says, like he’s supposed to.

He won’t. It’s ok.

After a beat, I add, “Do you need to go with her? As her date?”

He quickly shakes his head. “I’m where I should be.”

I feel warm when he says things like that. When he shows up for me, like before.

Then I feel like a selfish whore because I had my chance with him, and I decided to blow that the fuck up.

“No offense, but is that how the outfit is supposed to look?” He waves a hand toward my middle, where only half of the straps on my harness are buckled.

It’s an effective change of subject, cutting off any further conversation about Bridget. I think Forrest has noticed the tension there too.

“No,” I practically growl, reaching over my shoulder yet again for the part that’s tangled, wrestling with it and myself until I’m huffing and puffing. “But it’s… stuck… and I can’t…”

Somehow, I’m turning around myself again, like a dog chasing its damn tail.

“Will you quit moving?” Forrest’s laugh fills the entryway as his fingers wrap around my upper arm, pulling me to a halt.

I swear my skin burns under the pad of each of his fingers.

“It’s ok,” I protest, even though this outfit hasn’t been ok for some time.