Page 50 of Meet Me Back Here

Since he’s learned proper sun protection and hasn’t had any more run-ins with cacti, I think Forrest might agree to come back with me. I just need to make sure he doesn’t see a scorpion during the rest of the trip, or all bets are off.

Forrest and I decided to stay closer to home and hang out by the pool today. In stark contrast to the beginning of our trip, the weather has been dancing around in the low eighties, and knowing we have New England winter waiting for us back home, we’ve been eager to soak up as much sun as possible. Safely. With copious amounts of sunscreen and regular breaks in the cabana that we staked a claim on first thing this morning.

I reach for the Styrofoam box, but Forrest pulls it away.

“It’s time to stand up. Make sure your legs still have blood flow. Maybe take a break, eat with me,” he says, backing away as I start leaning out of my lounger, stretching for whatever deliciousness he foraged for me. I smell fries.

“You’re the one who told me to write,” I whine.

“I take it back for the next half hour. I didn’t know you’d forego literally everything else when you got into whatever headspace you found,” he says with a smile, but also looking the tiniest bit worried. “Don’t get me wrong. I support you and whatever your process is. So long as you eat.”

It’s a fair deal. Maybe I’ll even get in the water before settling back into work. About to get crazy poolside over here. I did bring a brand-new one-piece here with a cute cutout below my sternum, and it hasn’t seen a drop of water yet.

I close that precious little notebook and unfold myself from the chair. My laptop is back on duty now that I’ve started drafting, but all planning still happens by pen on paper in the notebook. When I feel the blood rushing back down my legs followed by the static-like buzzing tingle in my toes, I do fear Forrest may have been right about my writing conditions. I try to subtly shake out each leg so Forrest doesn’t notice.

“How you doin’ there, champ?” he asks without even looking up from the food he’s setting out.

Busted.

“So good,” I say, and I mean it. I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Hopeful.

Also hungry.

“When did you go get all this?” I ask, looking at the spread of boxes on the little table in the cabana. I adjust the halter top tie of my suit. It’s been digging into my neck, but I didn’t notice until now.

“Literally fifteen minutes ago. We spoke before I went. I asked if you wanted to pick something. You made a mumble noise that I took to mean no.” Forrest is smirking, showing off that dimple I love.

“Ok, ok,” I say, surrendering. “I get the message. I become a zombie when I write. Sue me.”

“Pick which one you’d like,” he says, flipping open both larger boxes at once, revealing a BLT and a buffalo chicken wrap, both with fries.

I reach for the box with the BLT at the exact same time he picks up the buffalo chicken wrap.

“How did you know which I’d pick?” I ask.

He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t even dignify my question with an answer.

I know you, that look says.

I sit in one of the upright chairs and resist the urge to snarf down my entire sandwich in fourteen seconds flat.

“You know what would go so good with this?” I ask, wishing I had some cold, crisp pickles.

“Yup,” Forrest says, reaching back into the paper bag by his foot and pulling out a zip-tied bag of pickle spears.

“Dill?” I gasp, elated.

“Obviously,” Forrest answers, opening the bag and handing me one.

The sound I make when I bite into the pickle is pornographic.

“Fuck.” I draw out the word.

Forrest chokes on his bite.

“You can’t be doing that,” he says quietly, his voice hoarse.

My head whips around, looking for a child I might have just traumatized.