Page 51 of Meet Me Back Here

“Right, sorry,” I say. “Family-friendly place.”

Forrest blinks a few times.

“No, I just didn’t expect the college flashback with the sounds you make,” he says.

And suddenly I’m the one left stunned silent.

Of course, food was the right move. I didn’t realize I was starting to feel like crap until I realized how much better I felt after eating. Forrest and I did end up going for a swim and then found ourselves in the hot tub.

I’m happily listening to my characters living their lives in my head when I realize I want to share them.

“I know it’s been a few days, but can I take you up on your offer to listen to me word vomit about this book idea?” I ask. It’s something we used to do when I first started creating stories before I became self-conscious about my writing. Usually, we’d be in the treehouse, but I think I can make an exception this time. I can be a little like the fearless kid version of myself.

Forrest lifts his head from where he’d been resting it on a towel at the edge of the tub, looking at me like I just offered him a puppy.

“You mean it?” he asks.

“I just want to know if it sounds like I might have something before I take it to Lori. It’s pretty different from what I’ve done before,” I explain.

“I know we’ve known each other for decades, but I hope you also understand I’m your biggest fan, and this is basically a dream come true,” he says, probably joking to butter me up. But I already know I have a kind audience in him.

So, I tell him about the characters, the plan I have for them, their awful families, and the twists I’ve been noodling through. I fiddle with the C charm on my bracelet while I do, and it somehow reminds me of how far I’ve come.

And when I finish, even before Forrest says anything—he’s so supportive—I realize I need to tell this story. And I’ve never felt so sure about a project before.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

some people just need to be punched in the face

WINTER, 16 YEARS OLD

“Forrest. Forrest!” I know he can hear me—people in Canada can probably hear me—but he continues storming away from me.

He hit some kind of growth spurt this year, and now his legs are significantly longer than mine. Not even the snow seems to slow him down, while it bunches up around my ankles and tries to actively take me out. It’s nearly impossible for me to keep up with him when he doesn’t want me to.

And he doesn’t want me to.

“Forrest, please!” I shout fruitlessly again. “Will you just—Ahck!”

My words turn into a squawk as my feet slide out from under me, and I land in a heap on my ass, the snow doing nothing to cushion my fall but everything to make my butt wet and cold.

Ow.

At least that gets Forrest to stop. He spins around and starts running back to me.

“Jesus Christ, Cam,” he says, exasperated, when he reaches me. He loops a hand under my arm and hoists me up, easily lifting me with muscles that must have grown along with his legs.

“Are you ok?” he asks, brushing snow off my sleeve. I address the snow on my backside myself.

I tenderly rub my tailbone and take inventory of my limbs. All seem to still be attached. The tailbone, though? Likely to have a bruise. One to match…

My eyes catch on Forrest’s hand.

I look up at him, concern still painted all over his face, from his drawn-together eyebrows to his clenched jaw. He’s worried, and he’s fucking pissed. I expect it has something to do with the blossoming bruise on the knuckles of his right hand.

“I’m ok,” I say. For all intents and purposes, I am. “I’m much more worried about y—Don’t you dare walk away from me again Forrest Edgar Dane!”

“Cam!” he snaps as he spins back toward me. At least he acknowledges me shouting at his retreating back this time, even if it means some of that anger is now directed at me. “Don’t use my middle name.”