Page 54 of Meet Me Back Here

Forrest drags himself out of bed, ignoring the violent screech from the frame, straightens his T-shirt, and puts on his glasses. He’s careful not to rip a single taped-up streamer as he moves. He continues looking around as he heads to the bathroom, bursting out laughing when he sees I draped them in there too.

“This is ridiculous, Cam, and I love it,” he says before shoving his toothbrush in his mouth.

Meanwhile, I can’t peel my eyes away from the grey sweatpants hanging precariously from his hips until he slinks back from the bathroom. My trance broken, I flee into the bedroom and get dressed. Forrest has already told me his surprise for today requires an early departure.

Out the door before seven, he’d said.

When I emerge, Forrest is fully dressed and is swinging the car keys around one finger.

“Do I get to know where we’re going yet?” I ask hopefully, but Forrest shakes his head at me.

“Patience, young jedi,” he says. “Ready?”

“As I can be without knowing anything about what I’m getting ready for,” I say. My only clue was to dress comfortably and to only bring a small bag with the essentials.

Forrest doesn’t bite, but he does give me the smallest smile, seeming quite pleased with himself as he opens the door and steps aside for me to pass.

We drive for about forty-five minutes, windows down and music on in the soft morning light, and I’m no closer to figuring out our plans when Forrest parks in the lot for a small airport I’ve never been to before.

“You didn’t secretly get your pilot’s license, did you?” I ask. I mean, I’d trust Forrest with my life, but the idea of going up in one of those two-person planes does make my heart rate pick up just a little bit.

“I did not,” he says, chuckling. “Don’t worry. There will be a fully licensed professional pilot who isn’t me. Let’s go.”

We walk into the teeny tiny terminal and up to a desk with a giant mural of the Grand Canyon behind it. Grand Canyon Air Tours is printed in bold letters across the front of the desk next to a picture of a plane that holds more than two passengers… but not many more.

My mouth hangs open as Forrest gets us checked in, reaching into my bag for me to retrieve my ID when I continue to look stupefied after he asks me for it. If this isn’t an elaborate joke, it’s about to be the coolest birthday ever.

“She’s fine. I swear,” Forrest says to the skeptical attendant who may be questioning my mental capacity to sign the waivers she sets before me.

After we’re finished, we head through security. Forrest keeps my boarding pass like he’s worried I might eat it, but hands me a brochure from the tour company.

“Ever been to the Grand Canyon?” he asks while my eyes scan the description of the eighteen-seater plane that will take us into the Canyon.

I shake my head. And I never thought I’d be seeing it like this. I’m about to thank him for planning something so cool when the woman from the check-in desk claps to get our attention.

She welcomes us, explains the agenda—flight up, tour of the Grand Canyon from the plane, a short stop at the south rim, flight back—walks through some safety information, and checks us all off one by one again.

Then we’re walking out onto the tarmac, and I’m standing before a plane that looks like a toy compared to the ones I’ve been in before. Up a rolling staircase, and I’m sitting snugly between Forrest and a window near the middle of the plane.

After another safety briefing and a welcome announcement from the pilot and copilot—the plane is so small we can see right into the cockpit—it’s time to go.

The plane is loud and vibrates much more than commercial airlines, and when it hits an air pocket on our ascent, we leave my stomach behind.

I feel Forrest’s warm hand envelop mine and pull my fingers from the tight fist they were curled in.

“Open your eyes,” his soft voice whispers into my ears, and I realize I have those squeezed shut too.

When I do, the first thing I see is Forrest’s brilliant green eyes boring into my soul, bright with glee. He reaches up, and with a finger pressed to my chin, turns my head toward the window on my other side. We watch the city and its surrounding mountains melt into the clouds together.

The ride is only about an hour, and even though the plane dips and swoops several more times, it soon becomes exhilarating instead of frightening, especially with the heat of Forrest’s body beside mine and his hand still holding mine.

As the plane banks toward our side and we come around a turn, I gasp and squeeze Forrest’s palm. He leans into me, looking out the window from over my shoulder, and I feel the soft oh he mutters more than hear it.

The brochure Forrest gave me stated the Grand Canyon is about a mile deep and on average ten miles wide, but nothing could have prepared me for the view I have now. The morning sun shines down on layer after layer of rust, copper, cream, chocolate, and yellow rock.

The sheer size of it is mind-boggling. And I’m reminded suddenly how very small we all are in the grand scheme of things. Me and Forrest, here right now, together.

“Wow,” I breathe.