Page 6 of Meet Me Back Here

“I can get it,” I say. I can’t. I’ve proven pretty well that I can’t.

But I should keep distance between us.

Forrest ignores me, turning my back to him and making quick work of my costume. I can feel his deft fingers twisting the laces, pulling this way, then that, and then retying the corset with ease, draping the demonic strap over my shoulder once it’s freed so I can finish buckling in.

I’m counting to a hundred by threes the whole time his hands are on me, focusing on anything but those fleeting touches, each one sending a flash of a memory from our past into my mind. When he finishes, I basically teleport with how quickly I fly away, putting space between us.

I spin back toward him and hold my arms out with a flourish.

“Tah-dah!” I sing, adding jazz hands to my presentation. Jazz hands don’t say anything but friendship.

“Much better.” Forrest gives me a dignified golf clap.

Look at us. Silly. Goofy.

Friendly.

Safe.

“Nice bracelet,” Forrest says, his eyes snagging on the charm dangling against the back of my hand as he checks my costume again.

“Nice ring,” I shoot back, eyeing the silver band on his thumb.

We share a smile before he clears his throat, like he realized he tiptoed toward something he shouldn’t have and needed to back up again.

I want to tell him it’s ok. That I understand what we are. What we need to be.

“Should we get going?” he asks, checking his watch.

“Yup,” I say stiffly. “Just one more thing…”

I finish my makeup, adding some fake blood at the corner of my mouth, and with a quick goodbye to Jig—he still hasn’t emerged—we’re off.

Sitting outside the indie bookstore, I can see a crowd of heads inside waiting for the panel and feel a wave of nerves crawl cold fingers up my spine.

I just don’t want to fuck things up. Not when all these people have shown up for me.

And that makes the pressure of writing the next book that much heavier.

What if I can’t do it?

Forrest reaches across the center console and gives my hand a quick squeeze. It’s like a jolt up my arm. Forrest didn’t grow up in the most touchy-feely house, but somehow touch became his love language. This is how he shows he cares. I remind myself it doesn’t mean more than that.

This is also how I crumble bit by bit. I breathe slowly and focus on being normal.

“You can do this,” he says, like he can read my mind. It’d be scary if he hadn’t been doing it since we were ten.

Forrest and I head around back and meet up with Lori, who quickly runs through the schedule for the evening one more time and introduces me to the other panelists and the moderator, a local indie author named Eliana. I read one of her sapphic romances a few weeks back. She’s very good, and her bright smile today helps put me at ease. I shush the whisper in the back of my mind warning me not to trust her, not to trust anybody. Susan was the exception, not the rule.

Eliana turns out to be the perfect host. Though we’ve just met, she immediately starts chatting with me and the other authors like we’re old friends. It feels like we’re gossiping at a slumber party and the audience is being let in on our secrets. It’s easy, warm, fun.

I love talking about my books because it reminds me of how I felt when I was writing them. That I felt good. I want to find that feeling again.

Then it’s time for audience questions, and hands fly up.

Eliana calls on an excited-looking young woman way in the back.

“Thank you so much for coming here,” the woman starts, looking from one end of the panel to the other. “I’m a huge fan of all your books, but I know we’re all chomping at the bit, and I’ve got to ask Mia my first question. When can we expect your next book?”