Page 65 of Meet Me Back Here

SPRING, 18 YEARS OLD

In one month, Forrest and I will graduate high school. I want to scream and jump and throw a goddamn party, but without our college plans finalized, it’s hard to feel anything but scared.

The worst fucking part is we both worked our asses off to get the kinds of grades we could be proud of, that would make colleges want us—and they do. Forrest’s more than mine, but I still did alright. When we both started getting acceptances to the same schools, it felt like things were actually going to be ok.

But these places also want our money. A lot of it.

After the new year, Forrest’s dad was laid off from his job. There was a company merger and his job disappeared into the vague excuse of redundancy. With how much things have changed since he first got that job—he was a company lifer—suddenly all that commitment doesn’t transition to a new job. He found something, but even though Forrest tries to hide it, I can tell they still have financial stress.

Gotta say, something like that happening to Mr. Dane so close to home makes leaping into adulthood a little less thrilling too. Yeah, I want out of here, but I sure as shit don’t want into a job situation like his.

Somehow, with the way these financial aid forms are built, savings and past income overshadow a new, risky, lower income job. And if I see the words “do not qualify” on one more grant form, I just might scream. I’ve never been living large, but I do have a special bank account set aside for my college tuition that my parents have been adding to since the day I was born. Forrest doesn’t… At least not to the extent I do.

I quickly flip through the envelopes in my hand. I only have a couple pieces of college mail today. There isn’t much news we’re still waiting to hear at this point. I still take the envelope from a California school, fold it in half, and shove it in my back pocket. It’s already off the table for Forrest, and I don’t want him to see whatever they want to tell me. He’s tried too many times to tell me to go somewhere without him.

He doesn’t understand that’s simply not an option. I’d rather let go of the idea of going somewhere new for college than let go of having this experience together. If we can get through these next few years, we can travel after, or on breaks if we can get jobs and save up enough money. I can be patient.

So, just like every other day for weeks now, Forrest and I went to our respective mailboxes after school and are bringing news to the treehouse. Together.

I’d run inside to drop my bag in the kitchen, so Forrest beat me up into the treehouse. He’s sitting cross-legged with a single, thin envelope on the wooden floor in front of him.

“Hey,” I say, and I swear I can feel tension rolling off Forrest just by being near him.

He’s losing hope and trying to put on a brave face. I wish he knew he didn’t have to pretend for me. If he’s in the trenches, I’ll crawl down into them with him.

“Hey,” Forrest answers, eyes trained on that envelope like it holds his fate. In some ways, it might.

I twist myself around so I’m sitting across from him. I look down and see the crest for a smaller college in Rhode Island, Ocean State College.

“Do you want to go first?” I ask, flexing my foot until the toe of my shoe nudges his envelope.

“I don’t want to go at all. Right now, it’s Schrӧdinger’s envelope, and I’m actually pretty content with that,” Forrest says, finally dragging his eyes away from the offensive pocket of paper.

“Forrest, no part of you is content with this,” I say. “You’re more tense than when you have a dentist appointment.” Forrest hates going to the dentist. I reach out and poke his knee. He doesn’t budge. “You’re like a statue.”

Forrest inhales deeply and shakes his shoulders as he lets it out.

“Ok, fine.” He snatches up the envelope, probably before he loses his nerve, and rips it open, making a mess of it. He yanks out the paper and freezes before shoving it under my nose.

“You read it. I can’t,” he begs.

I sure as shit don’t want to read it either. If it’s bad news, that means I’d have to be the one to tell him, and I don’t want to hurt him like that. But I look from his hand to his face and see the anguish there, and I take the page. Multiple pages actually.

My eyes scan the cover letter. Then I read it again. And again, just to be sure.

“Cam, please,” Forrest pleads when I don’t say anything for over a minute.

“Forrest,” I start, unable to keep the grin from spreading across my face. “Forrest, they’re giving you a scholarship. A really fucking big scholarship.”

Disbelief washes over him, and he reaches forward to pull the paper from my hands. As his eyes scan it top to bottom, I shift onto my knees and look over the top of the page, reading it again, now upside down.

Slowly he lowers the paper, still looking like he thinks he’s dreaming.

“What does this mean?” he asks, looking between me and the page.

“Forrest,” I say, putting my hands on his shoulders. His touch always grounds me, after all. “It means we’re going to college. Rhode Island, here we co⁠—”

I don’t get to finish my corny cheer, though.