Page 77 of Meet Me Back Here

Oh my.

When “Little Drummer Boy” starts playing on the radio, Forrest reaches across the center console to drag his hand down my right arm until I take it off the steering wheel and he can lace his fingers with mine. I’m immediately transported back to our treehouse and the playlist he gave me a Christmas. I wonder if he’s thinking about it too.

He squeezes my hand, and I think he’s going to say something, but when I glance at him, he’s looking out the window with a soft smile on his face, the gentle breeze around us pushing his hair back from his forehead. He briefly closes his eyes and sighs.

I feel what I think he’s feeling too. And I think it’s something I’ve been looking for.

I ran before. And then I kept running because I still felt off kilter, and I didn’t know what I wanted. I figured it had to be just out of reach, so I traveled and made quick decisions and said yes to everything I feasibly could to experience as much as possible. It really wasn’t a bad way to spend a few years. It gave me ideas and inspiration to write, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the ability to do those things.

I still want to be spontaneous, and I doubt I’ll ever stop wanting to travel completely, but I don’t feel the same restlessness I used to. Going back home doesn’t feel like a punishment. It feels like rest, and rest is something I’ve come to love too.

Traveling with Forrest has been perfect, and I hope we keep doing it, but I think going home with him could be even better.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

are we even reading the same book?

SPRING, 19 YEARS OLD

“You’re a very talented writer, Ms. Viottolo,” Professor Rupert says as he passes my writing piece back to me with a perfect score circled at the top of the first page.

I hope I don’t look like a complete moron, staring stupefied back at him. He can’t take the grade back now that I’ve seen it, right?

“The ability to draw in a reader so fully and naturally isn’t a common ability, and you do it well,” he continues.

“Thank you, sir,” I answer, the rush of pride still unfamiliar.

I like to think I’m a hard worker, but I’ve always been average-ish at school. Maybe I’d get a really good test grade here or do well on a project there, but Forrest was always the one who was top of our class. I got by well enough, but the only time I’ve ever had a one-on-one with a teacher was when they were asking how they could help me excel.

Being told I’m already doing it is brand new. And writing the assignment that brought about this meeting felt easy. I’d loved it, and I even wanted to write more. I’ve never minded school, but I’ve never actively wanted to do more of it just for fun.

“I’d like to talk to you about the writing program at Desert City University. The English department here is great, but the resources a larger school like Desert City would be able to offer you are on another level. We have mentorship programs with authors and publishers in every genre and opportunities for student publication through both on-campus and off-campus programs. The body of professors in the department is comprised of published authors across multiple genres. We’d be able to build a personalized curriculum for you based on what you’d like to do with your writing. I truly believe you’d thrive in that kind of environment.” While Professor Rupert speaks, I try to figure out if I’m dreaming.

The type of program he’s describing sounds incredible. Ocean State College’s writing program is a certificate added to an English Lit degree that can be completed with four classes, and none of them is specialized in anything. There isn’t the demand for more than that here, and while it might help point me in the right direction, I chose to go here knowing I’d have an uphill battle breaking into the industry. It was a challenge I was willing to take on.

It is a challenge I am willing to take on.

Because I can’t accept Professor Rupert’s offer. My life is here. I’ve got a plan for a future I’m really excited for, and it’s not just mine alone.

“Thank you so much, Professor. I can’t tell you how much it means to hear you talk about my writing like this,” I begin, but when I pause, I see him frown, likely knowing the but is about to come.

“If you’re concerned about admissions or the transfer process, I can assure you that as head of my department, there wouldn’t be any trouble with that.” He cuts me off before I can say no. “I’ve looked over your records and coupled with the skill I’ve seen from you over the past year, I can assure you the process would be smooth. You’d be a great fit. And there are opportunities for financial aid for transfer students as well.”

I feel guilty, and I wonder for a moment if I’m making the right decision. But Forrest and I have a plan. I can’t unwind that based on kind words about my writing. If it’s so good, I should be able to find another path that works better for us.

Right?

I open my mouth to decline.

“Don’t say no yet. Please consider it first. Talk to your family. I’ll email you the contact information for some students in the program. I promise they’re under no obligation to speak positively about me or DCU, so call them. Hear what they have to say. Maybe you’ll be surprised.” Professor Rupert stops me again, leaning forward in his chair now. I can practically feel the energy coming off him. “Think about it,” he urges.

“I—” I guess there’s no harm in taking a moment before turning him down. It would be rude after all that to say no on the spot.

“I will think about it,” I agree. “When do you need an answer by?”

My professor settles back now. “The sooner the better. I’d like to get you in contact with some potential mentors as soon as possible. It’s rare to find a writer like you. Whether you accept or not, I hope you understand the gift you have.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, wondering if he’s just trying to flatter me into saying yes.