Page 9 of Meet Me Back Here

“I’m going on a trip for some writing stuff. A long one,” I say, my voice suddenly small. “It’s, uh, to Arizona.”

Forrest looks at me now, his expression unreadable. He looks sad, nervous, hurt.

It makes sense, but I feel like shit anyway.

When I left all those years ago, Arizona is where I ran to. Along with talk about our relationship, Arizona has been strictly off-limits. While he knows it’s where I went, I’ve always been confident Forrest doesn’t want to know the details. I wouldn’t even know where to start without it sounding like I was throwing it in his face that I left him for a new place.

I didn’t just leave. I abandoned Forrest, and I didn’t even have the decency to do it to his face. I don’t blame him for not asking about it, for not wanting to know. I keep those stories in a box. A box I keep far away from Forrest.

I shift in my seat, waiting for Forrest to say something. As I watch him, his gaze shifts to the window over my shoulder. Without looking, I know what’s there. I know he can see our treehouse, even in the dark. If we both were blind, I think we’d still always know where that tree was.

We’ve spent years climbing up there, even long after it was probably safe for teenagers of our size and weight to be in that house. We met in that treehouse, shared secrets in that treehouse, cried and laughed and—it’s an important place for us. I think it helped bond us, make us as inseparable as we were. We became a couple in that treehouse. Had our first kiss in that treehouse.

As far as I know, back then, there was nothing we didn’t talk about.

Not like now.

“You still could have told me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, but I’m not sure I could have so easily. I’ve been trying to bring it up for weeks.

The car is quiet now, but it’s not the peaceful kind of quiet we usually share where neither feels the need to yap just to fill the empty air.

This is why we don’t talk about Arizona. Now everything is uncomfortable and sad and painful.

“I should get to bed,” I say abruptly.

We can do a reset tonight and start tomorrow again without ghosts of the past. It’s the human version of try turning it off and back on again.

“Ok,” Forrest says, but he still looks troubled, like he’s battling with himself over whether to say anything. He shifts his hands on the steering wheel and the leather squeaks just a little.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow?” I ask, looking for a sign telling me we’re still ok.

Forrest nods before turning toward his door. Is he going to walk me to my door?

“I’ve got it,” I assure him, and he stops. “Good night, Forrest.”

“Night, Cam.”

Just before I close the passenger door, I pause and peek back in the car.

“I need you to know I wouldn’t have gone without telling you first,” I say.

His eyes seem to finish the thought I won’t say.

Not like last time.

CHAPTER FOUR

boys are allowed to cry too

FALL, 10 YEARS OLD

Today, I found a goldmine. After school, Mom went into the attic to get down our winter clothes and the big coats, and she let me go with her. It’s always cold up there, and I have to be careful to only walk on the wood parts of the floor because Dad says I’ll fall through the ceiling if I step on the fluffy parts, so I’m not allowed to go up by myself.

But the attic is so cool.

There are all kinds of boxes with decorations and Dad’s special trains and my old toys. There are even some of Mom’s and Dad’s really old toys. I once asked Mom if she kept her pet dinosaur up here. She didn’t think that was very funny, but I did.