Page 29 of Meet Me Back Here

“That I did. It was terrible. There are things I’ve seen that I can never unsee.” I laugh—so I don’t cry—at memories of drinks spilled in my hair, gross college boys, and one incident when my table lit their chip basket on fire and then got mad at me when I threw water on their food to put it out. “But it was also amazing… sometimes. I met some great people there and got to eat delicious food for really cheap every shift.”

“Wow,” Forrest says, his eyes unfocused as he seemingly tries to picture it. “That’s an unexpected mental image for sure,” he says, confirming my assumption.

“Well, believe it, bucko. I mean, it’s not like it was Coyote Ugly or anything, but it was my life for over two years.” I tell him more bar war stories as we wander through the gardens, likely blowing his mind. I even pull up some old pictures on my phone from holidays when we had to dress up—Cinco de Mayo, New Years, the Fourth of July, Mardi Gras, Halloween. Bar jobs are not for the weak.

“Your turn,” I finally say. “I know you’re going to be an architect any day now, but how did you get here?”

“I’ve still got a ways to go before I’m an architect, Cam,” Forrest says with an awkward chuckle and a touch of side eye, but then he continues, “I ended up declaring my major and getting a Bachelor of Science in Architecture. After that, I needed to get my master’s in architecture and take the exams. There are six.”

“Six?!” I unintentionally interrupt. “Sorry,” I add when I realize I blurted it out. It just feels like a lot of testing.

“Six,” Forrest confirms with another breathy laugh. And a few thousand work hours in different practice areas under the supervision of a licensed architect.”

“Damn.” I whistle low.

“I mean, they want to make sure whatever I design won’t come crashing down.”

“Fair,” I concede. “But damn. It’s still impressive. Are you… still at the same place as your internship?”

We both know that internship isn’t exactly the happiest part of our history.

“No,” Forrest answers sharply. “After that summer, I found a different one out of Providence, and I got a job at another in Boston while I was getting my master’s. I’m still there.”

I wonder why he left the first internship after one summer, but I don’t push it. We’re already delving much deeper into our stories than we have all year.

“And the exams? Do you have many left?” I pivot the conversation.

“I…” Forrest hesitates, and I wonder if he’s counting exams.

Maybe he blacked them out once they were done. I wouldn’t blame him. My brain would be mush.

“I have one left,” he continues. “I stupidly started taking them while I was still in my master’s program. It was brutal, and I see why most people wait until they graduate. I was driven by ego and a desire to be done as soon as possible.”

“You’re almost there though! That’s incredible.” My hand automatically falls against Forrest’s shoulder blade as I congratulate him, and I pull it back.

“Yeah.” He nods. “Almost there. Hopefully.”

Eventually, it’s time to shift direction so we can make it to Hole-in-the-Rock by sunset.

As we begin walking toward Papago Park to pick up the hiking trail, I pull water and sunscreen out of the small backpack I’ve been carrying, taking a sip of the water and spraying all my exposed skin with sunscreen before offering both to Forrest. He takes the water, but declines the sunscreen, just like he did last time I reapplied. I basically had to chase him with it to get any on him back at the car when we first arrived.

“You’re going to regret that,” I warn him, again, but he just shakes his head.

“I’m alright,” Forrest insists, stubborn as ever. This is another youngest sibling trait, I think. “Besides, the sun is setting anyway.”

“Let’s get going then,” I say, as we start on the short trail up to the rock.

There are already other people around the rock and on the hill, facing west to watch the sunset. It doesn’t take long to reach the aptly named Hole-in-the-Rock, its red sandstone peppered with eroded holes, some big enough to stand in. We head for one, looking out to see Phoenix framed in the enormous oval opening.

Even with the clouds we’ve had today, bright, golden streaks of light stretch across the horizon, winning their battle with cumulonimbus—or whatever kinds of clouds those are. That’s the only type I know the name of.

Like an enormous paintbrush dragged its colors across the tops of the distant mountains and into the sky, a layer of burning red fades into orange and glistening gold, while the more persistent clouds become a deep purple.

There’s nothing like an Arizona sunset. And this view really is particularly stunning.

“Wow,” Forrest breathes beside me, and I expect he’s thinking the same thing. “This is something else,” he says.

“Welcome to Arizona,” I say back before I feel his hand slip into mine.