Page 33 of Meet Me Back Here

“Technically, the cactus treated you like a pin cushion, not me. I’m trying to undo it. And if you leave it in, it’ll feel much much worse.” I don’t actually know if that’s true, but at worst, it’s a little fib for Forrest’s own good. “Now, sit down before I have to tackle you. I’m uninjured and you’re one misstep away from turning this hardwood floor into a slip ’n slide. You will not win.”

Forrest’s eyes dart around the room, like he’s looking for an escape route. He jolts for the bedroom door but loses his footing and nearly does the splits, hissing when his tender skin pulls taut. As he crumples to the floor, he raises his hands in surrender. With one hand on my hip, I point to the towel I laid out on the couch after we folded up his bed for the day. Reluctantly, he sits.

When he starts pulling his shirt gingerly over his head, I realize I may not have thought this entirely through.

Forrest and I were together for a year. I’ve seen him naked. Repeatedly. But that was over seven years ago. I thought my mind remembered what he looked like, but it doesn’t help prepare me for seeing him shirtless yet again.

Forrest has always been lean, something only improved upon when he filled out as a young man. He’s loved running since we were kids—on purpose and voluntarily, don’t ask me why—but he must be doing some other kind of workout because I can count his abs from here, even with the coffee table still between us.

I stupidly thought he was fully grown before, when we were nineteen. While he looked good—and he did look good—now he’s a man, and it has a whole new effect on me.

I’m staring, and I can’t seem to stop.

I need to stop.

“What? Is it really bad?” Forrest asks, presumably because I look like a stupefied fish. He lifts his arm and twists to see the place where the cactus tried to become his bestie.

Sorry, Mr. Prookles. (I’ve named the cactus.) The job’s taken.

Realizing I actually need to be useful, I look at the wound too, finding a sizable blotch peppered with red pinprick spots right above a detailed tattoo of the outline of a tree that certainly wasn’t there the last time I saw Forrest without all his clothes on. It looks a lot like…

His irritated skin is enough to get me to refocus, even with that tree burned in my mind. I move to his side and kneel on the floor to get a better look. I reach for him before stopping.

He’s not mine to touch anymore.

“Is it ok if I…” I hold out my hands, and Forrest nods.

“You can relax, you know,” Forrest says. “It’s ok.”

At least one of us is unaffected.

When I run my fingertips lightly over his skin, Forrest’s whole spine straightens with a shudder.

“Did that hurt?” I ask.

“No,” he says, but he’s looking away from me. Probably trying to put on a brave face.

I carefully touch the area again, feeling little raised points when I do, like tiny splinters.

“There are too many little pieces stuck in here and these tweezers aren’t very precise,” I say, looking at the blunt tip on the tool in my other hand. “I don’t want to try to pick them out and accidentally push them in further. There was something online about using an adhesive…”

I hop to my feet and hurry into the bedroom. After digging through my toiletries bag, I return triumphantly with an at-home waxing strip. I start rubbing it between my hands to warm up the wax. I expect Forrest isn’t going to like this idea.

“What the hell is that?” Forrest asks, eyeing the paper in my hands as I separate the two halves.

“A wax strip,” I tell him, taking my spot kneeling before him again. “Now hold still…”

He starts scrambling away from me, but I take my shot and slap the wax to his ribs.

To Forrest’s credit, he doesn’t cry out when I rip the paper away from his skin, successfully pulling over half a dozen barbed tips from him. It’s possible that’s only because he’s bitten down very hard on his pillow, but I’ll give him the win anyway.

The poor man isn’t having a good day.

“All done,” I proclaim after a quick inspection, finding nothing but Forrest’s pink skin and the beautiful tree tattoo. I hand him the antibiotic cream. “Maybe put that on just in case.”

“Thank you,” he says, panting a little. He also looks a little green under the sunburn, but I don’t say anything.

Once he catches his breath, Forrest rubs the cream over his whole side. It might be wishful thinking, but I think it’s already looking better, even with the abuse from removing the wax strip.