Page 48 of Meet Me Back Here

But I love giving gifts. Not just physical gifts because sometimes we have enough stuff, but something—an experience, a moment, whatever—I know a person will really like. I wonder if I should have saved the trip to the Frank Lloyd Wright house for his gift. But then I remember how happy he was on an otherwise unpleasant day.

“Maybe if you tell me what your secret plan is, it’ll help me decide.” I expect he won’t give anything away, but I have to try anyway.

The day after Forrest suggested joining me on this trip, he asked if he could reserve our birthday for a surprise, and I’ve been unable to pull any details from him since I agreed.

“I can’t remember,” Forrest says, his expression giving absolutely nothing away.

“Are we… going to see a movie? Going bowling? Going out to eat?” I ask, trying to catch any change in him that could give me a hint, but the man is a statue.

“We’ve gone to eat basically every day that we’re here,” he alleges, getting me no closer to an answer. “Not that I’m complaining. The food has been incredible.”

Yesterday, we did a little food tour of Arizona, having snacks at some of my favorite places around the valley—antipasto salad from a family-owned Italian restaurant; prosciutto, fig, and mascarpone bruschetta from a wine bar; carne asada fries from a drive-through Mexican spot that’s a real hidden gem. Even though we spaced out our eating adventure, spending some time at each place to brainstorm or work, I’m surprised our stomachs survived.

“So not that, but are the movie and bowling still on the table?” I’m grasping at straws here.

“I like movies and bowling, but no,” he says, finally giving me a straight answer. Not a helpful one, but at least it’s not cryptic. “It’s something new.”

“Are we going horseback riding,” I say with a shit-eating grin on my face. “That’s something we haven’t done yet. At least not together.”

Forrest glares at me, absentmindedly rubbing the leg that broke last time he was near a horse.

“I’m going to watch you actually write your book. That’s also something we haven’t done yet!” he quips back.

“Rude!” My mouth falls open.

“Why don’t you tell me about it? Maybe it’ll help get ideas flowing,” he suggests gently. “I can be a pretty good sounding board.”

Here I am trying to procrastinate like a champ, and he wants to be helpful? No, thanks.

“I’d rather eat the pages of this book,” I say, lifting my trusty little notebook. “It’s not you. I just can’t. It’d be like watching you read something I wrote.” I blanch at the mere thought of that.

“Fine. I can understand that,” he relents. “You don’t have to tell me about it—you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to—but you should keep working on it. I’ve seen you writing things. Keep writing them. Stop using our birthday as a distraction.”

“Are you just saying that because you need to get back to studying?” I ask, joking around to continue avoiding writing.

But Forrest doesn’t laugh.

“Cam, I’m saying it because I believe in you,” he says, standing and walking over to me.

I’m frozen as he reaches out for me, gently sliding his fingers into the hair behind my temple until he’s cupping my head. I stop breathing.

“There’s greatness in here,” he says. Then, he bends for the notebook in my hand, and I’m momentarily worried he’s going to take it and start reading what I wrote, but he just taps a finger on the cover. “Put it in here. Stop worrying about whether it’ll be good enough, and just write whatever comes.”

Just write should feel like the most useless advice ever, but coupled with Forrest’s unwavering faith in me and his hand in my hair, it just might be encouraging.

“I’ll try,” I say.

Then Forrest takes me by my shoulders, spins me around, and gives me a little push toward the chair I’d vacated before the jumping jacks debacle. Dutifully, I sit and open the notebook again.

I feel lonely when he heads back inside, but he reappears a moment later with his laptop and notebook, and I look at him expectantly, trying not to look as thrilled by his company as I am.

“So I can keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t find any more distractions,” he says, pointing at me like a teacher scolding a student. Professor Forrest back at it again.

“Forrest, you sweet man. I could be distracted by my own brain.” I laugh.

“Good,” he says. “As long as you write it down.”

I don’t have anything clever to respond with, so I just roll my eyes, pretending I wasn’t beat this time, and look out at Camelback. I must zone out because Forrest taps his pen on the notebook propped on my knee.