Page 70 of Meet Me Back Here

“I haven’t told anybody except you,” he says, looking down at his hands where one finger bends the corner of his book cover back and forth.

I now understand how the corners of the black notebook he gave me got so curled.

“Apparently, it’s really common, and it’s not a big deal, but I’ve never failed at anything before. It hasn’t been an option. I knew I’d need my grades for college, but school never came easy for me. I did well because I studied my ass off every chance I got. Eventually, doing well was just expected of me, and it kept happening. But these exams? They’re like nothing I’ve ever had to do before. If I don’t pass this time, the parts I already passed will start expiring, and I’ll need to retake those too. I feel like I’m drowning, and because I’ve always been such a good swimmer, nobody has noticed,” Forrest continues.

His words are like a gut punch because I realize the truth in them right away. When we—our parents, our friends, I—called him Forrest the brainiac, or Forrest the nerd, or Professor Forrest, we meant it as a compliment. I never thought any more about it. I’m guessing none of us did, and that’s a huge problem. And for being interesting…

“Cam, I can’t fail again.” Forrest says it like it hurts.

“Yes you can,” I say, and Forrest finally looks at me, looking as perplexed as I’ve ever seen.

“I’m so sorry to be one of the people who made you think you weren’t allowed to fail. Of course you are. You’re a human. Failure is inevitable. But it doesn’t change who you are or how smart I know you are or how incredible I think you are,” I say, sitting up on my knees so I can look at him properly.

Forrest starts shaking his head, but I don’t give in. After doing wrong by him in this way for so long, I’ve got to try to undo the damage.

“Just look at me with my writing career. I’d say the last year is a pretty big fucking failure. Does that mean I’m a failure?” I ask.

“Of course it doesn’t, but—” Forrest starts.

“But nothing. You’re excellent, Forrest. But you’re not a robot. You’re going to make mistakes just like the rest of us. But I know you’re going to get back up and do whatever you need to do to get that license and be an architect. And if you decide you don’t want to do that, I know you’ll find something else that makes you happy. That’s who you are.” I pause, wishing I could let Forrest into my mind so he could see himself the way I see him.

He just looks at me, maybe regretting telling me to start mouthing off to him again.

“You might think I’ve studied a lot while we’re here, but it’s nothing compared to the obsession I had back home without somebody to watch over me,” he finally says softly. “I just want it so badly.”

“Then you’ll have it. No doubt in my mind. No matter how many times you have to take these exams.” Then, because I can, I lean forward and kiss him.

When he pulls back, there’s still a hint of concern in his eyes.

“And if I don’t, you won’t think I’m boring? Being smart is kind of the only interesting thing about me,” he says, a deep vulnerability in his expression.

“Oh, Forrest.” I crawl over his lap, taking the book and setting it open, pages down to hold his spot, on the bed. Then I slide my fingers into Forrest’s hair on each side of his head so he has to look at me. “I need you to hear me when I say this. There has never been a single boring thing about you. No matter what you do for work or what exams you do or don’t take.”

“I just feel like everything about me is simple, dull,” Forrest admits.

“Says the man who has, in the past couple of weeks alone, tried line dancing and golf for the first time. You could never be boring. Not to me. I never want you to push yourself to do something you don’t want to do because you think I want it.” I shake my head. “That’s not how this works between us.”

“I wanted to do all those things, and I had fun doing them with you,” Forrest assures me.

“Then keep trying what you want to try. And if you decide line dancing is on the table but cliff diving isn’t, or if you decide a quiet night in is what you want, I think that’s perfect too. You’re interesting because of who you are, not what you do.”

He closes his eyes, and I hope he feels better like I did after I told him about my writing problems. Weights don’t feel so heavy when you have somebody to help bear the load.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say as I move to get off his lap.

But Forrest follows me, disregarding whatever place he was holding in the book as it slides off the mattress and to the floor.

“You know, that book wasn’t working for me, but it turns out you believing in me is a fucking incredible aphrodisiac,” Forrest says as he lowers his lips to my neck, biting the soft skin there.

A distinct crinkle of plastic pulls my attention away from the moment.

“My cheese puffs,” I whine, turning my head to try and find where they’re being crushed.

“I’ll buy you new cheese puffs, Cam,” Forrest says, shoving the still-closed bag to the floor.

When he slides the thin strap of my camisole off my shoulder, I stop caring about powdered cheese entirely. While Forrest is distracted with revealing more of my skin, I squeeze his hips tightly between my knees and shove hard at his chest, flipping us before he can tense up.

The look of surprised delight on his face when he stares up at me gives me a boost of confidence. When we were teenagers, I let Forrest take control, trusting his experience and the way he made both of us feel good. But he did say I should tell him what I want, and I want to try something different.