Page 82 of Meet Me Back Here

I also scheduled a call with Lori for Thursday afternoon and began working on some notes to present my new story and its new romance storyline to her. She tried to get me to give her a hint about the topic of our call, but I want to do this right, with a full explanation and not a half-baked text. Plus, this builds suspense. I am a thriller writer, after all.

After a quick glance at his watch, Professor Rupert puts the two first fingers from both hands between his lips and whistles the loudest sound I think I’ve ever heard produced from a person. Hopefully the ringing in my ears stops before I need to speak, or I’m going to end up screaming at my workshop attendees.

Silence falls over the room as every head turns in our direction.

“Don’t embarrass me this week. Treat Miss Viottolo well,” he says to the class, narrowing his eyes at them. Then he claps me on the shoulder and leaves.

Well, that’s pushing me into the deep end if I ever saw it.

“Um, hi,” I start, feeling small and unqualified. All my nerves from the past several months return at exactly the same time. I expect it’s in my head, but it feels like they all blink back at me in unison.

I clear my throat.

“Hi,” I say again, louder. Fake it ’till you make it, right? “My name is Camilla Viottolo, but you might know me as Mia Lane.”

A student at one of the tables closest to me squirms in her seat, shifting her notebook to the side, revealing a worn paperback copy of my first book. She looks around nervously, hesitating before clapping her hands together like she’s testing the waters.

Immediately, the room erupts in cheers, and I hear a very familiar voice break through the noise from the back of the classroom near the door. My eyes find Forrest right away.

He winks at me, leaning against the wall and cheering along with the class. A few students whoop, and I feel myself relax, even as I flush scarlet. I belong here.

“Before I started publishing, I was one of you, a DCU Cactus, class of you don’t need to know, so thank you for not asking. I couldn’t be happier to be back.”

The group cheers again, and I feel my chest swell with pride.

“Let’s get started on some positively ridiculous writing exercises, shall we?”

There’s a consistent shuffling of papers and books as people pull out notebooks or laptops, happy to go down whatever rabbit hole I lead them toward. I find Forrest once more, and he winks before saluting me and slipping away.

I can do this.

Even though the intensive workshop ends at five each day, it’s almost seven by the time I slip out of the classroom and into the hallway, letting the door close behind me before I break out into a happy dance, hopping from foot to foot and pumping my fists as I silently scream with joy.

“Ahem.” A deep voice clearing its throat stops me dead in my tracks, and I slowly turn to find Forrest sitting beside Professor Rupert on a bench halfway down the hallway. Forrest, hiding a chuckle behind his fist, is clearly the one who alerted me to their presence.

“I’m so sorry, sir. That was very unprofessional,” I say, embarrassment flooding every atom of my being.

“Not at all,” Professor Rupert says with a gentle laugh as he stands. “I was going to ask how your first day went, but I think I’ve already got my answer.”

I’d like to sink into the floor now, please.

“It was wonderful. They were wonderful.” I gesture back to the now empty classroom and the students that used to fill it.

“Coincidentally, I was just telling Forrest that I expect you’d be wonderful here,” Professor Rupert says as Forrest nods in confirmation.

“Thank you, sir. I hope the students think so at the end of the week,” I answer, already feeling like we’d connected after one day.

“Enough of this sir business. But if you don’t need anything, I’ll take my leave and let you two carry on with the rest of your night.”

“Thank you… Jason. I’m all set.” It still feels like using his first name is breaking the law, but I expect I’ll get used to it. “Have a good evening.”

As Forrest and I walk across campus and back to our dorm, I recount my day for him, from the students’ questions to their story ideas and everything in between. Once he holds open the dorm door for me, though, I stop.

Our simple room has been transformed. My eyes jump from the 3D paper tree standing on top of the dresser to the garland of paper stars draped across the top of the window to the many origami poinsettias affixed around the room.

“Forrest…” I say softly, running my fingers over the carefully drawn ornaments on the paper tree’s branches when I spot a tiny potted cactus decorated with a string of tiny twinkle lights attached to a battery pack.

“I know how much you like Christmas, so I thought I’d decorate some. I tried to stick to things that could be recycled when it’s time to leave, but the cactus was too perfect to pass up. Maybe we can give it to Jason at the end of the week.” Forrest is rambling a little, something he only does when he’s nervous. “What do you think?” he finally asks.