Page 83 of Meet Me Back Here

I turn toward him and capture his face between my palms, standing on my tiptoes so I can kiss him slowly and fully.

“It’s magical,” I say when we part. Forrest looks a little dazed, but the corners of his mouth still tick up, so I think he hears me. “Thank you.”

When Forrest gets back to planet Earth, he pulls me into the other room, where a small pile of holiday snacks sits on the table: candy canes, chocolate-covered pretzels with peppermint pieces, powdered hot cocoa and marshmallows, red and green candies.

“I also stocked up on some provisions and got us these” — he retrieves two pairs of fuzzy socks with snowmen on them from the arm of the couch — “so we can really get in the spirit for our first Christmas movie with dinner.”

When he turns on the television, Home Alone is queued up.

“But first”—we continue our adventure with Forrest leading me out of the room and down the hallway to a kitchen I didn’t even know was there—“I thought we could make dinner together. Turns out this place is fully stocked with plates, utensils, and all the pots and pans and equipment we could need, and I got us all the ingredients for shepherd’s pie.”

All at once, I see our future together. And it’s not like before, just full of adventures and excitement. It’s full of these simple nights too. Moments where Forrest quietly sees me and all my big feelings, and he cherishes them.

There are happy tears pricking the corners of my eyes when I nod energetically at Forrest.

“It sounds like the perfect night,” I say.

And even though the old oven takes forever to heat up, and our mashed potatoes end up thick, and we can’t figure out how to turn off the French subtitles on the television, it really is a perfect night.

We continue having perfect nights all week. Whether we stay in or go out or walk around campus before going back to our room. It’s easy with somebody who already knows me so well. I hope it’s easy for Forrest too.

His studying seems to be going well, and he’s got a quiet place to work for his actual job while I’m at the workshop. And my writing keeps going in the evenings. I think I’m inspired by the writers I’m spending my days with in the workshop.

“I think this is good for you—teaching,” Forrest says halfway through the week as we work side by side on the couch. “You seem happy.”

“I am,” I say, sliding down and leaning over so I can rest my head on his shoulder. “I really am.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

well, crap. now what?

“Ayoung boy is forced into show business, using his physical difference to engage in life-threatening performances in an attempt to free his imprisoned mother,” Casey reads off a paper in front of them and the room fills with whispered discussions as the members of each table bend their heads together to try to guess the film from Casey’s team’s bad description.

The workshop has been indescribable. It took about an hour on that first day before we were all shouting suggestions at each other, climbing to lean across tables with ideas and plot discussions, and suggestions for the best places to write in the East Valley. It’s only gotten better every day since as everybody gets comfortable enough to show their true selves.

I’d call it semi-organized chaos, and one of the best weeks I’ve ever had. I quickly learned the best way to handle that much creativity in one space is to ride the wave and guide it rather than fighting it and trying to force everybody into peer feedback groups. We’ve mixed creativity games with writing exercises, presentation time, and feedback.

I’ve been having the time of my life. And I think the students have too.

Finally, an arm shoots up at a table to my right. I hold out a hand toward the young man, welcoming his guess.

“Dumbo?” Julian offers.

“Final answer?” I ask.

His table nods.

I look back to Casey, who throws their hands up and cheers.

“Alright everyone. Well done. Tomorrow is our last day together, so we’ll spend most of the day on blurb presentations. Please come prepared to read yours, and if there are any plot points you feel stuck on, this is the time to ask,” I say to a chorus of disappointed groans. Not about the assignment. These students don’t want the week to end.

And honestly, neither do I.

Just like that first day, I end up staying around for at least another hour for questions, advice, or just shooting the shit with some excellent young writers. They went through a rigorous application process with Professor Rupert to get their spots here, so I never want to be the one who cuts their time short. The last thing I want to be is the person who limits creative curiosity.

Today, I do have that appointment with Lori so while I still avoid rushing anybody, I am looking forward to that. Thankfully, she’s in California, so the time difference is on my side, and when I leave the workshop classroom at 6:45 p.m., I still have fifteen minutes to get back to the room before our meeting.

Just like he is every day, Forrest is waiting for me in the hallway.