Page 86 of Meet Me Back Here

And this week has been rewarding in ways I never expected. I went from dreading this workshop a few weeks ago to looking forward to it every day. I’d go to sleep thinking about my students and wake up eager to see them again. They breathed life into me, and their happiness is so damn satisfying.

“But maybe you’re thinking about it now?” Professor Rupert suggests.

“I don’t know,” I say. And I really don’t. “I’m not not thinking about it, I guess?”

“There’s an email waiting in your inbox with a compensation package including benefits and an offer for a fast track to tenure, much faster than we’ve ever offered, assuming your performance for your first few years teaching mirrors what you’ve done this week,” he says. “Read it over. Have other people who you trust read it over. Talk about it with them.”

He nods to the door behind me. I turn and find Forrest there.

“You would be very valued here,” Jason says. Then he stands, and walks out, shaking Forrest’s hand on the way.

“Wow,” Forrest breathes, eyebrows still high as he reads through the employment package Jason sent me. “Wow.”

I feel a sharp pinch when the nail I was nervously biting bends back, and I sit on my hand to avoid further damage. That’s the fourth wow Forrest has said in as many minutes.

Unlike the last time I got an offer to come to DCU, I told Forrest right away about my conversation with Professor Rupert. I asked him not to say anything until I finished conveying what Jason told me and we both read the offer packet together. As a fast reader, I finished several minutes ago, but Forrest continues to stare at the copy I forwarded him.

“Forrest, I really need you to say something more than wow,” I plead. “I’m freaking out over here.”

I haven’t by any means decided to accept the offer, but there’s no denying it’s tempting. The compensation package is, as promised, very generous. Yes, my writing career has historically been successful and sales numbers like those bring in good contracts—assuming I can fulfill my side of the deal—but the promise of a consistent salary like the one DCU is offering is something I never dreamed of. It would give me opportunities I’ve never had before.

Me showing Forrest must at least indicate to him the answer isn’t an immediate no, and I can’t tell how he feels about that. Is he thinking about the last time I left? Is he thinking about us? I know I am. Our relationship might be new—even if it feels anything but—and I can’t deny it’s a factor for me. He’s a factor for me.

If another part of my life is about to implode, I really need to know.

“Cam,” Forrest says, finally dragging his eyes from my laptop and turning toward me. “This is incredible.” He places his hands briefly on my shoulders before pulling me forward and wrapping me in a hug.

Apparently, I need to stop underestimating this man, because I did not expect that response.

“But Forrest,” I say, still smushed against his shoulder. “DCU is in Arizona.”

We shake when he chuckles.

“Yes, I did realize.” He pulls back to look at my face. “What are you thinking right now?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “A lot? Nothing? Everything?”

His hands slide down my arms to the bends of my elbows, and his thumbs begin rubbing slow, purposeful circles against my skin. I focus on them and count the times they move around. Three in one direction. Then three in the opposite direction.

“Tell me one thing in your head,” Forrest requests.

“I’m really flattered by the offer,” I say. One thing is manageable.

“It’s a generous offer, but you’re an asset, and you deserve to be appreciated.” One hand releases me to pick up his new notebook, already sitting beside my laptop on the table. He flips it open to a blank page and makes a note.

“Ok. Tell me another thing,” he says, his other hand still holding my elbow, rubbing circles.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

“I loved teaching this week,” I say.

“I’ve seen how happy you’ve been, and it was obvious how much you care about those students.” Forrest makes another note. “Next thing?”

“I’m a writer. Not a professor.” It’s the same thing I told Jason. I’m not qualified for this. He’s making a mistake offering any teaching job to me, let alone one with such a favorable contract.

“You can be whatever you want to be. And I see no reason why you can’t be both. We all start somewhere, and I think you can learn. It’s clear your professor does too.”

I’m not so confident about that, but there’s no reason it couldn’t be true. Even if it is, starting over is scary.