24. Another year older, still not a millionaire, but this feels pretty close
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
another year older, still not a millionaire, but this feels pretty close
PRESENT
“Happy Birthday, Forrest,” I say quietly, right into Forrest’s ear while I tickle his face with the end of a streamer. He’s curled up on his side in a tight ball, wedged in the top corner of the bed.
“Mrgrrrf.”
At least, that’s what it sounds like Forrest says as he swats at the streamer. I jump back just in time to avoid being batted in the face. I keep annoying him with the crepe paper though, while he unknowingly does a great impersonation of Jigsaw playing with a feather toy.
“Fooooorrest,” I singsong his name again, drawing it out as long as I can on the same breath.
“Happy Birthday, Cam,” he grumbles, barely pulling down the blanket so he can open one bleary eye at me.
I take that as an invitation to blow hard into the noisemaker I have at the ready. He launches away from me when it smacks him right in the face. He blinks a few more times, looking around and probably trying to figure out what’s real and what’s a sleepy post-dream hallucination.
Joke’s on you, buddy. It’s all real.
I can almost hear the gears turning in his head as he takes in the literal hundreds of strips of paper in every color imaginable hanging from the ceiling.
I got it all—from the balcony all the way to the front door, including over his bed without falling on him.
If he got up and checked, he’d see they continue into the bedroom and bathroom too. I didn’t come here to fuck around.
“Cam, what on earth…” Forrest trails off, the question clear in his voice as he slowly pushes himself up, getting a face full of streamers in the process. They make a light rustling sound as he sweeps them aside.
“I’ve been up for a bit,” I say, laughing at the expression of disbelief on his face. “It took a little longer than filling the treehouse, but I’m no quitter. You should probably do some kind of sleep study. When I fell off the chair and you still didn’t wake up, I was worried you might be dead.”
“I sleep deeply. You know that,” he says, rubbing a hand down his face and squeezing his eyes shut for a few more moments as he fully wakes up.
He’s right. I do know that. I’m just surprised he’d so easily bring up the fact that we used to share a bed on the regular.
I remember one time I woke myself up after elbowing him in the throat, worried about the damage I’d caused just to realize he was still happily oblivious in snorkmimi land. Then, I shook him awake just to tell him how insane it was that he hadn’t woken up.
Forrest drags himself out of bed, ignoring the violent screech from the frame, straightens his T-shirt, and puts on his glasses.
He’s careful not to rip a single taped-up streamer as he moves.
He continues looking around as he heads to the bathroom, bursting out laughing when he sees I draped them in there too.
“This is ridiculous, Cam, and I love it,” he says before shoving his toothbrush in his mouth.
Meanwhile, I can’t peel my eyes away from the grey sweatpants hanging precariously from his hips until he slinks back from the bathroom. My trance broken, I flee into the bedroom and get dressed. Forrest has already told me his surprise for today requires an early departure.
Out the door before seven, he’d said.
When I emerge, Forrest is fully dressed and is swinging the car keys around one finger.
“Do I get to know where we’re going yet?” I ask hopefully, but Forrest shakes his head at me.
“Patience, young jedi,” he says. “Ready?”
“As I can be without knowing anything about what I’m getting ready for,” I say. My only clue was to dress comfortably and to only bring a small bag with the essentials.
Forrest doesn’t bite, but he does give me the smallest smile, seeming quite pleased with himself as he opens the door and steps aside for me to pass.
We drive for about forty-five minutes, windows down and music on in the soft morning light, and I’m no closer to figuring out our plans when Forrest parks in the lot for a small airport I’ve never been to before.
“You didn’t secretly get your pilot’s license, did you?” I ask. I mean, I’d trust Forrest with my life, but the idea of going up in one of those two-person planes does make my heart rate pick up just a little bit.
“I did not,” he says, chuckling. “Don’t worry. There will be a fully licensed professional pilot who isn’t me. Let’s go.”
We walk into the teeny tiny terminal and up to a desk with a giant mural of the Grand Canyon behind it. Grand Canyon Air Tours is printed in bold letters across the front of the desk next to a picture of a plane that holds more than two passengers… but not many more.
My mouth hangs open as Forrest gets us checked in, reaching into my bag for me to retrieve my ID when I continue to look stupefied after he asks me for it. If this isn’t an elaborate joke, it’s about to be the coolest birthday ever.
“She’s fine. I swear,” Forrest says to the skeptical attendant who may be questioning my mental capacity to sign the waivers she sets before me.
After we’re finished, we head through security. Forrest keeps my boarding pass like he’s worried I might eat it, but hands me a brochure from the tour company.
“Ever been to the Grand Canyon?” he asks while my eyes scan the description of the eighteen-seater plane that will take us into the Canyon.
I shake my head. And I never thought I’d be seeing it like this. I’m about to thank him for planning something so cool when the woman from the check-in desk claps to get our attention.
She welcomes us, explains the agenda—flight up, tour of the Grand Canyon from the plane, a short stop at the south rim, flight back—walks through some safety information, and checks us all off one by one again.
Then we’re walking out onto the tarmac, and I’m standing before a plane that looks like a toy compared to the ones I’ve been in before. Up a rolling staircase, and I’m sitting snugly between Forrest and a window near the middle of the plane.
After another safety briefing and a welcome announcement from the pilot and copilot—the plane is so small we can see right into the cockpit—it’s time to go.
The plane is loud and vibrates much more than commercial airlines, and when it hits an air pocket on our ascent, we leave my stomach behind.
I feel Forrest’s warm hand envelop mine and pull my fingers from the tight fist they were curled in.
“Open your eyes,” his soft voice whispers into my ears, and I realize I have those squeezed shut too.
When I do, the first thing I see is Forrest’s brilliant green eyes boring into my soul, bright with glee. He reaches up, and with a finger pressed to my chin, turns my head toward the window on my other side. We watch the city and its surrounding mountains melt into the clouds together.
The ride is only about an hour, and even though the plane dips and swoops several more times, it soon becomes exhilarating instead of frightening, especially with the heat of Forrest’s body beside mine and his hand still holding mine.
As the plane banks toward our side and we come around a turn, I gasp and squeeze Forrest’s palm. He leans into me, looking out the window from over my shoulder, and I feel the soft oh he mutters more than hear it.
The brochure Forrest gave me stated the Grand Canyon is about a mile deep and on average ten miles wide, but nothing could have prepared me for the view I have now. The morning sun shines down on layer after layer of rust, copper, cream, chocolate, and yellow rock.
The sheer size of it is mind-boggling. And I’m reminded suddenly how very small we all are in the grand scheme of things. Me and Forrest, here right now, together.
“Wow,” I breathe.
A hush has fallen over the plane, and it feels like even the rumbling engines have quieted. Every face is pressed to a window as we collectively share in the incredible presence the Grand Canyon has. This is unreal.
I think I spend the entire duration of our flight over, around, and even into the canyon making different sounds of awe, but if it annoys Forrest, he doesn’t say anything.
I can barely peel my eyes away from the view, struck by the beauty created over literally millions of years, but when I do, I catch Forrest smiling back at me.
I probably look like a kid let loose in a candy store. But this is a thousand times better.
When we land and make our way over to the south rim, I’ve become no more normal about this whole day. Standing there, looking out, I feel the kind of wonder I didn’t realize was still out there for me.
“Well, Viottolo, what do you think?” Forrest asks from beside me, a light breeze cooling us.
“I actually don’t know that I have a single thought in my head. There are no words. Thank you for doing this,” I say.
We stare for a while, but when I look up at Forrest, I find him looking pensive.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’ve done projects for work at historical sites before, back East,” he starts. “One of the biggest complexities of being an architect is remembering that no matter where I help build something in this country, it’s on stolen land. Being here, I can’t help but think about that.”
After letting us all stare for a while, a guide from the tour company calls our attention and starts telling us some of the history of the Grand Canyon, the surrounding land, and the people who have and still do live here.
Eleven tribal communities are associated with the Grand Canyon, and when we visit, we are stepping on their ancestral homelands.
As a member of the Havasupai Tribe, she’s passionate about how important the land beneath our feet is and how resilient the people who live here are.
After she finishes speaking, we have a bit more time before we need to head back to the plane, so Forrest and I walk for a while.
As we get near some foliage, a bit further from the rest of our group, a rustle from a nearby bush draws my attention.
The cutest little squirrel with the biggest, most pleading eyes, tentatively emerges.
Before I can get any closer, Forrest’s hand closes around my wrist.
“Don’t you dare,” he warns, tugging me back gently.
“I wasn’t going to!” I insist.
Before we got off the plane, the guide warned us about the gumption the squirrels around here have, honed from conning countless tourists out of their snacks. We were given strict instructions not to interact.
“You’re going to look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want to pet him?” Forrest asks, skepticism laced with every word.
“Oh no, I want nothing more than to scoop him up and put him in my pocket,” I admit. “But out of respect, I won’t.”
Forrest still doesn’t release me. Instead, his hand slides down to mine, and our fingers intertwine. I’ve got to say, I’m really loving how much hand-holding we’re doing today.
“Just call this insurance then,” Forrest says with a smile.
Suddenly, he pulls me against his side and wraps his arm around me so he can tip my head toward him. He presses a kiss to my hair and says urgently, “Happy Birthday, Cam. You’re my favorite person.”
“Happy Birthday, Forrest. You’re mine, too.” I say the words automatically.
I’ve told him he’s my favorite person about a million times, both before and since he came back into my life.
It’s been my replacement for I love you as of late.
Of course I still love him, just like I loved him before our relationship turned romantic.
But it feels different now, like it’s crossing a line to say those words. So, I haven’t.
But Forrest feeling his feelings and expressing them so abruptly and so forcefully is unexpected. Very un-Forrest-like. I try to remember if he’s said something like that in the last year, and I can’t.
He drops his hand to my shoulder and squeezes me again. But with as little warning as when he initiated contact, he releases me, crossing his arms like he wants to remove any temptation to touch me again.
And I’m left wondering what just happened.