5. I like bacon more than I fear the scary guy with the spatula #2
“Arizona was… a lot. And it turns out it was exactly what I needed,” I say, thinking back to the girl I was when I stepped off the plane in Phoenix.
Sometimes, it feels like she was a completely different person than who I am now.
I start flipping through my memories like they’re on a rolodex, picking out the ones that might be safe to share.
“When I went there, I was really on my own, forced to make my own decisions, figure out my way through mistakes… I had to learn how to be a whole-ass person. My parents were no longer an easy drive away. I didn’t have a safety net of familiar things right around the corner.
I was forced to adapt to something new. I don’t want to be a college cliché, but I think I found myself there. And it wasn’t always so easy.”
Bruno looks over his shoulder at that moment, interrupting me and giving me a chance to breathe. I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs, reluctantly pulling my arm out from under Forrest’s hand.
“Yeah?” Bruno barks, his hands still flipping two spatulas that he’s not even looking at. His grunted word is Massachusetts shorthand for Good morning. What can I get for you today?
Forrest orders a tall stack of pancakes with strawberries and no syrup, and I ask for the special, whatever it is, and a side of bacon.
Bruno jerks his head in a sharp nod and turns back around without a word. No frills, but the food will be perfect.
Forrest’s elbow lightly nudges my arm. Another touch.
“Keep going,” he says, a reassuring smile reaching his kind eyes.
“My college invited me back to be the guest lecturer or whatever for a workshop on creative writing, some kind of week-long, all-day intensive thing,” I say, focusing on now instead of the past.
“Cam, that’s amazing!” He’s grinning so wide at me that I’m surprised sunshine isn’t erupting around him.
I try to match his expression and fail miserably. It feels more like a grimace than anything resembling joy or excitement.
“What the hell was that?” he asks, immediately clocking my lackluster reaction. “Cam of years past would be embarrassed by that sad sack fake joy.”
He’s right. Younger Cam was fearless and loud and incapable of keeping her own secrets, at least from Forrest. And I realize this is a weight I can share with him. It’s a now problem instead of a then memory. And with how I feel like I’m going to explode…
“I can’t write anymore,” I blurt.
“What are you talking about?” Forrest looks genuinely confused. “You’re a writer.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the problem. I have nothing left. I’ve tried. I’ve really tried. And I just can’t do it. I haven’t even written anything shitty. I simply have no words to give. I don’t know what I’m going to do.” I prop my elbows on the counter and drop my forehead into my palms.
Saying it out loud releases some of the pressure that’s been building inside me, but now that I’ve admitted it, I can’t pretend this block is not as terrifying as it is.
Now, it’s real.
“How long has it been like this?” Forrest asks, and when I look at him, I see the deep crease between his eyebrows that only appears when he’s thinking too hard.
“Since the last book,” I admit shamefully. I take a sip of water to settle my stomach.
I can practically see Forrest counting the months in his head before he speaks again.
“But that’s been…” he starts.
“Over a year. I know.” This time last year, I just finished the tour for my last book, a spooky Halloween mystery. It was the same tour Forrest found me on.
It’s been my most popular book yet, and that helped keep my publisher off my back for a while.
Then continued events for it helped hide my inability to produce something new.
They’d ask, remind me of my contract. Lori got extensions, and then more extensions.
She’s really been an advocate for me even though I’ve given her no reason to stand in my corner.
But patience can only be stretched so far, and my editor’s emails have been less understanding lately. Grace wants my next thriller by the end of the year, or I think I’m done. I don’t know what happens after that, but I don’t think it’s good for me or my already-injured reputation.
“Do you think it’s because of everything that happened with Susan?” he asks.
“I mean, maybe a little? But I don’t regret firing her.
If anything, I regret not doing it sooner.
Not seeing how she was representing me, the reputation she was giving me.
I handed over so much power to her, completely unchecked.
It’s mortifying,” I groan at the memory, at the emails I saw she’d sent once I checked her account.
“But it’s more than that. It’s the writing… and it’s just gone. I’m stuck.”
“Oh, Cam,” Forrest says softly, reaching up to squeeze my shoulder, a grounding touch.
“I don’t believe for a second that you’re done.
This is a hurdle, and I don’t say that to downplay it.
I’m sure it feels awful. But I know this isn’t it for you and your writing, not if you don’t want it to be.
That beautiful brain is one of my favorite things about you. ”
He says it without doubt or qualification. He’s so damn sure of me that it hurts. It’s been a long time since I’ve had that much faith in myself.
“I’ve tried almost everything I can think of,” I say with a sigh. “That’s why I’m going to Arizona early. I wrote a lot when I was there, and I’m kind of hoping inspiration will hit if I go back. Maybe I need that change of scenery again. Lori suggested it, actually.”
I don’t tell him that if I don’t figure this out, and fast, it might be the end of my writing career forever.
Even without that tidbit of horrifying information, I see the tiny dip at the corners of his mouth.
Maybe because it hurts to hear Arizona might be the key to fixing things.
He doesn’t answer right away, and I can see his brain working.
I want to say something to convince him it’s different from last time.
But I can’t find the words that would explain, not without spilling my guts about how important he still is to me.
“When are you heading out?” he finally asks.
“Next week. Sunday.”
Forrest nods, still noodling through something.
“What If I went with you?” he asks.
Wait. What?