6. Cool as a cucumber
CHAPTER SIX
cool as a cucumber
Forrest looks almost as surprised by his question as I feel, so I give him a moment to take it back, just in case it slipped out on its own.
He doesn’t.
“Come with me where?” I ask slowly.
Forrest’s face scrunches with uncertainty. Maybe he is questioning his request after all.
“Arizona. Only if you want me to. I’d like to go.
You don’t like to be by yourself when you’re sad, and I know this isn’t exactly sadness, but it seems hard.
If I’m wrong, and you need to be alone, to get some space from me—from whatever, I completely understand.
” When he says space, Forrest is leaning so far away from me I’m surprised he doesn’t fall off his chair.
“It’s not that. It’s just… you really want to come to Arizona?” I’m not sure Forrest has ever been west of the Mississippi. And now we’re going from zero to a hundred on the topic of Arizona. Not only does he want to know about it, but he wants to see it. Be there. With me?
I also kind of thought he hated it for being a part of my abandonment. Like he wanted nothing to do with the whole state or anything that drew me there. And that’s why we pretended it didn’t exist.
“No—I mean, yes, but it’s ok. I shouldn’t have pushed in.” He cuts off, and I can tell he’s fighting to figure out how to say what he’s feeling.
I see Bruno looking at me from the corner of my eye. He raises his eyebrows in a Are you going to help him? kind of way. This is what they mean when they say people from New England are kind but not nice. Bruno is about to bully me into putting Forrest out of his misery.
I hate that Forrest is so unsure of himself. That this is so fucking uncomfortable. That’s not us. At least, it shouldn’t be. I don’t want it to be.
“Forrest, no. It’s not like that, like before,” I breathe. “I don’t want to be alone. But I also don’t want you to come if it’s just because you think I want you to come. Do you really want to?”
He shrugs but straightens up so he’s no longer basically sitting in the lap of the person on his other side anymore.
“I mean, yeah,” he says, picking at the corner of the menu still before him. “I meant what I said. I hate that there’s a big part of your life I don’t know. If you’d want to show me, I want to see it. I want to know all of you again.”
He’s saying exactly what I’ve dreamed of hearing. It’s more than I could have hoped for after what I did. And it gives me hope. Maybe we can be best friends again. For real.
“What about work? What about Bridget?” I switch into logistics mode, suddenly wanting Forrest to be able to come with me very badly.
I realize I don’t know a whole lot about his job or the exams he mentioned to my parents last night. If he comes on this trip to learn about my past, maybe I’ll have a chance to learn about the years I missed for him too.
“I’d have to confirm with my supervisor, but work should be fine.
We’re in a lull between projects, so I’ve mostly been studying for my test. They’ve been putting me on more flexible projects so I can focus.
I can do that anywhere. And if a new project comes up this month, the early work can be done remotely.
New projects start with a lot of meetings I can conference into. ”
I let myself start to imagine it. Showing him the life I had in Arizona.
Introducing him to the people I know there.
It’s… exciting. And a little nerve wracking.
If he loves it, maybe it’ll help him understand why I went.
But if he hates it, it could push us apart. Maybe he’ll hate me more for leaving.
Plus, it’d be all Forrest all the time, and all me all the time for him. We haven’t been glued together like that since… well, ever. Even when we were dating, we were separated for classes. What if I annoy the shit out of him?
“Bridget won’t mind,” he adds suddenly, yanking me out of my thoughts. I doubt the truthfulness of that, but I’m too selfish to say anything about it.
I don’t know why I’m pretending to think it over. Even with the risks.
“I would love it if you could come with me,” I admit, and Forrest’s eyes jump back to mine.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Absolutely.” I nod.
I start mentally making a list of things we need to do before we go. Reservations I need to change, flights to book, places to go, people to see.
“Pancakes,” Bruno’s booming voice announces as he drops a plate in front of Forrest. “Everything omelet, side of bacon,” he continues as he presents me with the largest omelet I’ve ever seen.
“Thank you. Perfect timing,” Forrest proclaims.
I catch Bruno’s eye, and the tiny nod of approval tells me he was waiting for us to figure our shit out.
Me too, Bruno. Me too.
The next week is busy as all hell, and it passes in a blur. It was always going to be hectic, getting everything ready back home and everything confirmed in Arizona, but adjusting for Forrest’s surprise participation adds to every to-do list.
But it also brings a lightness that I haven’t been feeling so far about this trip.
My writing issues are still enormous and looming, but Forrest is coming with me. I don’t have to face this last-ditch effort alone.
I get Forrest added to my hotel reservation, confirming a two-bedroom room, and tell my Arizona friends about him joining me since we’ll be doing Thanksgiving and the rivalry football game with them.
They’re thrilled with the new addition. I also call the school and get him a visitor pass so Forrest has access to the libraries and dining halls should he want to use them during the week of my workshop.
Somehow, everything is falling perfectly into place.
Forrest coordinates with his job, talks to Bridget, and gets a seat on my flight.
Because it’s so last minute, we aren’t together, but I switch so we’re at least in the same row—middle seats on opposite sides of the aisle.
I’m honestly just happy he got on the same plane.
I get the house ready for my parents to stay with Jigsaw, rake up all those beautiful leaves, then pack and repack half a dozen times.
I blink, and it’s Sunday.
Somehow, in spite of my countless attempts to pack, my suitcase lies empty except for Jigsaw, who has decided it’s the perfect spot for a nap.
My clothes are strewn across my room. My purse is so stuffed that it won’t zip, and my laptop bag is propped open with a charging cord hanging out of it so my dead laptop can try to suck up as much juice as possible before we board a six-hour flight I should be using to try to write.
My parents are on their way to pick me and Forrest up to take us to the airport, and Forrest is leaning casually against my doorframe, his suitcase neatly zipped up by the front door downstairs beside a very reasonably-sized carry-on backpack.
He is calm as ever. Organized, reliable, sure of himself. Everything I’m not. I feel like a tornado constantly crashing into him, and I wonder how many hits he can take before he says enough is enough.
“How is it that you’ve known about this trip for months, and I just found out about it this week, but I’m the one ready to go, and you still haven’t packed anything?” Forrest teases unhelpfully.
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I’ve packed.
Repeatedly.” I fling a stack of professional blouses and some T-shirts in my bag on top of Jigsaw, who remains entirely unbothered under the pile of cloth.
“I cannot figure out what to bring. Who am I supposed to be when I’m there?
Am I Mia? Am I former student Camilla? Am I a hot mess walking? ”
When I drop several pairs of pants on top of the shirts, Forrest pushes off the wall and gently retrieves Jigsaw before he accidentally finds himself on a cross-country flight without any snacks.
I keep chucking things into the bag: toiletries, pajamas, tank tops, leggings, shorts, a bathing suit, a skirt, a dress, shoes, sweats, socks.
Half my room ends up in that bag. All things that had been previously packed and then second-guessed.
“Cam,” Forrest says gently. “I think you should stop trying to guess what people expect of you and be who you want to be. You’re an incredible woman, and I think you should let them see that.”
But the problem is I don’t know who I want to be.
Forrest picks up some of the crumpled mess I’ve made and starts folding things so my bag will actually close.
“Oh!” I realize what I’ve nearly forgotten and pull out the drawer with my underwear in it, flipping it over and dropping the entirety of its contents into my bag right as a knock sounds from downstairs.
“Crap,” I mutter, looking over my shoulder toward the stairs. I’m out of time.
When I turn back around, Forrest is absentmindedly picking up the next article of clothing from my bag so he can fold it.
When I see lace, my eyes nearly bug out of my head, and I have a flashback of Forrest’s long fingers twisted in my underwear under very different circumstances.
The memory of me making a desperate sound drifts through my mind.
I launch across my room, landing on the bed and snatching the material from Forrest’s fingers before he can notice what he’s holding. I flip the top of my bag down and yank the zipper closed.
“That’ll have to do! Thanks for your help!” My voice is breathy and high-pitched.
Is it hot in here?
“But everything will wrinkle,” Forrest starts, reaching for the bag as I practically toss my suitcase to the floor. “Are you even sure you have what you need?”
“You worry too much,” I say, kicking the bag toward my door while bending to grab my purse and laptop bag.
Suddenly, I don’t care what’s in that bag as long as we get the hell out of my bedroom and Forrest keeps his hands off my unmentionables.
“A little shower steam will make everything right as rain, and I know Arizona is new for you, but I promise it has stores if I forgot anything.”
With an eye roll, Forrest takes the enormous suitcase from me and easily carries it down the stairs before opening the door for my parents. With a quick pit stop to hug Jigsaw goodbye where he’s curled up on my pillow, I clomp loudly down the stairs after Forrest.
Before I can overthink anything else, I head right out the door and toward the car, where Dad’s loading things up with Forrest. I plop down in the back seat and try to rearrange my purse so it’ll close.
Mom comes up to my still-open door.
“Are you alright, amore di mamma?” she asks. Neither she nor my father speaks fluent Italian, but the name is what my great-grandmother called my nonna, and what my nonna called my mother. It settles me, reminding me of the strong women I come from.
“Yeah,” I say, pausing my shuffling as she strokes my cheek. “I’m just ready to go.”
Alternatively, this is a massive mistake, and I’m about to blow up the best friendship I’ve ever had.
Again.