12. Just because it looks fuzzy, that doesn’t mean it is
CHAPTER TWELVE
just because it looks fuzzy, that doesn’t mean it is
“Idon’t understand why it’s still so cold.
I thought it was supposed to warm up during the day,” Forrest comments as we walk to the car together, him sporting his brand-new bright salmon Mountain Sunrise Resort hoodie.
Sadly, they didn’t have matching sweatpants, so his legs are exposed below his knee-length shorts.
It’s still the most casual I’ve seen him in a while, and I mentally title the look Vacation Forrest.
“Cold spells happen out here too, Forrest,” I say, unable to keep the mirth out of my voice. “You know, I may have packed last minute, but at least I have something appropriate to wear this morning.”
According to my weather app, it’s going to be unseasonably chilly for the next few days, so we’re spending our morning picking up some essentials: pants for Forrest, a new laptop charger for me, and water and snacks for the room. I’m quite comfortable in my leggings, athletic top, and sweatshirt.
Then, we’ll do some exploring this afternoon. I went a little intense with my research because I wanted to pick something beautiful for Forrest’s first full day here.
I want him to like it. I’m protective of this city because of all it did for me, and it matters to me that Forrest likes it, even if this is his only time visiting. It might even bring us closer, with more understanding of what happened.
The cold spell isn’t helping my cause. Neither is the bed situation in our room.
When we spoke with Hope this morning, she said the first room with double beds will be available tomorrow afternoon if we wanted to switch, but it would be a standard room, and we’d lose the view of Camelback Mountain.
Before I could think about it, Forrest adamantly declined the switch, assuring both Hope and me that we’re just fine in our room. He also wouldn’t hear any arguments I made that we should split who has the pullout. I fully intend to bring that up again later.
I’m trying to move forward, and I have a good feeling our first stop of the day will help sway Forrest’s opinion of this place in my favor.
I take him to the drive-thru coffee shop that fueled me throughout college.
Dutch Bros Coffee was a staple in my life, a probably unhealthy codependent relationship I had no desire to remove myself from.
I just know their sweet Irish cream coffee will be perfect for Forrest.
And I’m right.
“It’s a sin they don’t have locations in Massachusetts,” he says after his first sip.
“Trust me, I know,” I say, sighing into bliss at the mere smell of my coffee.
I got my drink blended, and it’s like dessert in a cup. The neon straw is the touch of college nostalgia I need too. Perfect. Just the way I remember it.
“I honestly think we could make it financially worthwhile for them to open one,” Forrest says after another long drink from the blue lid of his hot coffee. “Single-handedly keep them in business. This shit is good.”
Moods turned around, our morning shopping trip is uneventful but pleasant.
But a mall is a mall anywhere, and I’m looking forward to finishing our errands so I can show Forrest the more unique things Arizona has to offer.
I do hesitate when it’s time to pick up my new charger though.
It’s been kind of nice writing on paper again, something I haven’t done since I was a little girl, before the ease of typing became too enticing.
I’m being dumb. I snatch the charger off the shelf and pay for it.
Forrest picks up a few days’ worth of warmer layers, and we’re good to go until he sees me eyeing the bookstore on our way out of the mall.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me toward the store.
So far from home and not at all looking like Mia Lane with my natural curls and wearing a bright green college sweatshirt, I feel a bit like an undercover agent when I walk past a thrillers endcap and spot one of my books.
The display’s promise of heart-stopping plot twists tells me it’s probably left over from Halloween.
Forrest sees my gaze catch on the display and gently tugs me to a halt before it. I stare at the familiar glossy dust jacket for a few seconds. I remember the first time I saw a sketch of the cover art. I literally danced with it around the little apartment I was living in at the time.
“You did that,” he says, leaning down so I’ll still hear him even though he’s speaking softly.
The book is my first, and standing here, I also remember the first time I saw it on a bookstore shelf. I cried right there in the store.
I might still cry now.
The idea for the vacation turned psychological murder mystery had come to me out of nowhere. It was just a random shower thought a few weeks after graduation, when I was trying to figure out what I was going to do with my life.
And then the story poured out of me, like I had no choice in the matter. The characters became friends, constantly chattering in my head. The settings were places that burned clearly in my brain—all in Arizona. Telling the story let me breathe freely, like my soul needed to get it out.
“It feels like that was a very long time ago,” I say just as quietly as Forrest. “And I don’t know how to get back there.”
“I’ll help you find the way,” Forrest answers. Then he bumps his arm against my shoulder, a jolt of electricity going through my body at the additional contact. My palm is already getting sweaty in his as it is.
“You should sign it,” he says.
“What? No. It’s ok. I don’t want to bother anybody,” I say, my shoulders curling forward as I try to make myself even smaller than my five-foot height. I’m suddenly feeling exceptionally bashful. About my reaction to Forrest’s touch. About the book. About the theoretical next book.
Forrest looks over one shoulder before turning the other way. He reaches into his pocket and produces a pen.
“I don’t see anybody,” he says it like a challenge, making a show of looking left and right before waving the pen in front of my nose. “Besides, the Cam of our youth would sign it. She’d love the risk of getting caught.”
“Forrest!” I whisper urgently at him. I could never. “That’s vandalism.”
But he might be right about the younger version of me. She thrived on adventure and taking chances. She knew exactly what she wanted. She hadn’t been hurt yet.
“Only a little,” he says, urgently bringing the pen closer to my nose. “Come on, do it.”
I shake my head. “No way.”
“Do it. Do it,” he repeats, getting marginally louder each time. “If you won’t be young Cam, I’ll have to be the immature one.”
It’s moments like these that I’m reminded he’s the youngest sibling in his household. Yes, he’s usually reserved and quiet, but sometimes, he’s a royal pain in the ass, determined to outlast me in whatever disagreement we’re having. Goading like this is exactly what I’d do to him as a kid.
Somebody is going to hear him.
“Do it,” he says again, even louder.
“Oh my god, shut up.” I release his hand and snatch the pen from him. I make my own sweep of the store. Nobody in sight. “Cover me,” I demand and take my book off the display.
Forrest slides behind me, his chest skimming against my back as he leans over me, like he’s looking at something on the page I’ve flipped to. Quick as lightning, I scrawl Mia Lane on the title page and finish it with a heart before shoving the book back where it came from.
“Ok, let’s get out of here,” I plead, ready to bolt, lest somebody appear to put me in book jail.
“Just a second. I need to grab a”—Forrest glances to a nearby table and plucks a small black notebook off it—“quick replacement.”
“I can give yours back,” I offer even though I don’t really want to. But I will if it’ll get us out of here.
“Not a chance. That’s yours now. Just be cool.” And he slips through the store, walking up to the register like all is fine.
Meanwhile, I feel like a damn criminal. It’s really not that serious. I know that. But the thrill of sneaking is exhilarating. I shift from foot to foot, unable to stand still. I stop when I realize fidgeting probably makes me look extremely guilty.
Forrest comes back to me a minute later with a small bag in his hand.
“Can we go now?” I beg.
“If you’re ready.” Forrest shrugs, clearly amused at my distress. “Or we could check the shelves. Maybe they have more of your book—”
I cut Forrest off by grabbing a fistful of the front of his sweatshirt and yanking him toward the door.
“I can’t believe you had me do that,” I say, laughing freely from the safety of the car.
“It felt like you needed it.” Forrest joins my laughter with a beautiful, deep sound that fills the car.
And I think I did.
He knows what I need when I haven’t got a clue.
Puzzle pieces.
“Are you sure you don’t want to change into your pants first?” I ask, an offer Forrest’s already declined.
After we finished our shopping, we grabbed lunch and came back to the resort to drop things off since it was on the way to our next destination.
“We’re going to be walking around, and it did get a little warmer than this morning. I think I’ll be ok with just the sweatshirt,” Forrest insists. “Besides, I’m a New England man raised on Boston winters. I can handle this.”
“Like you’ve been handling it without complaint so far?” I tease.
Forrest shoulder-checks me. “Oh, shut up.” But he’s smiling as he holds open the hotel room door. “I just needed to get used to it.”
As I make the drive to Papago Park, Forrest looks up the hiking trails.
“I figure we’ll go to the botanical gardens first and then do Hole-in-the-Rock. It’s got a beautiful sunset view,” I say, reciting what I read online.
“Why aren’t we just hiking Camelback Mountain?” Forrest asks. “I figured it would be the obvious pick since it’s right next to the resort.”
“Because I don’t want you to die,” I say with a chuckle. When I’d looked up that option, I ruled it out very quickly. “And I don’t want to die, either. Camelback is for the pros. Papago will be much more our speed. Trust me.”