12. Just because it looks fuzzy, that doesn’t mean it is #2
“I do,” Forrest says without hesitation, but it feels like he’s talking about more than just hiking trails.
I try not to overthink it. And fail.
To my delight, Forrest loves the botanical gardens.
“I’ve just never seen one in real life,” Forrest says with awe for what must be the fifth time as he stares up at a saguaro towering over the both of us.
When we get to a smaller, unassuming cactus made up of oval-shaped disk pieces, Forrest’s curiosity seems to get the best of him, and he reaches out to touch it.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I warn. “Even the ones that aren’t covered in spines could still have little stickers that’ll get in your skin and drive you crazy. It’s best not to touch most plants here. Arizona bites back.”
Forrest looks so young when he slowly retracts his arm with a pout, a wildly different look to the serious thinking face I so often see him wearing.
“Did you come here a lot when you lived here?” Forrest asks.
“Well… not exactly,” I admit. “Between school and work and a lack of desire to be outdoors for any extended period of time from May through September, I didn’t.
I feel like I was constantly bouncing from one moment to the next back then, and something like a walk through a bunch of cacti wasn’t a high priority. ”
I think back to how little I slept when I was a student and wonder how I survived. I did so much more than that, though. I thrived.
Now, quietly walking around is a perfectly spent afternoon for me. It seems like it is for Forrest too.
“Did you pick it today as the Arizona version of touching grass? Reconnect with nature? Get the ideas flowing?” he asks while we continue our lazy stroll.
“I—uh—I wanted to impress you,” I say, watching my feet as I walk along the dusty trail. This trip is about honesty, right? “It looked really pretty online, and I knew it would be something completely new for you.”
“Cam,” Forrest says, and I realize he stopped walking. I look back at him. “You don’t need to try to impress me. Everything about you impresses me.”
“You don’t like it?” I ask, disappointed.
“I didn’t say that. It’s beautiful in a way I didn’t expect desert plants to be, but you don’t need to work so hard with me,” he says, walking back up to me.
“Ok,” I agree, but I think he’s wrong. I’ll be working as hard as I can for a long time to apologize to him for everything I’ve done.
“Now, if there are things you want to do now that you didn’t get to do as a broke college student, that’s a different story. I’m always down for new adventures with you,” Forrest adds. “But promise me it’ll be our trip and not just things you think I want to do.”
I can see he won’t let this go, so I nod. “Deal.”
We keep going for a bit before Forrest speaks up again.
“Where did you work when you were here?” he asks, and I’m reminded just how little we talked about my time in Arizona—precisely not at all. I like that he really wants to know about it, about me.
“I had a few different part-time jobs at school, like desk jobs, that lasted a semester-or-so each,” I say. “But my best paying job was definitely at the tequila bar. It’s called El Lobo, the wolf. I could make rent for the month in one really good weekend.”
Forrest pulls up short once more. I seem to be surprising him a lot afternoon, I guess.
“You worked in a tequila bar?” he asks, his eyebrows nearly at his hairline.
“That I did. It was terrible. There are things I’ve seen that I can never unsee.
” I laugh—so I don’t cry—at memories of drinks spilled in my hair, gross college boys, and one incident when my table lit their chip basket on fire and then got mad at me when I threw water on their food to put it out.
“But it was also amazing… sometimes. I met some great people there and got to eat delicious food for really cheap every shift.”
“Wow,” Forrest says, his eyes unfocused as he seemingly tries to picture it. “That’s an unexpected mental image for sure,” he says, confirming my assumption.
“Well, believe it, bucko. I mean, it’s not like it was Coyote Ugly or anything, but it was my life for over two years.
” I tell him more bar war stories as we wander through the gardens, likely blowing his mind.
I even pull up some old pictures on my phone from holidays when we had to dress up—Cinco de Mayo, New Years, the Fourth of July, Mardi Gras, Halloween. Bar jobs are not for the weak.
“Your turn,” I finally say. “I know you’re going to be an architect any day now, but how did you get here?”
“I’ve still got a ways to go before I’m an architect, Cam,” Forrest says with an awkward chuckle and a touch of side eye, but then he continues, “I ended up declaring my major and getting a Bachelor of Science in Architecture. After that, I needed to get my master’s in architecture and take the exams. There are six. ”
“Six?!” I unintentionally interrupt. “Sorry,” I add when I realize I blurted it out. It just feels like a lot of testing.
“Six,” Forrest confirms with another breathy laugh. And a few thousand work hours in different practice areas under the supervision of a licensed architect.”
“Damn.” I whistle low.
“I mean, they want to make sure whatever I design won’t come crashing down.”
“Fair,” I concede. “But damn. It’s still impressive. Are you… still at the same place as your internship?”
We both know that internship isn’t exactly the happiest part of our history.
“No,” Forrest answers sharply. “After that summer, I found a different one out of Providence, and I got a job at another in Boston while I was getting my master’s. I’m still there.”
I wonder why he left the first internship after one summer, but I don’t push it. We’re already delving much deeper into our stories than we have all year.
“And the exams? Do you have many left?” I pivot the conversation.
“I…” Forrest hesitates, and I wonder if he’s counting exams.
Maybe he blacked them out once they were done. I wouldn’t blame him. My brain would be mush.
“I have one left,” he continues. “I stupidly started taking them while I was still in my master’s program. It was brutal, and I see why most people wait until they graduate. I was driven by ego and a desire to be done as soon as possible.”
“You’re almost there though! That’s incredible.” My hand automatically falls against Forrest’s shoulder blade as I congratulate him, and I pull it back.
“Yeah.” He nods. “Almost there. Hopefully.”
Eventually, it’s time to shift direction so we can make it to Hole-in-the-Rock by sunset.