21. Why is it that when you need to focus, your brain decides it’s the perfect time to do a deep dive on what happened t
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
why is it that when you need to focus, your brain decides it’s the perfect time to do a deep dive on what happened to the roanoke colony?
PRESENT
Two days later, I’m doing everything in my power to try to get the creative juices flowing.
Currently, that involves doing jumping jacks on the balcony while looking out at Camelback Mountain.
It’s something I’ve tried several times over the past few days to get blood flowing, and it hasn’t been very successful, but maybe today will be different.
Annoyingly, I woke up Sunday morning from a loopy, tipsy night of half-sleep knowing I’d had a wild dream about my still faceless characters, but my hungover brain just couldn’t grab at the wisps of the story I’d thought up.
Even though it was right there.
I. Need. To. Write.
With our birthdays, Thanksgiving, and the game next week, I know things will be crazy here pretty soon. Then the workshop starts shortly after that, and I’m running out of open days to find my next book. I need to focus.
Knowing that sadly doesn’t make it happen.
Because now all I can think of is our birthdays.
If it wasn’t that, it’d be something else.
It feels like my brain will cling to anything but my book.
Random historical topics I’ve never cared about before?
Suddenly the most fascinating mysteries on the planet.
The many different kinds of scorpions? Information I really didn’t need to know.
Ever. But there I was Googling it yesterday.
“Hey Forrest,” I call through the half-open sliding door, finally giving up my jumping jacks and leaning around the wall so I can look inside. The blast of air conditioning on my face feels divine.
“Hm?” Forrest answers from the little table between the couch and the kitchenette where he’s pouring over notes and drawings and calculations that all make no sense to me.
While I’ve been unable to keep my mind on writing for more than thirteen seconds at a time, he’s been the disciplined, studious person he’s always been, working, joining meetings, keeping up with his studying, being all smart.
“What do you want for your birthday?” I ask.
“Well, I think seeing you fall in that creek is present enough,” he answers around the back of the pen he’s got between his teeth. “Care to do it again?”
I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it, but he starts playing with the silver ring around his thumb as his eyes scan down a page of neat handwriting.
It broke off the pencil case I gave him for our thirteenth birthday a decade ago.
I think it’s possible he’s worn it as a ring ever since.
He discovered it was a perfect fit our senior year of high school, and he said he’d never take it off, but the broken bit has definitely been filed down and the ring has been polished at some point.
When he wiggles it, I can see the tan line that I’m confident predates this most recent sunburn.
“Once was more than enough, thank you very much,” I say, huffing. “Be serious with me. You already claimed the day for whatever your secret plan is. I want to get you something.”
Forrest pulls the pen from his mouth, tucks it behind one ear, and focuses on me.
“I’m really just happy to be on this trip with you. If I wasn’t, we wouldn’t be able to spend the day together, so letting me come along is a great present,” he says, and I really do believe he’d be content with nothing.
But I love giving gifts. Not just physical gifts because sometimes we have enough stuff, but something—an experience, a moment, whatever—I know a person will really like.
I wonder if I should have saved the trip to the Frank Lloyd Wright house for his gift.
But then I remember how happy he was on an otherwise unpleasant day.
“Maybe if you tell me what your secret plan is, it’ll help me decide.” I expect he won’t give anything away, but I have to try anyway.
The day after Forrest suggested joining me on this trip, he asked if he could reserve our birthday for a surprise, and I’ve been unable to pull any details from him since I agreed.
“I can’t remember,” Forrest says, his expression giving absolutely nothing away.
“Are we… going to see a movie? Going bowling? Going out to eat?” I ask, trying to catch any change in him that could give me a hint, but the man is a statue.
“We’ve gone to eat basically every day that we’re here,” he alleges, getting me no closer to an answer. “Not that I’m complaining. The food has been incredible.”
Yesterday, we did a little food tour of Arizona, having snacks at some of my favorite places around the valley—antipasto salad from a family-owned Italian restaurant; prosciutto, fig, and mascarpone bruschetta from a wine bar; carne asada fries from a drive-through Mexican spot that’s a real hidden gem.
Even though we spaced out our eating adventure, spending some time at each place to brainstorm or work, I’m surprised our stomachs survived.
“So not that, but are the movie and bowling still on the table?” I’m grasping at straws here.
“I like movies and bowling, but no,” he says, finally giving me a straight answer. Not a helpful one, but at least it’s not cryptic. “It’s something new.”
“Are we going horseback riding,” I say with a shit-eating grin on my face. “That’s something we haven’t done yet. At least not together.”
Forrest glares at me, absentmindedly rubbing the leg that broke last time he was near a horse.
“I’m going to watch you actually write your book. That’s also something we haven’t done yet!” he quips back.
“Rude!” My mouth falls open.
“Why don’t you tell me about it? Maybe it’ll help get ideas flowing,” he suggests gently. “I can be a pretty good sounding board.”
Here I am trying to procrastinate like a champ, and he wants to be helpful? No, thanks.
“I’d rather eat the pages of this book,” I say, lifting my trusty little notebook. “It’s not you. I just can’t. It’d be like watching you read something I wrote.” I blanch at the mere thought of that.
“Fine. I can understand that,” he relents. “You don’t have to tell me about it—you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to—but you should keep working on it. I’ve seen you writing things. Keep writing them. Stop using our birthday as a distraction.”
“Are you just saying that because you need to get back to studying?” I ask, joking around to continue avoiding writing.
But Forrest doesn’t laugh.
“Cam, I’m saying it because I believe in you,” he says, standing and walking over to me.
I’m frozen as he reaches out for me, gently sliding his fingers into the hair behind my temple until he’s cupping my head. I stop breathing.
“There’s greatness in here,” he says. Then, he bends for the notebook in my hand, and I’m momentarily worried he’s going to take it and start reading what I wrote, but he just taps a finger on the cover.
“Put it in here. Stop worrying about whether it’ll be good enough, and just write whatever comes. ”
Just write should feel like the most useless advice ever, but coupled with Forrest’s unwavering faith in me and his hand in my hair, it just might be encouraging.
“I’ll try,” I say.
Then Forrest takes me by my shoulders, spins me around, and gives me a little push toward the chair I’d vacated before the jumping jacks debacle. Dutifully, I sit and open the notebook again.
I feel lonely when he heads back inside, but he reappears a moment later with his laptop and notebook, and I look at him expectantly, trying not to look as thrilled by his company as I am.
“So I can keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t find any more distractions,” he says, pointing at me like a teacher scolding a student. Professor Forrest back at it again.
“Forrest, you sweet man. I could be distracted by my own brain.” I laugh.
“Good,” he says. “As long as you write it down.”
I don’t have anything clever to respond with, so I just roll my eyes, pretending I wasn’t beat this time, and look out at Camelback. I must zone out because Forrest taps his pen on the notebook propped on my knee.
I huff but flip it open and do as he says. Writing stream of consciousness hasn’t really been my favorite strategy in the past, but I’ll try anything.
Birthdays. Horses. Summer camp.
A memory surfaces from somewhere deep in my mind. An idea follows. It’s got nothing to do with my book, but at least I know what I’m going to do for Forrest’s birthday.
“This birthday thing,” I start, looking over my shoulder to shout back at Forrest. “When will we be back?”
“Mid-afternoon,” Forrest says.
Perfect.
I smile as I keep going, feeling very pleased with myself.
Separate. Missing you. Missing him. Forbidden love. Disapproving parents. Deep secrets. Deep pockets. Money, corruption, power. Heartbreak. Summer. Beaches.
Oh shit.
I think it’s working.