37. Just jump, right?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
just jump, right?
While I’m regaining the ability to use my legs, Forrest tenderly washes my hair, rubbing his thumbs against my scalp so perfectly that I wonder if I might come a third time from the bliss I feel.
Once I can stand again, we finish actually showering.
When Forrest opens the shower door, we stare together at the light bruises from his fingers blossoming on the front of my hipbones.
He smiles pridefully. I blush furiously.
But I think I like them there too.
I dry my hair quickly and am throwing on clothes when Forrest asks from his place lounging naked on the bed, “Are you feeling relaxed now?”
I shoot him a look over my shoulder, and his deep laugh fills the room.
“I do hope I was able to help, but I’m being serious. How are you feeling about the workshop now that you’ve started writing again. Better, I hope?” he clarifies.
Between all the things we’ve been doing—both naked and clothed—and my writing, I haven’t had a chance to worry much about the workshop, so I’m pleased to discover that I do feel better about it. A lot better.
“Actually, I’m really excited. I feel like I’ll be able to honestly talk about getting to the other side of writer’s block, even when it feels eternal and completely soul-crushing,” I say, not at all dramatically.
“I’ve been thinking of some exercises we can do, but I plan on winning the students over by not making them do icebreakers. ”
“That’d work on me,” Forrest says. “Actually, you just existing works on me. But I know you’ll be great. I’m proud of you.”
“I mean, it’s all thanks to you.” I tie a bow around the wrap dress I picked to look a little more professor-ly and look up at Forrest through the mirror before me. “You fixed me.”
Forrest sits up sharply.
“Not a chance, Cam.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t do this. You did. I might have helped remind you that you can do this because I know how hard you can be on yourself, but you found that spark on your own. Don’t let anybody take that from you.”
I flush and look down, thinking about the story being built from Forrest’s notebook, the characters I’m growing to love more every day. The mystery I’m crafting. The town I’m building from nothing.
I did this.
“I think I’m going to schedule that call with Lori.
The publisher asked for a draft by year end, but I think I want to tell her about the new book sooner—now.
I already have a lot of it, enough to give her a pretty good idea of how things will shape up.
Then she can tell me how best to bring this new plan to the publisher.
” I’m eager now, no longer questioning my new direction. Everything feels good and right.
Forrest hops off the bed, coming up behind me to kiss my cheek.
“Go get ’em,” he says, placing another kiss below my ear. I turn and push him back onto the bed with a hand to his chest.
“Down, boy,” I tease. “Or I’ll miss my meeting.”
The next morning, I’m standing in a large room of round tables, among the din of student chatter, feeling energized more than nervous for my first day.
Professor Rupert is beside me, beaming at me like he was yesterday when we met as colleagues rather than professor and student for the first time.
He told me to start calling him Jason since I’m basically working at the college this week, and that small request was the thing to make me feel like a teacher.
“I knew you’d take the writing world by storm,” he’d said. “Your words are important.”
I also scheduled a call with Lori for Thursday afternoon and began working on some notes to present my new story and its new romance storyline to her.
She tried to get me to give her a hint about the topic of our call, but I want to do this right, with a full explanation and not a half-baked text.
Plus, this builds suspense. I am a thriller writer, after all.
After a quick glance at his watch, Professor Rupert puts the two first fingers from both hands between his lips and whistles the loudest sound I think I’ve ever heard produced from a person.
Hopefully the ringing in my ears stops before I need to speak, or I’m going to end up screaming at my workshop attendees.
Silence falls over the room as every head turns in our direction.
“Don’t embarrass me this week. Treat Miss Viottolo well,” he says to the class, narrowing his eyes at them. Then he claps me on the shoulder and leaves.
Well, that’s pushing me into the deep end if I ever saw it.
“Um, hi,” I start, feeling small and unqualified. All my nerves from the past several months return at exactly the same time. I expect it’s in my head, but it feels like they all blink back at me in unison.
I clear my throat.
“Hi,” I say again, louder. Fake it ’till you make it, right? “My name is Camilla Viottolo, but you might know me as Mia Lane.”
A student at one of the tables closest to me squirms in her seat, shifting her notebook to the side, revealing a worn paperback copy of my first book. She looks around nervously, hesitating before clapping her hands together like she’s testing the waters.
Immediately, the room erupts in cheers, and I hear a very familiar voice break through the noise from the back of the classroom near the door. My eyes find Forrest right away.
He winks at me, leaning against the wall and cheering along with the class. A few students whoop, and I feel myself relax, even as I flush scarlet. I belong here.
“Before I started publishing, I was one of you, a DCU Cactus, class of you don’t need to know, so thank you for not asking. I couldn’t be happier to be back.”
The group cheers again, and I feel my chest swell with pride.
“Let’s get started on some positively ridiculous writing exercises, shall we?”
There’s a consistent shuffling of papers and books as people pull out notebooks or laptops, happy to go down whatever rabbit hole I lead them toward. I find Forrest once more, and he winks before saluting me and slipping away.
I can do this.
Even though the intensive workshop ends at five each day, it’s almost seven by the time I slip out of the classroom and into the hallway, letting the door close behind me before I break out into a happy dance, hopping from foot to foot and pumping my fists as I silently scream with joy.
“Ahem.” A deep voice clearing its throat stops me dead in my tracks, and I slowly turn to find Forrest sitting beside Professor Rupert on a bench halfway down the hallway. Forrest, hiding a chuckle behind his fist, is clearly the one who alerted me to their presence.
“I’m so sorry, sir. That was very unprofessional,” I say, embarrassment flooding every atom of my being.
“Not at all,” Professor Rupert says with a gentle laugh as he stands. “I was going to ask how your first day went, but I think I’ve already got my answer.”
I’d like to sink into the floor now, please.
“It was wonderful. They were wonderful.” I gesture back to the now empty classroom and the students that used to fill it.
“Coincidentally, I was just telling Forrest that I expect you’d be wonderful here,” Professor Rupert says as Forrest nods in confirmation.
“Thank you, sir. I hope the students think so at the end of the week,” I answer, already feeling like we’d connected after one day.
“Enough of this sir business. But if you don’t need anything, I’ll take my leave and let you two carry on with the rest of your night.”
“Thank you… Jason. I’m all set.” It still feels like using his first name is breaking the law, but I expect I’ll get used to it. “Have a good evening.”
As Forrest and I walk across campus and back to our dorm, I recount my day for him, from the students’ questions to their story ideas and everything in between. Once he holds open the dorm door for me, though, I stop.
Our simple room has been transformed. My eyes jump from the 3D paper tree standing on top of the dresser to the garland of paper stars draped across the top of the window to the many origami poinsettias affixed around the room.
“Forrest…” I say softly, running my fingers over the carefully drawn ornaments on the paper tree’s branches when I spot a tiny potted cactus decorated with a string of tiny twinkle lights attached to a battery pack.
“I know how much you like Christmas, so I thought I’d decorate some.
I tried to stick to things that could be recycled when it’s time to leave, but the cactus was too perfect to pass up.
Maybe we can give it to Jason at the end of the week.
” Forrest is rambling a little, something he only does when he’s nervous. “What do you think?” he finally asks.
I turn toward him and capture his face between my palms, standing on my tiptoes so I can kiss him slowly and fully.
“It’s magical,” I say when we part. Forrest looks a little dazed, but the corners of his mouth still tick up, so I think he hears me. “Thank you.”
When Forrest gets back to planet Earth, he pulls me into the other room, where a small pile of holiday snacks sits on the table: candy canes, chocolate-covered pretzels with peppermint pieces, powdered hot cocoa and marshmallows, red and green candies.
“I also stocked up on some provisions and got us these” — he retrieves two pairs of fuzzy socks with snowmen on them from the arm of the couch — “so we can really get in the spirit for our first Christmas movie with dinner.”
When he turns on the television, Home Alone is queued up.
“But first”—we continue our adventure with Forrest leading me out of the room and down the hallway to a kitchen I didn’t even know was there—“I thought we could make dinner together. Turns out this place is fully stocked with plates, utensils, and all the pots and pans and equipment we could need, and I got us all the ingredients for shepherd’s pie. ”
All at once, I see our future together. And it’s not like before, just full of adventures and excitement. It’s full of these simple nights too. Moments where Forrest quietly sees me and all my big feelings, and he cherishes them.
There are happy tears pricking the corners of my eyes when I nod energetically at Forrest.
“It sounds like the perfect night,” I say.
And even though the old oven takes forever to heat up, and our mashed potatoes end up thick, and we can’t figure out how to turn off the French subtitles on the television, it really is a perfect night.
We continue having perfect nights all week. Whether we stay in or go out or walk around campus before going back to our room. It’s easy with somebody who already knows me so well. I hope it’s easy for Forrest too.
His studying seems to be going well, and he’s got a quiet place to work for his actual job while I’m at the workshop. And my writing keeps going in the evenings. I think I’m inspired by the writers I’m spending my days with in the workshop.
“I think this is good for you—teaching,” Forrest says halfway through the week as we work side by side on the couch. “You seem happy.”
“I am,” I say, sliding down and leaning over so I can rest my head on his shoulder. “I really am.”