Page 76 of Meet Me Back Here

I feel rested. I feel good. I mean, I feel a little hungover. But it’s ok.

Melina offered to let us stay with her, but I’m glad we sobered up during the game so Forrest and I could fall asleep in this bed together. When I roll over, I expect to find him still submerged in the fluffy blankets around us, ready to pull me to him, but his side is empty. I’m still scanning the room—do I expect him to pop out of the closet? I don’t know—when I hear a knock on the door to our hotel room, muffled through the closed bedroom door.

I’m ready to check it out when I hear Forrest’s deep voice thanking somebody, and I sink back against the pillows. It’s small, but realizing I don’t need to handle everything myself is a comforting discovery.

I don’t have to do this thing called life alone.

The bedroom doorknob turns slowly, like Forrest is trying to make as little noise as possible. When his head appears through the gap, a smile spreads across his face. I imagine my expression mirrors his.

“Morning,” he says, pushing the door fully open to reveal a silver cart behind him, piled with covered plates. The smell of eggs and fried potatoes wafts into the room, and I’m hungry right away.

“Morning,” I answer, sounding much more lazy and sleepy than he did. Breakfast will wake me right up, though, especially when Forrest shifts aside and reveals a Dutch Bros drink holder on the corner of the cart.

“You are my favorite person,” I say, meaning it now more than ever.

Forrest reaches into the lower part of the cart and produces a tray which he sets on the bed before me and fills it with a plate, a cup of orange juice, and one of the iced coffees. He lifts the lid off the dish with a flourish, revealing the perfect post-game-day greasy hash I’ve ever seen.

“A girl could get used to this,” I say while Forrest sets up his own tray.

“I hope you do,” he answers.

Forrest and I spend the entire day in and out of bed. Somehow, we find the discipline to break from fun for writing and studying, though we remain touching even while working, our feet tangled on the couch, me sitting between his legs and against his chest, my heels resting in his lap. It’s like we’re incapable of being completely apart, and I love it.

I’ve spent enough of my life out of Forrest’s touch.

Midafternoon, we swap our brunch room service cart for a supper one, and we head out to the balcony to eat.

“Would you look at that?” Forrest says, pointing down to the pool area, where it looks like half the hotel staff is working to tie up garland, twinkle lights, and baubles in every color. The resort also started piping holiday music through the speakers, just loud enough to set the ambiance.

“Oh, pretty!” I sigh, just imagining how magical it’ll look at night.

“I almost forgot it’s winter holiday time now that we’re past Thanksgiving,” Forrest notes, unwrapping a tray of assorted sliders. “I mean”—he gestures down to his polo—“it’s not exactly winter weather.”

“I was worried about that my first December here, but don’t you worry. If we decide to ever leave this room, I can show you some Christmas magic after dark,” I say, popping a ranch-dipped carrot stick in my mouth. Christmas is still my favorite, even in the desert.

“Well, if we’re going to do that, I can’t waste time now.” Forrest’s expression is positively devious, and I start to back away.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn, but I’m grinning like an idiot. “I’m hungry, Forrest Dane!”

I squeal when he grabs me around my middle, throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me inside.

“Me too. Fucking starved,” Forrest growls before throwing me on the bed and crawling over me.

Our food is all cold when we finally return to it an hour later.

But I don’t mind one bit.

“This might be the best thing I’ve ever seen,” Forrest says as we slowly drive past another home whose front yard is full of decorations, including lights carefully wrapped around each cactus and palm tree.

While not everybody puts their lights up right away, I remember some communities with dedicated residents who are up early the morning after Thanksgiving—or even before—stringing lights and securing characters to their roofs. After a couple wrong turns while I tried to figure out the right streets in the dark, we find blinking lights in every color.

With the windows rolled down and a holiday music station playing through the speakers, we’re soaking up as much cheer as we can. Trimming the tree has nothing on trimming the cactus.

“I mean, the dedication is something else. Decorating a huge fir is hard work, sure. But stringing lights on a cactus should come with hazard pay.” He absentmindedly rubs his side where he got the business end of that jumping cholla. “I can’t imagine climbing that high either.” He half sticks his head out the window to see palm fronds far above us.

“We may not have snow in the East Valley, but people still show up in a big way. The botanical gardens and the zoo both have light displays with shows, and a bunch of neighborhoods go all out too. And it’s not just Christmas. We’ve got all kinds of holidays here,” I explain as we roll down another street.

The lights around palm trees dividing two houses flash in time with music playing from a hidden speaker. I tilt my head to the side when I realize how similar they look to erect⁠—