Page 120 of Camp Bliss
Greta: God, I miss her.
And if I thought it was hard not to go to her and hold her while she laughed, this is ninety-seven times worse.
Me: Let the record show that if I didn’t live so far away, I’d come over and hug you right now.
Her laughter is my consolation.
Greta: If you didn’t live so far away, I’d let you.
* * *
The next twodays while my parents visit might as well be torture, and I’ve never been happier in my life.
When it comes to Greta and me, slowdoesn’t begin to cover it.Glacialis more accurate.
The kissing has been limited to a barely controllable make-out session on the doorstep to Greta’s side of the camper each night.
Honestly, I can’t trust myself with more than that. It’s hard enough to keep my hands off her, and now that I know I can touch her, when we’re near each other, it’s all I do. Reach for her hand. Brush a curl away from her face. Trace my fingers across her back every time I pass her.
When she does literally anything to me—dragging her nails lightly over my scalp when she gets up from breakfast, hugging me from behind at night while I do the dishes, pressing her thigh into mine while she shuffles the deck of cards on the couch in the lodge—my breath stalls. Every damn time.
If ever the time comes when her hands have free rein over my body, I might lose consciousness.
I’m almost tempted to ask my parents to stay since their chaperoning presence takes some of the pressure off.
It’s been fun, too. And it just feelsright.Watching Greta laugh and joke with Mom and Dad. Sharing meals with them. The four of us playing games in the lodge after dinner.
Greta is a cutthroat poker player. And she’s ruthless at bourré. And spades. Who knew?
It didn’t take long for Mom and Dad to wear us down about helping out. Mom insisted on going with Greta to Black Pot and the farmer’s market.
And with Dad’s help, we finished the cabling for the incline log, an apparatus that challenges solo climbers to scale a rope net, mount the base log that ascends at a 45-degree angle, make their way up the log to a 4x4 foot platform where a guide exchanges their climbing clips for ones attached to the cabling above what Greta and I have affectionately named Lily Pad Lane.
Lily Pad Lane is empty as of now. Just the framing exists where one day soon, four cross-sectioned oak discs, about the size of stepping stones, will hang from the structure on Kevlar ropes.
Campers who’ve reached the top of the log incline will be challenged to make it from pad to pad and then climb or belay down the other side. The pads will be spaced two feet apart, so kids won’t have to leap, but they will have to reach, balance, and swing a little to make it across.
“What are you gonna do when one little third grader shits his pants?”Dad had asked the day we worked on the cables.
“It’s not the kids I’m worried about,”I’d tossed back.“It’s old farts like you.”
When my parents leave Sunday morning, Mom gets a little misty-eyed. And it clutches my heart when I catch Greta blotting the corner of her eyes with the back of her hands.
“We’ll see them at New Year’s, Sunny,” Dad tries to console Mom.
Mom fans her face with her hands. “I know. I know.” She gives a weepy little shrug. “I’ve just had so much fun. I hate it to end.”
When Mom hugs Greta, she whispers something in her ear I don’t catch. And when Dad hugs Greta, he squeezes her tight for a long time, the way I’ve seen him hug my sisters.
Damn.
I like it. I like them treating her like family.
I grab Greta’s hand as my parents back out of the parking spot where their rental has sat motionless for three days. When Mom and Dad wave one last time, Greta and I each raise our free hands and wave back until the path to Highway 353 bends out of sight.
With a sniffling sigh, Greta squeezes my hand, not looking away from the now empty road. “Your parents are awesome.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding at her profile. “They are. And they’re crazy about you.”
