Page 155 of Camp Bliss
I shake my head. “I don’t give a fuck. You shouldn’t either.”
Silence.
That chemo-to-the-trillionth-power feeling is back.
“Greta?” I croak.
She sighs. “He needs help, Zach.”
“Not fromus.”I putustogether.Please, Greta. Keep us together.
“Zach—”
“Shit.”
“You don’t have to do anything. I can handle this.”
I can’t help but laugh. A laugh that carries zero joy. Because if that’s supposed to make me feel better, it’s a cosmic joke.She can handle this?Him? By herself? She doesn’t even need me to help her deal with the man who stabbed us both in the back?
I can’t remember ever feeling so small.
So inconsequential.
So nauseated.
So fucking angry.
And what am I supposed to do? Give her an ultimatum?
Greta won’t put up with that shit.
This is impossible.
“I don’t understand,” I admit. “I can’t stand the thought of him there with you.”
And then I wince at my own weakness because is this really just about jealousy?
A wave of nausea hits me.
Yeah, it is.
Not just because he’s there and I’m not.
Not just because they had years together, and Greta and I are…new.
I want us to be everything together, but we aren’t there yet.
And if she still feels enough for Josh to even offer to help him, we might never be.
Holy fuck!
I’ve gotta get on a plane.
“Please don’t do this,” I beg. Yep, I’m not above begging.
“Zach, baby,” Greta says, her voice pained. “I have to do this. He asked for help. I can’t just turn him away. I don’t think I could turn away anyone who needed help.”
I squeeze my eyes shut because of course this is who she is. Greta always wants to help. She keeps granola bars in her purse whenever we go to Reve for our “board meetings” because that stretch of Jefferson street is rife with homeless people. Whenever one asks for money, she gives them a snack instead. And directions to the nearest shelter or to the no-charge St. Bernadette Clinic off West Simcoe.
