Page 154 of Camp Bliss
“Yes. Josh. Josh Bassett. Our former partner. My ex. The guy who ran off with half our money,” Greta fires off. “Remember him?”
I choke. “He turned up at the camp? Last night?”
Why am I just hearing about this? Why didn’t she call me immediately?
“Were your friends still there when he showed?” At least she wouldn’t have been alone. She would have had some back-up when she told him to go to hell.
Her sigh echoes over the line. “No. They’d just left.”
My body goes rigid. “You were by yourself? Shit, Greta. Are you okay? What the hell did he want? How long was he there? Did you call—”
She breaks through my litany of questions. “Zach—Zach—He came looking for help. He’s…” She pauses, and I swear I hear her swallow. “He’s still here.”
And then I hear nothing but this weird buzzing. When I realize I can’t feel my hands on the steering wheel, I wonder vaguely if I’m having a stroke.
“Zach?” Greta asks softly, almost like she’s afraid to wake a sleeping beast.
“He’s still there,”I repeat, seeing if the words sound any less vile if I say them instead of her.
Nope.
They’re still wretched. I hate them.
They are the worst words I’ve ever spoken.
Josh Bassett—the man who fucked us both over and nearly destroyed everything we worked so hard for—showed up at Camp Bliss last night.
And Greta let him stay.
She didn’t kick him out.
She didn’t call me.
She didn’t call the fucking police to haul his ass away.
What the fuck?!
And then I feel worse than I ever did with chemo—when my body tried to turn itself inside out, and it felt like my skin might burn off. Yeah, that was better than this.
Because I’m imagining the very worst thing.
“A-Are you still in love with him?” I can’t believe I dare ask the question. I can’t handle it if she is.
“What?!Of course not, Zach!” She sounds pissed, and it’s only then my lungs catch a full breath.
“Thank Christ,” I mutter. The agony eases, but not by much. Because he’s still there with her.
And I’m here.
“I want him gone,” I say, because I’ve clearly lost control of my mouth.
Greta scoffs. “Yeah, well, so do I, but it’s not that simple.”
“Of course it is. Tell him to fuck off. Better yet, let me tell him.” And then the most caustic, mind-obliterating thought assaults me. “Is he right there? With you? Right now?”
Jesus Christ. My blood is jet fuel. I need to. Fucking. Get. There.
“He’s in the lodge. I’m in the camper right now… Zach—” I don’t love the way she says my name. Like I’m a little kid who doesn’t understand what the grownups are discussing. “He’s not okay.”
