Page 46 of Camp Bliss
We reach the lodge, and I’ve been too busy watching my step and making sure Russell doesn't dart off the path after something interesting to notice that the interior lights are on until I’m walking through the door.
I jump when I see Zach at the kitchen island, butter knife in his hand.
“Oh—I-I didn’t mean to—” I stand frozen, ready for him to scowl at me. Just a few hours ago, I screamed at him and sent him fleeing from my cabin.
I really should apologize.
He doesn’t scowl. But he looks surprised to see me. “I was actually about to text you.” He sets the knife on the counter next to a jar of mayo. A pair of plates sit in front of him, each bearing two slices of toast. “I thought my head was going to split open, and then I realized it was because I was starving. Have you eaten?”
“No, I-I forgot all about it. But Russell reminded me.”
The Corgi has trotted to his food bin and is looking at me lovingly—and somewhat impatiently—over his shoulder.
“Want a BLT?” Zach gestures to a plastic container on the counter. “There’s leftover bacon.”
My mouth waters. Suddenly the need to put some calories in my body overtakes my heartbreak, my humiliation, and my hesitation.
“God, yes,” I say, and move to fill Russell’s bowl.
After I wash my hands, I turn and find Zach slicing a Roma tomato in thin, perfect slices. He’s spread mayo on each slice of bread and lined one on each plate with a healthy stack of bacon.
“Want a beer?” he asks without looking up from his work.
I want a double vodka and cranberry, but a beer doesn’t sound half bad.
“I’ll get them.”
I open the fridge and spot four of Josh’s remaining Stella’s. Too many feelings assault me.
At first, I want to slam the fridge door and choke the life out of every emotion.
But I think of my session with Trina. I sigh, grab the beers, and mentally call roll on my feelings.
Anger.
Heartache.
Anger again.
Longing.
And, yeah, more anger.
With another sigh, I set the beers on the counter, find the bottle opener, and pop the tops.
When I glance over, Zach is cutting the sandwiches on the diagonal—he’s a perfectionist even now—and for some reason, it lifts me a little. Not enough to smile. But enough to notice.
And here’s a new feeling. A very welcome feeling.
Gratitude.
He slides one of the plates over to me, and I pull out a bar stool.
“Hold up,” Zach says before moving to the pantry. He rifles around before emerging with a family size bag of Ruffles, and I swear, my pulse soars.
Ooh. Excitement.
He tears open the giant bag and tips it over, filling the space between both halves of my BLT with a golden mountain of potato chips. He does the same to his plate before taking a seat next to me and reaching for his beer.
