Page 61 of Camp Bliss
“Bullshit,” I mutter to myself as I yank up the pullout.
“What’d you say?” Greta calls from behind the closed bathroom door.
Yep. A closed door separates us, and she could hear my mumbled curse.
Great.
“Nothing,” I call back and kick the bed’s legs into position.
“Is that pullout giving you any trouble?” She projects the question, but she doesn’t need to. The fab walls are about as thick as tissue box cardboard.
“No, it’s fine.” And then because I sound crabby, I tack on. “This mattress is the perfect size.”
As soon as we agreed on a price for the fifth wheel with the old folks, Greta insisted on buying a new bed-in-a-box mattress. The eight-inch thick memory foam was compressed enough when I took it out of the box earlier that it folded up easily into the pullout. In another day or so, I might not be able to stuff it back in, but Greta was right.
It’s better than sleeping on the desiccated, mystery-stained mattress that God knows how many of the old couple’s grandkids peed on over the years.
“Good!” Greta practically shouts. “I’m gonna take a shower real quick and then open this up so you can get to the bathroom if you need to.
“‘Kay.”
I willnotbe using that bathroom later. It’s basically inches from her bed. She doesn’t need to hear my piss hitting the plastic toilet bowl at two in the morning at close range.
And as much as I wouldn’t want her to hear that, I almost can’t bear it when the shower turns on and I need very little imagination to picture what’s happening in the tiny stall. I can hear the impact of the water on the shower floor so well, that it's obvious when Greta steps under the stream and the sound hushes as water lands on her body instead.
The thought of that soft landing has my mouth going dry. I stand motionless for I don’t know how long, gritting my teeth. Cursing my idiocy. Asking myself why I agreed to this living situation.
And then I come to my senses, find the earbuds that I stashed in the drawer below my mini-closet, and cram them into my ears. I don’t need to blare Skrillex. It’s ten o’clock, and I need to sleep tonight.
Stadium Arcadiumon shuffle it is.
To the sounds of “Especially in Michigan,” I put new sheets on the bed and unfold the blanket Greta bought on her massive shopping spree. I doubt I’ll need the blanket. The AC unit in here works pretty well, but it’s still August in South Louisiana.
I smirk at the navy blue accent pillows Greta added to the bed-in-a-bag. As if I need accent pillows to sleep on a pullout.
But she put thought into it. Like she does with everything.
The Red Hot Chili Peppers are epic musicians. But they aren’t magicians. Because when I step back from the made bed, the pocket door is open. Through a veil of shower steam, I see Greta dressed in a purple PJ set, the top is just a cami and the bottoms barely qualify as shorts.
Fuck my life.
She has a towel turbaned around her hair, and she’s at the vanity, rubbing some kind of cream onto her face with her fingertips.
And she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my whole goddamn life.
I jerk my gaze from her. I am never sleeping again.
Not with her less than twenty feet away.
The RHCP playlist shuffles to “Torture Me,” and I have to choke down my bitter laugh.
The sound of her voice penetrates the song. I stop the music and take out an earbud.
“What?”
“I said I’m a really light sleeper. Do you mind if we turn off all the lights?” She digs her fingers into the towel turban and rubs her scalp beneath. The fabric of her top stretches against her breasts with the pose, her nipples budding against the cotton blend.
It’s so wrong. What’s going on in my head is so wrong.
