Page 66 of Camp Bliss
But I’m trying to be that. A friend. Trying to be there for her. Take whatever burdens I can. Trying to be someone who lightens her load. Someone she can lean on.
It’s muffled, but she whimpers again.
A dull blade in my chest would feel better.
The next time the camper rocks with her restlessness, I launch myself out of bed. I don’t know what I can do, but being able to do nothing is driving me mad. Going out for a run would be better than staying here.
But even if it would be better, I don’t want to leave.
I don’t want to leave her.
Maybe I should just resign myself to staying awake tonight. Grab a beer. Do some paperwork until Greta settles. I push the curtain aside, aiming for the RV fridge where I tucked a six-pack earlier today. Maybe some part of me knew I’d need a little liquid support.
But as soon as I open the fridge door and the light cuts on, I notice two things. The Advil and the heating pad are still on the steps. Only the boxes of pads and tampons are gone.
Has Greta taken anything for the pain?
I hear her whimper again, and I can’t stop myself.
“Greta? Did you take any of the Advil?”
She’s quiet for just a moment, but I know she’s not sleeping.
“Not yet.” The words are more like grunts.
I don’t hesitate. “Can I bring them to you?”
Silence.
“I-I can get them in a minute,” she says weakly. “I just needed to lie down.”
Fuck that noise. “I’m bringing them to you,” I announce, and then think better of it. I can’t be barging into her space. “Unless you explicitly tell me not to.”
Her sigh is crystal clear. “Fine. Go ahead.”
Because we plan to keep doing all our cooking in bigger, nicer lodge kitchen, we don’t have much in the way of dishware in here, so I grab my own water bottle. I pluck up the bottle of Advil and the heating pad before wrapping my knuckles against the pocket door.
“Come on in,” she groans.
I slide open the door. While the lights in the little bathroom are off, the accordion door that divides Greta’s room from the bathroom is open, and the reading lamp over Greta’s sleeping space is on. Visibility is good enough for me to see what looks like wet clothes hanging in the shower and Greta’s shape under the covers in her bed.
When I step into her room, I see she’s lying on her belly, her face turned to me.
She looks small and miserable.
My heart turns over.
“Thank you,” she croaks.
“Don’t mention it.” I set the Advil and the water on the nightstand and unwrap the cord around the heating pad. Greta doesn’t move as I plug it in and switch it on, but when I hand the pad to her, she reaches out a hand from under the covers to take it.
I focus on opening the bottle of gel caps while she adjusts the pad beneath her.
“How many?”
“Three.”
My brows leap.“Three?”
