Page 81 of Camp Bliss
“And as I mentioned, we hadn’t done a great job with the tent, neither of us having any experience. But we weren’t on a tent pad and we didn’t have a tarp or any Tyvek and it wasn’t like the tent had a polyethylene bottom or anything.”
Greta groans, the sound half amused, half commiserating.
“I’m not lying when I tell you we woke up to a frickin’ creek running through that tent. Everything was soaked. Everything. The sleeping bags. The flashlight. Our clothes. We tried to grab what we could to make a run for the house, but without the flashlight and in the driving rain, we made it to his grandparents’ house in our tighty-whities and T-shirts with a soaked pillow and a lone shoe between us.”
“Oh man. What did his grandparents say?”
I chuckle at the memory. “Somehow, we managed not to wake them up. The kitchen door was unlocked, and they’d slept through the storm, but his grandma had a fit the next morning when she discovered the muddy, boy-sized footprints and a waterlogged pillow on the kitchen floor.”
She’s laughing, and I don’t stop.
“We trekked out to the flooded tent the next morning, and, no lie, there was a frog and two crawfish inside.
Greta is laughing so hard, she’s hardly making any noise. Just little squeaks that make me feel like my heart is full of helium.
“And… And…” she starts, trying to catch her breath. “You still like camping?”
“I got better.”
She howls with laughter. Russell woofs in annoyance, and this only makes us laugh harder.
The dogboofsagain, and I lay a hand on his back to settle him. He opens his mouth and pants right in my face.
“Ugh. Dog breath,” I groan.
Through her laughter, Greta says, “It’s okay, Russell. Zach doesn’t mean it.”
“Oh, I do. His breath smells like bologna and sweat—”
A new wave of laughter shakes the bed. “It does not!”
I join her, but I move my hand up to the dog’s soft head and stroke his ears, his favorite scritching spot. “It does, but I guess it’s not his fault.”
“Don’t listen to him, Russell.”
I’m about to go into a comedic bit about the Corgi’s breath just to keep her laughing when her hand covers mine on the dog’s head.
We both freeze.
“Oh, I didn’t—”
“Sorry—”
We both jerk our hands away, fumbling over awkward apologies.
Russell whimpers.
“Aww, now no one’s rubbing you,” Greta coos. “Sorry buddy.”
“So unfair,” I say, reaching for him again when our hands collide.
“Aah!”
“Oops!”
This time, the petting fail makes us laugh, and the awkward moment is behind us.
“You pet him,” I declare, tucking my roaming hand back under the covers.
