Page 89 of Camp Bliss
“Be right back,”I’d muttered hoarsely.
Because I had to get out of there.
I managed to step outside of the fifth wheel and move out of sight of the windows before I bent over, gripped my thighs, and let the pain sear through me.
I didn’t even realize until that moment how much I had started living on hope. Hope of us growing closer.
Closer than friends.
Hope of her one day feeling something like what I feel for her.
Maybe not as much. I get that. I’ve got it bad.
Likenever-have-I-felt-this-waybad.
LikeI-need-to-see-you-everydaybad.
I-want-my-babies-to-look-like-youbad.
The second time she flinched it didn't gut me so hard. Because the touch had been accidental. We were changing the sheets in Camp Bliss North when our hands brushed. She jerked away and apologized.
It still hurt. Because I didn’t want her to apologize for accidentally touching me. But at least I didn’t need to break away to sort out my feelings. I was okay just clenching my jaw until my molars threatened to crack.
But that’s progress.
And, honestly, the worst part isn’t the flinching.
It’s the kindness.
Greta stands further away. She covers up. She doesn’t playfully punch me or try to make me laugh like she did not that long ago.
But, damn, she’s still as thoughtful and kind as she’s ever been.
Four nights out of five, she makes dinner for the two of us before I’ve even finished showering at the end of the day. She’s still made it her job to plan stress-reliever activities for us. Damn near every day. If we’re not fishing, we’re in the woods, sighting birds. Or racing across the lake on the paddle boards—while it’s still warm enough to risk getting soaked. Or taking the mountain bikes out for a spin on the trails.
All her doing.
The kindness is a killer.
Because it makes it clear that she cares about me.
Just not like that.
Except, right now, the way she’s looking at me with that megawatt smile, like I’ve just made her day? Well, it’s fucking with my head.
She’s just excited about the ropes course, I remind myself.It’s about getting to try this out for the first time. Not because she loves your hair or anything else about you.
So I ignore the comment about my hair.
“Ready to clip in?”
Greta blinks as though the question has come out of left field. “Oh—Uh… Yeah.” She looks over her shoulder and then grabs the closest carabiner. She drags down the clip, and I grab the belay end.
She clips the biner to her harness loop and tightens the screwgate. Then she smiles back up at me. “On belay—”
I know my line. I’m supposed to saybelay onand let her approach the pole. But I can’t say the words.
“Hang on,” I say instead. Because I can’t let her climb yet. Frowning, I close the distance between us, and without even asking permission, I grab the front of her harness, making sure she’s strapped safely in. Then I run my fingers over the carabiner, double-checking the screwgate. It’s secure. Of course it’s secure. Greta knows what she’s doing.
