Page 52 of Camp Bliss
He doesn’t deserve to be named. To have our attention.
And he doesn’t deserveher.
I want to try to explain what I mean without upsetting Greta, but she should hear it.
“But if I was gonna lose one of my partners, I have a better chance of succeeding the way things turned out than if it had gone the other way.”
Her eyelashes bat-bat-bat in confusion.“What?”
I tense. She’s looking at me like I’m certifiable.
“Are… Are you saying you’d rather be stuck with me than with Josh?”
Yes.
No question about it.
The last three days have probably been the worst of Greta’s life, and she hasn’t once talked about giving up. And even though we’ve been sticking to inside work to keep out of this heat wave, and even though I’ve reminded her to take it easy, she’s put in as many hours as I have. Every day.
I grin. “Don’t look so surprised.”
But that’s exactly how she looks.
She opens her mouth. “I—”
“Here we are.” Ms. Fielding, the branch manager, comes back around us, papers in hand, and takes a seat at her desk.
As she’s explaining to us what each form means, I’m only half-listening. What was Greta going to say?
What could she have said?
Because surely she couldn’t agree. I know, given the choice, she’d rather I be the one who raided our accounts and headed for the hills.
Or the beach.
Or wherever the hell Josh is.
But as I sign the papers that’ll protect us from any further damage Josh might try to do, a restless energy pulses through me.
I’m already sure I’m better off with her as my partner instead of Josh.
And I need to prove to her that she’s better off with me.
* * *
An hour later,we’re at a table by the front window at Reve Coffee Roasters downtown. Moving forward, requiring two signatures for bank transactions is safer, but it’s hardly convenient. Writing checks to pay contractors will be easy enough, but I can’t count the number of times one of us has had to do a supply run to Lowe’s or Wal-Mart since we moved out to Camp Bliss, so the bank has issued both of us temporary credit cards—the permanent ones should show up in the mail in a week or so—and Greta’s and mine both have a limit of ten thousand dollars.
So I’m breaking mine in with a late breakfast. Because having our bank accounts frozen this weekend meant that our usual Sunday grocery run to Super 1 Foods did not happen. We used the last of the bread on grilled cheese sandwiches last night.
Both of us had cash, but neither one of us felt like leaving to pick up takeout last night. And after we killed the bread, that left us with two spotty bananas and coffee—no cream—this morning.
Greta eyes Reve’s fancy avocado toast with adoration when I set the plate down in front of her, along with two savory hand pies for me.
“This looks so good,” she murmurs. I’m not even sure she’s talking to me, but I’m glad she has an appetite.
I bite into one of the hand pies and the taste of sausage, peppers, and egg has me humming with satisfaction.
The corner of Greta’s mouth might lift just a little.
