Page 51 of Camp Bliss
And maybe that’s as good a sign as any that we’re making the right call by not just declaring bankruptcy and calling it quits.
We talked about that. On Saturday. Once we’d gotten, well, a night’s sleep, if not a decent one.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s an option that’s still on the table. It might become our best option, but neither of us is ready to hit the kill switch. Not yet, anyway.
So here we are.
Beside me, Greta’s legs are crossed, but her left knee is bouncing like a jackhammer. Her mouth is a tight line. Both Saturday and yesterday, I caught her staring into space or brushing away tears, and I tried to give her room—even while we primed and painted the lodge.
But if this is too much—
“You okay?” I whisper. The branch manager’s office is really more like an alcove, open to the lobby with its tellers and customers. No privacy. And if Greta needs a minute, I want to give it to her.
Without meeting my eyes, she gives a tight nod. “Fine.”
Neither of us is fine, but okay.
She’s spent the last two days trying to pretend she’s fine—at least around me, but the strain is showing.
If I could take care of this by myself, I would. I let go a sigh, and the sound of it has Greta jerking to look at me.
“What?”The question is a jab.
“I didn’t say anything.”
She huffs like I’m full of shit.
“I mean it.”
“Right.” The word is clipped short.
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’m just—worried about you.”
Greta’s eyes widen. Her bouncing knee stills. “R-Really?”
My chuckle is disbelieving. “Of course. This can’t be easy.”
She presses her lips together and visibly swallows. “I’m okay.” She doesn’t look away. “This is just strange, don’t you think?”
“What? Changing our accounts?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Moving on, I guess.”
Uncertainty rims her eyes. She looks so tired. Before I even question what I’m doing, I cover her hand with mine and give it a squeeze.
Greta jolts like I’ve zapped her with cattle prod.
I let go. “Sorry. I—”
“A-All good,” she stammers, giving my offending hand three awkward pats before clasping her hands around her knee. Which is bouncing again.
My face flames, and I check the time on my watch to have something to do.
But my pulse beats high in my chest.
I grip the armrests of the chair. And then I’m looking back at her.
“Itisstrange,” I say a moment later. I don’t tack onwithout himbecause… because he doesn’t deserve it.
