Page 56 of Camp Bliss
Her wobbly smile stretches.
God, she’s so fucking beautiful.
“Okay, then,” she says softly, and offers her hand across the table. I stare at her soft, delicate fingers for almost too long. Then I clasp her hand in mine, and even though I’ve touched her before—never so much as I did Friday when I was trying to keep her from overheating and later trying to keep her from melting down—this touch feels completely new.
And about as safe as bathing with a toaster.
Her smile blooms and my tightening grip feels like a reflex.
“So, we can look for a fifth wheel?”
“I—guess so.”
Greta lets go of my hand, but it’s too late.
My fate is already sealed.
ChapterTen
GRETA
I was wrong.
We didn’t find a used fifth wheel for under ten grand. We found one for under five grand.
It’s a 2008 Coachmen Chaparral. It’s in terrific shape. Plumbing. Appliances. Electrical. Heating and cooling all top notch.
And it’s hideous.
I honestly can’t believe these honey blond cabinets are circa 2008. I feel like I’ve legit stepped into 1988. The camel and mauve floral print on the pullout sofa matches the rocker-recliners in the back. One camel. One mauve. The window valances are camel and the curtains themselves are—you guessed it—mauve.
But it’s clean. The older couple we bought it from in Lake Charles weren’t smokers, and the husband seemed to take pride in the fact that everything was in tip-top shape.
We were lucky to find it—and at a bargain price.
And since the plumbers came last week to connect the cabins to the septic tank and add RV hookups—we installed two just in case—today is Move-In Day.
Zach has insisted that I take the bedroom, but I keep trying to make things fair.
Like right now.
“That tiny upright is not enough closet space for you,” I point to the tight space right by the exit. It’s smaller than the fridge. I think it’s meant to be a coat closet. “The bedroom literally has twelve dresser drawers and a full closet. I don’t need all that.”
I climb the three steps that lead from the kitchenette to the bathroom/bedroom side of the camper. There is a pocket door at the top of the steps that shuts the bathroom and bedroom off from the kitchenette, but we’ve kept it open to move stuff in. I cross through the little bathroom and stop by the foot of the bed, gesturing to show him just how much storage there is in here. We popped out the three slides as soon as we got the RV parked, leveled, and chocked. The bed, the living/dining space, and a desk/entertainment center make up the three slides, and the whole camper actually feels pretty roomy.
For an RV.
“Come take a look,” I beckon Zach in. With an exasperated expression, he climbs the three steps and stops in the tiny bathroom. And I do mean tiny. To his right is the little closet for the toilet and just at his left is the sink and shower stall. Nothing but a little accordion door that’s now drawn open separates the bathroom from the bedroom.
And when Zach crosses the bedroom threshold and stands next to me, the space no longer feels roomy. At all. I whirl away and face the dressers. A squat, four-drawer dresser is flanked on both sides by tall narrow dressers that look almost like wooden file cabinets.
“We should share these, and the closet is as wide as the whole camper,” I say, sweeping my hand to the space at the far end, which has a full-length rod beneath a sturdy shelf for out-of-season storage.
Zach surveys the space with a frown, like the extra storage space is offensive to him. I don’t get it. I know that I’m not his first pick as a roommate, but he did agree to this arrangement, and I hope he’s not having second thoughts now.
I point to the drawers closest to the bathroom. “You might as well take that side. You’re going to be showering two feet away regardless.”
He winces. “I was thinking I’d just start showering in the lodge. Let you have this one to yourself.”
