Page 62 of Camp Bliss
“Y-Yeah,” I choke.
She wrinkles her brow. “Yeah, youmindif I turn off all the lights?”
“No!” I shake my head with violence. “Total darkness—total darkness is fine.”
Total darkness isn’t going to help. I already know that. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to picture her lying down just feet from me even from inside a black hole.
The old Coachmen did come with one feature I’ll never stop being grateful for: the stiff track curtain that divides the living area where I sleep from the kitchenette and Greta’s side of the camper. It offers precious little privacy, but at least she won’t see me sporting a hard-on when I change into my drawstring sleep shorts.
I shut off the lights on my side of the camper and climb into bed. The pullout isn’t half bad. It doesn’t creak much as I settle in, and if there are any wayward springs or a back-breaking beam beneath me, the new mattress is doing its job of hiding them.
But no matter how comfortable it is, I’m wide awake. I stare up at the ceiling, the golden light from Greta’s side dimming and then glowing as she moves around her room.
“C’mon, Russell.” I hear her thump her mattress. She sounds so close, it’s like I could reach over and touch her.
But even if I could, I couldn’t.
“What? Aren’t you ready for bed?” she asks.
It takes me a moment to realize she’s not talking to me. She’s asking the dog.
“Do you need to go outside—”
But the sounds of dog glee interrupt her question. The obese Corgi scrambles down the steps into the kitchenette. He shoots under the curtain and hurls himself at the camper door with surprising force.
“Zach, can I come through and let him out?”
I prop myself up on my elbows. I’m wearing shorts, but the blankets are thin enough to make it clear what’s going on inside them—even in the dim light.
Shit.
I bend my left knee to hide the terrain. “Um, sure.”
She slips past the curtain into my side. “Sor—” She stops when she sees me. And it’s only then that I realize with the covers bunched at my waist, it might look like I’m naked under them. In a flash, her gaze skims down my chest before she yanks it to the door. “Sorry. Sorry.”
Greta’s out of the camper, shutting the door firmly behind her.
“Jesus Christ.” I flop back on the mattress and grip my temples to keep my head from exploding.
Does she think I’d sleep nude with her just a few feet away? Do I tell her I’m dressed? I sure as hell can’t show her.
Because even after that super awkward exchange, I still have a boner. And seeing her flit outside in her barely-there PJs didn’t help matters.
I try to list reliable mood-killers. Like the dreaded Hartley, Merrimen, and Volkl annual picnic. Obligatory three hours of small talk with the partners. Terror at forgetting the name of a spouse or child mixed with the lobotomizing boredom watching co-workers sack race or play cornhole.
Or focusing on physical discomfort. Like the tip of my left thumb that I smashed while nailing down a loose board on the dock yesterday. I press my index finger against the nail and it sings with fresh pain.
I make an effort to tune out Greta’s voice as she calls the fat dog. I squeeze my eyes shut and picture him taking forever to lift his leg on every scrap of vegetation surrounding the camper. Based on the frustration in Greta’s voice, that’s what he’s doing.
By the time they’re just outside the door, things are under control, so as soon as she opens the camper door, I fling the covers off, push the curtain back, and make a show of searching the kitchen counter for my water bottle.
I catch Greta looking away. Is she shielding her eyes or brushing her hair out of her face? Her shoulders look rod stiff as she climbs the steps back to her side.
“O…kay… Well… Good night, Zach.”
Is her voice higher than usual?
Does it bother her that I’m not wearing a shirt?
