Page 82 of Camp Bliss
“That’s a good boy,” Greta coos. What little light there is, the rhythmic shift of the sheets, and the whisper of skin over the coarse fur of Russell’s back all tell me that Greta is petting him in long, unbroken strokes.
The dog should be luxuriating in canine bliss, but he makes an impatient little gruff sound. And then he scooches up closer to me on his elbows.
And then heboofsagain right in my face.
“Russell, “ Greta scolds.
But the dog ignores her. Instead, he digs his nose under the pillow in search of my hand. When he finds it, he bucks it with his nose, as if to say,Rub me, dammit.
“Russell.”Greta fusses again.
“It’s okay,” I concede, unearthing my hand and stroking the dog’s head. “He tried asking nicely.”
She huffs. “Hardly. Spoiled dog.”
“True, but you have to admire him. He goes after what he wants. And he’s great at communicating his feelings.” I glide my hand over his head and down his back, timing my stroke to follow Greta’s as best I can.
“For such a little guy, he has really big feelings.” At her tone, I can almost see her rolling her eyes.
“C’mon, now,” I deadpan. “He’s not little.”
“Oh my God,” she says, cracking up. “I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much.”
Is it wrong how hard I flex over this?
Is it wrong that I’m wondering how long it’s been since Josh made her laugh? Was he ever good at making her laugh?
Her hand bumps mine, our timing off.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
“All good,” I mutter.
Russell lowers his head onto his paws and lets out a contented sigh.
“I think he’s loving this,” Greta says, a smile in her voice. She sounds sleepy again. Relaxed.
Happy.
Did I make that happen?
“It probably feels pretty great,” I say. Because how could it not. I think it feels pretty great, and I’m not even the one getting a back rub. Just the one letting my hand follow Greta’s.
And maybe I’m just getting tired, but her hand bumps mine again. Did I mean for that to happen?
This time she doesn’t apologize.
My eyes feel heavy. I shut them, but I try to keep pace with our slowing strokes over Russell’s coat.
I’m not sure when it happens, but sometime later, the sides of our hands are touching, and we’re moving over the dog in one, connected stroke.
I’m tired. But I’m not so tired that I don’t feel every centimeter of Greta’s touch along the outside of my hand.
I don’t know how long we rub his back like this, like one giant hand. Maybe it was just a few strokes. Maybe it was two dozen.
And I have no idea when we stopped or which one of us fell asleep first.
But I know that when sunlight wakes me in Greta’s bed, my hand is covering hers as an overweight Corgi snores in my face.
