BOOTCAMP
Chris
Sleep doesn’t come. Checking the feed every few minutes is paranoid, but I do it anyway. I’m sure she wants to use the knife she hid rather on me than on herself, and she can’t go anywhere. Everything’s fine. The rational voice inside my head knows that.
Nonetheless, relaxing isn’t an option.
I alternate my gaze between the screen and the bench until I finally give in.
The weights are heavy enough to shut up my brain.
The repetition helps. It always does. No one’s ever slept here before, not this close to me.
I force the thought away. If I can drop into a dead sleep in a metal-framed bunk with forty other soldiers in some godforsaken barrack, I can handle one girl in my own house.
In the early morning, on three hours of sleep, I unlock her door without opening it. She can come out when she’s ready. A deal’s a deal.
Five minutes later, we almost collide in the hallway, me leaving the bathroom, her going in. After a muttered exchange of awkward sorries, we manage to pass without brushing shoulders.
On the porch, I’m packing my fishing case when she steps out. I glance up when she speaks. “Are you going somewhere?”
Hard to tell if she asks because she hopes I’ll leave her alone or because she’s afraid I will.
“Fishing,” I say, testing the waters. “Wanna come? Wouldn’t want you to get bored.” I can hardly suppress my amusement, remembering how she scrunched her nose when she grabbed that book off the shelf yesterday.
“Fishing? Like... at the shore?”
“More like on a boat.” I let out a shallow breath through my nose, half a huff, half a smile.
She stares at the lake, probably weighing pros and cons, wondering if it’s freedom or a trap.
“Sure.”
She doesn’t sound sure, but it’s a yes.
There’s no need to go fishing. I stocked up on provisions when I came to prepare the room and bring her bag. Inviting her to join me was the point. If I’d insisted, she would’ve fought me on it. What she wants right now is choice. It doesn’t matter if it’s an illusion.
We head down to the dock, barely a hundred feet from the house.
When I start loading the small boat, I catch her stopping short, her focus jumping from me to the lake and back.
She eyes me with suspicion, and I raise both hands immediately.
“Sorry, okay? It won’t happen again.” I mean it.
I still can’t believe I lost control and dumped her into the water.
She approaches slowly. “It better not.” The edge is back in her tone, and I can’t decide if that’s progress or trouble.
Close enough now, she lets me take her hand and help her onto the boat. The chill of her smooth skin is a stark contrast to mine. Once she’s seated, I shrug out of my jacket and hand it over.
A protest starts forming on her lips, but I shut it down. “I’ll be fine.”
The fear of owing me is disguised as concern. She only has that one hoodie. Her father apparently didn’t think of packing for mountain weather.
The sun is cresting the horizon as we push out to the middle of the lake, streaks of pink and blue painting the water.
I show her how to thread the line, how to cast, where the shadows hold fish.
She listens closely but learns fast that theory and practice are worlds apart.
On her first try, the hook snags my sweater, yanking it hard.
One hand flies to her mouth, catching the startled laugh slipping out anyway, and it forces a smile out of me in return.
It takes another four attempts before the hook finally arcs cleanly and lands with a soft plop on the water.
“Not bad,” I praise.
The water laps against the wood. Out here, it’s so peaceful we both forget to be suspicious.
“Oh my god, I got one!” Her shout erupts across the lake, sending a family of ducks into panicked flight, wings flapping and quacking like mad.
“Easy,” I tell her quickly. “Don’t yank. Lift the rod... yeah, like that. Keep the line taut. Let it fight, but don’t give it too much room. Now slowly reel.”
She follows every word, her face set with determination. “That’s it,” I say, almost grinning. “You’ve got it.”
Silver thrashes as the trout bursts through the surface, and I scoop it into the net. The thing smacks against the floor, tail beating hard, body twisting like it’s trying to break the boat in half.
She stares at it wide-eyed. “You’re not gonna throw it back in?”
I blink at her. “That fish isn’t going anywhere but the pan. You caught our dinner,” I state, hoping she won’t go vegetarian now.
After I stow everything in the cooler, I turn the boat and start rowing for shore. The paddles cut into the water with soft splashes, the rhythm almost meditative.
This is the first real chance I’ve had to see her unguarded, without fear or stubbornness getting in the way. The cold has flushed her cheeks, her hair a blazing red in the sunlight. Storybook-perfect, if not for the bulky jacket hanging off her frame.
For once, her expression holds nothing hostile. What’s left is almost relaxed.
On our way to the kitchen, I ask her to set the table while I take care of the fish so it’ll be ready to fry tonight.
“You mean this isn’t Hotel Chris, where I get three meals a day and around-the-clock action and entertainment?”
The way she says my name gets my attention. She’s definitely coming back to herself, and I take the bait. “No, princess. This is Bootcamp Chris. Where you learn how to fish and study for your SATs.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
“I’m a lucky guy,” I mutter, pulling open the cabinet to show her where the breakfast supplies are stashed.
Despite the sarcasm, she sets the table outside while I clean the trout. There it is again, that strange domestic atmosphere. I’ve always known the definition, but the experience is new.
Over breakfast, she catches me off guard. “Why do you keep calling me princess?”
“Because that’s what I thought you were,” I answer. “A pampered little brat who’d never had to pay the price for her mistakes.”
She lowers her head, her fingers digging into her arm. “What about now?”
I set my spoon aside and study her. I remember the shed, her breaking apart in the dark, and I know there’s more beneath the surface than she’ll let me see.
But I’m not here to dig. This stays a job, even if my conditions have changed.
The election will pass, and we’ll both move on.
“I know you’re not,” I say instead, keeping it light. “So what do you want me to call you?”
Her gaze lifts. “Sara’s fine,” she answers, no edge in her tone.
“Sara.” I let the syllables roll over my tongue. “I can work with that.”
After the cleanup, she drops onto the bench again. I pull out the stack Whitmore packed: notebooks, pencils, a pile of SAT prep guides—punishment disguised as books.
Her jaw slackens. “You were serious?” she says, staring at me as if I’ve completely lost it.
I spread the supplies across the table. “What you do with this is your choice. Don’t forget you’ve got a future after you return home. These things could help you get there faster.” Wow, I sound like a counselor.
Her gaze drops to the floor.
I wasn’t into school either, but finished anyway.
That diploma was my ticket out of the trailer park and into the Navy.
Black ops isn’t something you walk away from alive.
You’re in until you’re not. I would have taken a bullet for my team, for Cash, for my country.
No questions asked. They needed someone to take the fall.
I returned home with the skills they gave me and none of the rules.
She also needs that ticket for college. I’m not sure if she’s realized it yet.
We keep to ourselves for most of the day. I hole up in the kitchen with my laptop. I’ve also got a life after this job, and prepping for it now saves me time later. More time leads to more work. Not because I need it, but because I want it. I thrive on this kind of grind. The paycheck is a bonus.
In the afternoon, I bring two mugs of coffee out to the porch. She’s barefoot, surrounded by flashcards and notes, so absorbed in Catcher in the Rye it takes her a while to notice me.
When she finally does, her expression dares me to comment but warns me not to. I don’t, but I can’t help the grin spreading.
“Can I?” I ask, nodding toward her feet.
“Sure.” She sets the book aside and shifts, giving me access. “The pain’s almost gone. I can walk and wear sneakers now without wincing.”
I’m not convinced. The second my fingers brush her sole, she jerks back. My eyebrows lift.
“It doesn’t hurt.” The words squeeze through clenched teeth. Her lips barely part, as if speaking too loudly might make it worse. “I’m just... ticklish.” Her gaze skitters away, cheeks reddening with embarrassment.
“All right.” I let go, holding the laugh in. “Let them rest. We’ll try a walk tomorrow.”
She relaxes, toes twitching in the sun as she picks up the book again.
◆◆◆
I wake with a start.
"Ow!" The sound tears through the stillness.
For a beat, I’m back in the fight, heart hammering, muscles snapping to attention before my brain even catches up. I tumble out of bed, feet already moving. It’s coming from Sara’s room.
I grab the key from the nightstand, unlock the door, and burst into her room without knocking, ready for God knows what. Adrenaline floods my veins, and I come to an abrupt stop, standing bare-chested in my boxers.
In a tank top and panties, she’s half on the mattress, half crumpled on the floor. Her hair’s a mess, cheeks flushed, low groans escaping as she tries to sit up.
“What happened?” I ask, my heart pounding for way too many reasons.
“I wanted to get up,” she says through clenched teeth, “and it felt like someone stuck a knife in my back. I collapsed.”
Relief and concern hit me at the same time.
“It’s probably a locked joint. I can release it, if you’ll let me,” I tell her, kneeling down.
“But you have to lie flat on the floor and let your muscles go limp. I’ll need to apply some pressure and...
well, it’s going to bite for a second, but it’ll help. ”
It must really hurt, considering she immediately shuffles off the mattress as best she can and gets into position.
I adjust her arm and shoulder, shifting her onto her side. She winces. “I’m going to twist you a bit, then push down when I count to three, okay?”
“Uh huh,” is all she manages.
“One. Two—”
She locks up solid as steel.
I back away, smiling despite myself. “Okay, nope. It’s not gonna work if you’re tense.”
She narrows her eyes. “You said three.”
“Yeah, and you flinched on two. You’ve got to trust me more.”
“Says the guy who jails me at night.”
I scoff. Fair.
That edge of sarcasm is her tell. She’s deflecting the pain.
“We’ll try one more time,” I say gently. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll figure out another way.”
She nods, exhaling slowly.
This time, I don’t count to three. I push right before two.
Crack.
She gasps, blinking like someone surfacing from deep water. “You tricked me!”
“And you’re not wincing anymore. You’re welcome.”
She pushes herself up slowly, careful not to twist again, and I offer her a hand without thinking.
She takes it instantly and I help her to her feet.
Her foot snags the blanket, and she stumbles forward with a startled breath.
I react fast, instinctively catching her by the waist as she grabs my shoulders to steady herself.
We freeze. She’s pressed against me, both of us hardly wearing any clothes, gripping tighter than we need to.
My hands hold her firmly, her fingers curling ever so slightly against my bare skin. Our eyes meet. Confusion flashes in hers, probably mirrored in mine.
She doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
The moment catches up to us, and we both let go and take a step back.
“Get ready,” I say, my voice strained. “Let’s go for a walk. Loosen up the rest of those muscles.”
Out in the hallway, I lean a hand against the wall, trying to force my thoughts into order.
What the hell was that?
Oh no, buddy, I almost say out loud when I spot the tent in my boxers.
It’s just a physical reaction. It’s been a while since I last felt naked skin against mine.
She’s beautiful, and we were close. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
I can’t go there. I won’t. It’s a job. She’s leaving in a few weeks, going back to a world without forests and fishing and peaceful mornings.
Whatever happened in there... it can’t happen again.