CAMP BLISS
GRETA
“You’re gonna love him,” Josh says, popping the top off one Stella Artois before the other.
I’m on the couch, a throw pillow serving as my lap desk, my MacBook Air balanced on top. “You don’t think it’s weird that he and I have never met? I mean, we’re gonna to be business partners, and we’ve only texted.”
Carrying the beers from our tiny kitchen, Josh steps around the coffee table that’s dripping with the paper versions of all of our hopes and dreams: bank statements, loan application, property inspection reports, business plan, insurance policies, cabin blueprints.
“You trust me, right?” He flops down beside me, and I whip my laptop out of the path of beer spray just in time.
“Watch it!”
“Sorry, babe.” He uses the elbow of his shirtsleeve to dab the splash of beer on the throw pillow in my lap. Then he hands me one of the bottles. “As I was saying, you trust me, right?”
I wrap my hand around the sweating beer bottle and look my boyfriend in the eyes. “You know I do.”
We’ve been through hell and back the last two and a half years, and I’m not sure I could have kept it together without Josh. Our first date was February 25, 2020. We’d spent all of ten hours together before the world shut down.
And then for the next six months, he was my bubble. My whole world.
He was there when I had to figure out how to teach seventh grade earth science online.
When I decided to enroll in the master’s program for school counseling and ended up sitting at a computer for sixteen hours a day.
He was there when my mom and dad called the pandemic a media hoax and dragged us for acting like sheep as we quarantined.
He was there when Aunt Tilde—my wild, belly-laughing, mint-julep-drinking, flatulent-dog-loving, personal-style-guru, very favorite blood relative—caught COVID and was gone nine days later.
As if thoughts of Aunt Tilde summon him, Russell, the gassy Corgi, chungles into the living room and with a great heave that truly defies gravity, leaps onto the couch, and wriggles until his big rump is pressed against my hip.
“Well, Zach trusts me too.” Josh nods, his black hair falling into his pool-blue eyes. He rakes it back and gives me that saucy-boy grin of his. “And I trust him. It’s gonna be awesome. You’ll see.”
He tilts the neck of his beer bottle in my direction. I want to believe him, and I want to clink bottles and put the gnawing in my gut to rest, but I can’t.
“Yeah, but… You’re still not sleeping.”
Josh rakes his free hand through his hair again, the motion agitated this time, and I don’t love that he looks away and shakes his head.
“It’s fine, Greta,” he grumbles. “Once we have the loan locked down and we can actually get our hands on that property, I’ll be fine.”
That to-hell-and-back part? That wasn’t just one-sided.
Until four weeks ago Josh was an operations manager at the Distribution Center in Carencro. Pre-pandemic, he’d started out on the floor, working in fulfillment services. And then everything in the world had to be delivered.
He got promoted, and three months later got promoted again. Each time, he took on more responsibility and more accountability. Put in longer hours. Took work home. Couldn’t put his phone on DND—even on days off. And that was before his direct reports started quitting in droves.
Prescriptions for Prozac and Lunesta seemed like a good idea a year ago to help with the anxiety when five or six beers a night just couldn’t cut it. But he didn’t give up the five or six beers.
One afternoon last December, I got home from school at four o’clock and found him crying in the shower. I stripped off my clothes and crawled in with him. I told him to quit. That we’d be fine.
When he could finally speak—the guy was sobbing so hard he was hyperventilating—Josh said he couldn’t quit.
He was only four months away from his five-year employment anniversary, and if he didn’t make it the full five years, he’d lose his stock options.
So four more months of hell, and here we are.
Liquidating stock that is literally made of his tears to help make this dream come true.
His smile is crooked as he sways the bottle side to side. “Don’t leave me hangin’.”
I roll my eyes and tap my beer to his. “To better days ahead.”
It’s probably my imagination, but did he just wince before he took a sip?
My boyfriend licks his lips and tips his chin toward my laptop. “Better log on. He said he’d be on at six.”
“Right.”
I click the Zoom icon in my dock and join the meeting.
“Hey, man!”
At first, all I see is a backlit silhouette. Josh presses in closer to me so we’re both in the shot.
“I’d say it’s great to see you,” Josh says to the screen, “but you look like Emperor Palpatine. Turn a light on for fuck’s sake.”
“What? Oh.” Chuckling, his friend Zach—or the dark blob moving on-screen—leans out of frame. There’s a click, and when he leans back, I frown.
Because he looks nothing like the skinny, pimple-faced guy with the copper buzz cut from Josh’s Sigma Chi pictures.
Except maybe the hair color.
But the buzz cut is long gone. It may have been the last haircut the man ever had. The guy on-screen has a flame-colored mane that would make Mufasa jealous.
Are you sure that’s him? I want to ask. Would it be rude to mute our mic and ask?
Isn’t he supposed to be a lawyer?
He doesn’t look like a lawyer.
He looks like a …
A surfer.
I glance at Josh. The way my boyfriend’s hair falls into his eyes. The goatee that could have used a trim a week ago. I wouldn’t say he looks like a surfer, exactly, but he’s just as rough around the edges.
I stare back into the camera and try to play catch up. “Hey Zach. I’m Greta. So nice to… uh… sort of meet you.”
“Yeah… Hey,” Zach says, but he’s frowning now too. I shift my gaze to check out our little square on the monitor to see what he’s seeing.
I don’t look like a surfer either.
I look like, well, a teacher. A 27-year-old teacher, but a teacher nonetheless.
My light brown curls are pinned up in a barrette.
And I took out my contacts when I got home because grading final exams was getting to me, so I’m wearing my square-rimmed glasses.
And, shit, I still have my faculty lanyard around my neck.
I make a face and whip the thing off. Josh side-eyes me with an Are you okay? expression. I nod.
“So, Zach, give it to me straight.” Josh launches in. “Did you pull the trigger?”
A smile streaks across Zach’s face as he lifts a bottle of Guinness to the camera. “What do you think?”
Josh raises his Stella. “Aww, hell, yeah! Man, aren’t you glad you took my advice to buy that condo?”
Zach huffs a laugh. “Best investment I ever made.”
“More where that came from,” Josh says, sounding happy and proud.
I finally smile. I can feel Josh’s excitement, and it’s a welcome relief.
“So, it’s all set? You’re selling the condo?” I ask, wanting to be sure. A lot of dominoes have to fall for this thing to really, really happen, and I don’t want to be living on hope if it’s false.
Zach’s eyes tighten, but he’s still smiling. “Yep. We close Monday. I’m moving out this weekend, selling my Honda, shipping what I can’t live without to you guys, and hopping on a plane Wednesday morning.”
Oh. That’s right. In less than a week, Zach will be moving in with us. Living in our little two-bedroom house until the three of us close on the property—or until the lease on our house runs out at the end of June.
Whichever comes first.
I shake off those thoughts. Now’s not the time to worry about living with a stranger. Or being homeless. We have too much to do.
“Is the firm still trying to drag you back?” Josh asks, and there’s just enough worry in his voice to knot my stomach.
Zach’s lip curls. “Yeah, they keep trying to sweeten the pot, but fuck ‘em.” He shakes his head. “I’m one of the lucky ones. Getting out before they suck every drop of blood from my veins. Thanks to you, J.”
The couch cushions shift beneath me. I glance at Josh. He’s smiling, but his eyes are tight. Is Zach embarrassing him?
“I told you, it’s Greta you need to thank. This whole concept is her baby.”
Holy shit. Did Zach just wrinkle his nose?
I blink and adjust my glasses. When I refocus, he’s grinning. Was I just seeing things? Did I imagine it? Maybe I’m just nervous. We have everything riding on this.
“Well, I hope you guys are open to some creative input. I have ideas I’d like to share,” Zach is still smiling, but there’s an arrogance to it I’m not crazy about.
I swallow and try to stay present. Everything is fine. We are a team. Of course, he can share his ideas. He’s putting up a third of the capital, after all. I go for a pleasant, patient smile.
“Like what?”
Now, he definitely does wrinkle his nose. “Well, first, the name. It’s…”
Gritting my teeth now would not be a good thing, I tell myself. Uttering a growl at this juncture would not be a good thing. Telling my new business partner to go fuck himself would not be a good thing.
Instead of doing all of the above, I squeeze Josh’s thigh. Hard.
“Uhhh, Zach—” Josh grips my hand and pries it loose. “Camp Bliss is really more than just a name. It’s also—you know—sort of the mission.”
Sort of? Sort of the mission?
If I were a cat, my claws would be showing.
On screen, Zach nods like he's considering, but the set of his mouth says this is only for appearances. “Right, right. It just strikes me as, well… kind of… woo-woo.”
My spine stiffens.
“You know, we’ve tested the name with focus groups.” I mean to sound breezy but knowledgeable. Still, it comes out defensive. “It was the clear favorite.”
Zach’s auburn brows crimp together. “Focus groups? I don’t remember Josh saying anything about that.”
A quick glance at my boyfriend’s wooden smile confirms he has no clue what I’m talking about.
“Yes, focus groups,” I insist.