My heart squeezes.
Damn, but I want to go back to her.
I remember the night of the roof leak and nearly moan. No way I could make it through the night next to her now and not touch her.
At least I don’t have to hide how I feel anymore.
Not that I’ve been doing a bang up job of that. When I walked my folks back to their cabin earlier, Mom would not let up with the questions.
Are you a couple? You’renota couple? Why not? You’re clearly crazy about each other.
My phone lights up.
Greta: You tired?
I wonder if she hears my snort.
I should be tired. I should be asleep already after everything. Finishing the dual catwalk, my parents’ surprise visit, the emotional rollercoaster I’ve ridden all day. But sleep is nowhere in sight.
Me: Hell no.
I hear the faintest laugh, and I smile so hard it hurts. God, I love knowing I’ve made her laugh.
Made her smile.
Made her happy—even for a moment.
I want to make her happy. All the time.
Greta: Me either.
Greta: I almost feel guilty. Like with this much energy, I should climb onto the John Deere and ride that thing into the ground.
It’s everything I can do not to choke. This is Greta. She’s not making a dirty joke, but there’s a twelve-year-old boy that still lives in my head, and he’s picturing being the John Deere.
Greta: Shit. Did that come out weird?
My laughter shatters the silence, and I’m pretty sure I hear Greta’s groan of embarrassment from across the camper.
When I can get it together enough to type, I send:
Your 7th graders must have given you hell. ??
Her response is swift.
Greta: Um. No. I was a fast learner. Anything remotely resembling dicks or assholes was removed from the curriculum.
Oh my God, she kills me!
Greta: My students have never heard of the planet Uranus.
No doubt, she can hear me laughing.
Greta: And don’t get me started on gas giants and wormholes.
Greta: In fact, I advise avoiding holes of any kind when teaching middle schoolers. Ignorance is bliss.
When I can manage it, I type:STOP. PLEASE.
