And to hear, in twelve little words, that I am enough.
I’m sure I’ve heard it before. Maybe in different words.
But this is the first time it’s sunk in.
This is the first time I’ve let it sink in.
I shrug and give Greta a lopsided grin. “Happy… Free.”
Her answering smile is nothing short of glittering.
“I feel just the same.”
I hold her gaze until my stomach growls between us.
Then I shrug again. “Happy, free, and hungry as a bear.”
Greta laughs. “Good.” She wriggles out of my arms and reaches for her backpack that’s been stashed in the far corner. “I came prepared.”
The sight of her bare back and pert bottom as she drags her pack back to us is almost enough to make me forget that my body requires food. But then she’s rolling back, setting the pack in her lap, and digging through it.
Like the boss she is, Greta produces a pack of wet wipes and holds it out to me.
“Damn, woman,” I say, flicking open the top and plucking out two wipes. “You really do think of everything.
When I’ve wrapped up the condom and we’re both clean, I hand Greta her clothes and gather up mine. The night’s chill is impossible to ignore now.
Greta is dressed before I am, and she unearths two stainless steel bottles from her backpack and crawls toward the tent’s opening.
“Be right back,” she says.
I hear her clanking around and make out the unmistakable woosh and hiss of a Jetboil. When I pull my shirt back over my head, a flicker of flames illuminates the little outdoor living room Greta has set up for us.
I emerge from the tent on hands and knees, surveying the sight with renewed wonder. “Are you making dinner?”
Greta tucks her curls behind her ears, watching the red indicator on the side of her Jetboil darken and grow. “Mmm hmm.” She glances at me and nods toward the tent’s interior. “Wanna choose from our exceptional menu?”
Huffing a laugh, I reach back into the tent and draw out her all-encompassing backpack. Inside, I find two ready meals and cannot get over how quickly she put all this together.
When I look back at Greta, she’s wrinkling her nose. “Sorry. Not the greatest, I know.”
“What? Are you kidding me?” I scoff, incredulous. “You’re amazing. Besides—” I read the labels of both packets. “Band—what the hell does that say?Bandito… Scrambleis my favorite.”
She’s cackling before I even finish. “Yeah, I have no idea what that is.”
I check the other pouch. “You can have the green curry.”
She tilts her head and smiles. “How about we split both?”
“Deal.”
Bandito Scramble, it turns out, is pretty darn good. “It just needs a little salt,” I say, ten minutes later, as we’re crouched on the two tripod stools, enjoying our dinner in front of Greta’s mini fire.
The moment is perfect. I want to memorize everything about it so I can treasure it for as long as I’m living.
“Mm.” Greta wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and thrusts her bag of curry at me. “Here. Hold this.”
And then she’s rootling through the outer zipper pouches on her pack until she produces a thimble-sized container of salt.
