At least she knows that I’m not sleeping naked.
“‘Night, Greta.”
I pad back to my side, draw the curtain closed again, and crawl back under the covers, feeling even less like sleeping than I did before. And that doesn’t change when Greta turns out her light.
I hear Russell heft himself up onto her bed.
I hear Greta snuggle under her covers.
I hear her long sigh.
Then nothing.
Well, not exactly nothing. But the silence of someone who is also wide awake and trying not to make any noise.
Which is probably exactly what she’s hearing from me.
I roll onto my side, my back to her side of the camper. The structure rocks ever so slightly with the motion.
A moment later, Greta must turn over onto her side because I hear the slight rustling and feel the subtle shake.
Fuck.
If I feel her every time she moves, I really never am getting to sleep.
But as proof of divine mercies, the big overhead AC ticks on, filling the camper with cold air and white noise.
And it’s enough. Enough for me to shut my eyes and drop into sleep.
* * *
“Shit… Goddamn it.”
I jerk awake, lost for a moment in a dream about the stupid company HMV picnic. Except it wasn’t like any company picnic I’d ever been to. People were skinny dipping in Morses Pond.
My coworkers.
And Greta was one of them.
But John Merrimen, one of the senior partners, was telling me I had to keep my clothes on.
“Fuck.”
I sit up. The whispered curse isn’t mine.
“Greta?” I’m out of bed and pulling back the curtain before she answers. A seam of light outlines the shut bathroom door. “Everything okay?”
“Zach?” Her voice pitches higher in alarm. She sounds upset. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake y—”
“It’s fine. Are you okay?”
Silence.
Concern sends my heartbeat climbing. “Greta?”
“I…”
She’s not crying, but something’s off.
