says and ushers me outside to the parking lot. “I think we’ve got everything we need here.”
In a whirlwind, I’m back in my car and he’s following me home. And somehow, I’m totally fine with this. Because when I get home, he parks his car, follows me in, makes quick work of giving me my meds, and then commands me to change into my pajamas again and get back in bed and go to sleep.
And I do go back to bed. But the idea of Cameron hanging around in my house while I’m in my bedroom starts to eat away at me. Enough so that I know it will be impossible to fall back to sleep.
I tiptoe down the stairs and spot him on the couch in my living room, trying to figure out the remote control situation for the television.
“It’s the other remote,” I say to him and drag myself the rest of the way until I plop myself down on the other end of the couch. Pointing at the remote control that’s still on the coffee table, I add, “That’s the one that controls everything. The remote you’re holding is old and doesn’t work. I should just get rid of it, but I can’t seem to part ways with it.”
“What are you doing? You’re supposed to be in bed,” he says and grabs the other remote.
“I tried. Didn’t take. So here I am. Entertain me.”
“Entertain you?” he asks with a grin. “Hmm, did you have any thing in mind?”
“You can go on to my Netflix account and maybe we can pick a TV show neither of us has watched before and marathon it. You game?”
“You’re on.”
Cameron and I eventually settle on Mad Men , me because I think Jon Hamm is supersexy, and him, well, I think he’s just agreeing to watch it because I want to watch it. He presses Play on season one, episode one, and then immediately pauses the show.
“Are we quitting already?” I ask.
He laughs and stands up from the couch, reaching behind him to pull the blanket I have draped on the back of it. Then he comes to where I’m sitting in a ball and covers me with it, taking great care to tuck it in underneath my feet and pull it right up to under my chin. The whole time, his eyes are soft and his forehead is crinkled in concen tration, while moving with much thought and careful consideration.
Before he goes back to his side of the couch, I say, “I think I’m good, thank you, Cameron.”
He nods and goes to sit down, then presses Play and we start our little marathon . . .
I only stay awake long enough to watch the very first scene, and then I’m out like a light.
A soft nudge on my shoulder wakes me from a deep sleep. When I come to, I see that it’s nighttime and the television is off, and Cameron is crouched on the floor beside me.
“Hey there,” he says quietly. “How are you feeling?”
I rub my eyes and cough a little to clear my throat. “I still have the chills and I still sound like garbage.”
I do, my throat is killing me, and I feel as if I could go right back to sleep for the next twelve hours.
“Is the show over? Did he jump off the building for real?” I ask him.
Cameron smiles and rubs his mouth to stifle his laugh. “No, and no. I kind of dozed off there toward the last episode I was watching.”
“What time is it anyway?”
“It’s around ten o’clock. I didn’t want to wake you up to see if you were hungry, but since it’s getting so late, I thought I’d at least let you know that I was gonna head out.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, and then kind of start dozing again.
“Vanessa?”
“Just give me a minute, I’ll be right there and . . .” I say, trying my best to stay awake. But this sickness is kicking my ass and winning.
The next few moments are kind of a blur and kind of an out-of-body experience, because I’m not absolutely sure, but it feels as if I’m being carried up the stairs by Cameron; either that or I somehow picked up the superpower of flying when I got this case of strep throat. Even stranger is when I’m placed in my bed, then reach out to grab a fistful of
In a whirlwind, I’m back in my car and he’s following me home. And somehow, I’m totally fine with this. Because when I get home, he parks his car, follows me in, makes quick work of giving me my meds, and then commands me to change into my pajamas again and get back in bed and go to sleep.
And I do go back to bed. But the idea of Cameron hanging around in my house while I’m in my bedroom starts to eat away at me. Enough so that I know it will be impossible to fall back to sleep.
I tiptoe down the stairs and spot him on the couch in my living room, trying to figure out the remote control situation for the television.
“It’s the other remote,” I say to him and drag myself the rest of the way until I plop myself down on the other end of the couch. Pointing at the remote control that’s still on the coffee table, I add, “That’s the one that controls everything. The remote you’re holding is old and doesn’t work. I should just get rid of it, but I can’t seem to part ways with it.”
“What are you doing? You’re supposed to be in bed,” he says and grabs the other remote.
“I tried. Didn’t take. So here I am. Entertain me.”
“Entertain you?” he asks with a grin. “Hmm, did you have any thing in mind?”
“You can go on to my Netflix account and maybe we can pick a TV show neither of us has watched before and marathon it. You game?”
“You’re on.”
Cameron and I eventually settle on Mad Men , me because I think Jon Hamm is supersexy, and him, well, I think he’s just agreeing to watch it because I want to watch it. He presses Play on season one, episode one, and then immediately pauses the show.
“Are we quitting already?” I ask.
He laughs and stands up from the couch, reaching behind him to pull the blanket I have draped on the back of it. Then he comes to where I’m sitting in a ball and covers me with it, taking great care to tuck it in underneath my feet and pull it right up to under my chin. The whole time, his eyes are soft and his forehead is crinkled in concen tration, while moving with much thought and careful consideration.
Before he goes back to his side of the couch, I say, “I think I’m good, thank you, Cameron.”
He nods and goes to sit down, then presses Play and we start our little marathon . . .
I only stay awake long enough to watch the very first scene, and then I’m out like a light.
A soft nudge on my shoulder wakes me from a deep sleep. When I come to, I see that it’s nighttime and the television is off, and Cameron is crouched on the floor beside me.
“Hey there,” he says quietly. “How are you feeling?”
I rub my eyes and cough a little to clear my throat. “I still have the chills and I still sound like garbage.”
I do, my throat is killing me, and I feel as if I could go right back to sleep for the next twelve hours.
“Is the show over? Did he jump off the building for real?” I ask him.
Cameron smiles and rubs his mouth to stifle his laugh. “No, and no. I kind of dozed off there toward the last episode I was watching.”
“What time is it anyway?”
“It’s around ten o’clock. I didn’t want to wake you up to see if you were hungry, but since it’s getting so late, I thought I’d at least let you know that I was gonna head out.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, and then kind of start dozing again.
“Vanessa?”
“Just give me a minute, I’ll be right there and . . .” I say, trying my best to stay awake. But this sickness is kicking my ass and winning.
The next few moments are kind of a blur and kind of an out-of-body experience, because I’m not absolutely sure, but it feels as if I’m being carried up the stairs by Cameron; either that or I somehow picked up the superpower of flying when I got this case of strep throat. Even stranger is when I’m placed in my bed, then reach out to grab a fistful of
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