Look at You

Chapter 52

52

I unlock my phone and it opens right up to what I'm looking for: my text thread with Simon. It's the only thing I've looked at for the last 24 hours.

From last night, right when he left:

Cameron Lewis: Please come back.

From early this morning, after my three hours of fitful, tear-stained sleep but before I left for work:

Cameron Lewis: Just call me. Or come over tonight. Or I'll come to you. Anything, please.

And finally, two hours ago:

Cameron Lewis: I called. Left a message.

The voice message, of course, was all similar pleas of talk to me, I need you, let me explain. He hasn't texted or called since.

I drag myself through work. I have enough sense to remove all plans of placing our team on the eighth floor during the renovation. All week, I get in early and I leave late, not to avoid him, but to think about anything else except for how desperately I need him to call.

On Thursday night, I try his phone once more on my way home from AA. He doesn't answer, and I'm not surprised.

As soon as I pull into the driveway, I drop my head on the wheel, laying on the horn. I sit up, suddenly engulfed in a rage I haven't felt since Vic. I throw the heel of my hand against the wheel over and over and over until I forget why I'm doing it.

It takes me ten minutes to regulate my breathing. When I finally do, I pull out my phone one last time. Of course, it's already open on our messages.

Cameron Lewis: Simon, please. Please talk to me. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I need you.

At the last second, before I hit send, I replace where I've typed love with the more subtle alternative need. Both are true, but I'm afraid he won't believe me. Because—and he said it himself—to him, I'm a liar.

I go to sleep restless. I hear nothing from Simon.

On Friday I wake up with a raging fever. 102. I call in sick with Archer, whose only response is "sweat it out, boy." I take the last few pills in my Tylenol bottle and sleep for ten dreamless hours.

When I wake up, the fever is the same, but I'm out of Tylenol. I check my phone. Almost 7 on a Friday night. I'm weak, haven't eaten a thing, and know from the lack of television static or the sound of dusty vinyl that Riley isn't home. I drag myself to the shower to try and cool myself down, but thirty minutes later I'm still achy and hot. I find my phone and shoot an SOS text to Callie. I'm 20 minutes out of her way, and she's most likely already on a sushi date with Simon or Mathias, but I'm desperate, and Craig's shift is in full swing. As soon as I set the phone back down, I'm asleep again.

__

"Cameron?" My eyelids are heavy. "Cameron?"

It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the light that has just been flicked on. The shadow in my doorway suddenly takes shape. Tall, knee-high boots are the first thing I'm able to make out.

"Cal," I try and push myself up, but it takes much more force than it usually does.

"Cameron, sweetheart," Callie's already on the edge of my bed, one hand on my forehead. "Why didn't you call me sooner?"

I look at her closer now. Her eyes are rimmed in white liner and her lips are stained cherry. The top she's wearing is red velvet. "You look so pretty," I tell her, my eyes just barely slits.