Page 44 of Stray for You

“I meant to clean,” Cameron says. “I just ran out of time.”

“I love it,” I say, beaming.

He looks skeptical, but I can’t stop grinning. The guitar. The notebooks on the coffee table. The band posters on the wall behind the couch. This whole place positively reeks of Cameron. It looks like him, it smells like him. Every nook and cranny is him, his space, his love for music, his haphazard clutter.

I drop my bag on the floor beside the pile of shoes and strideto Cameron, cupping his face before he has time to try to tidy up anything else. I seize his mouth, holding him against me for a long, deep kiss.

“God, I’ve missed you so fucking much,” I say when we part.

Cameron doesn’t respond, but I don’t care about playing coy anymore. My usual games pushed him away for most of our lives; only when I treated this with sincerity during that conference did Cameron open up and give me a chance. I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.

I go in to kiss him again, but Cameron halts us after only a moment. “You must be hungry after your flight.”

“I’m okay,” I lie, before my stomach grumbles and gives me up.

“You’re hungry,” Cameron says more firmly. “Come on. We can walk to the store.”

I couldn’t care less about food, but Cameron takes my hand and tugs me toward the entrance and out into the hall. I remind myself that I have a whole week with him, no conference, no other obligations, just him. I can wait until we eat. Probably.

Cameron doesn’t release my hand as we head down the stairs and out of the apartment complex. The big, blocky structure lets us out onto a sidewalk beside a busy two-lane road. We hike uphill, which serves as a stark reminder of how far I am from flat, open New Jersey. The grocery store is only a few blocks from the complex, which is convenient except in that Cameron finally drops my hand in order to grab a basket when we enter the store.

I remind myself to calm down, but it’s difficult. He’s being so calm. Is this sort of thing ordinary for him? Has he dated so many people that this is yet another notch on his belt? Despite my colorful past, that stings. A piece of me wants to be special to him. A piece of me wants to stand out in his life.

We weave through the aisles, but the rows of boxed pastaand bags of chips and cans of vegetables blur. I mostly watch Cameron, occasionally lobbing out some sort of tepid agreement when he asks if I like the curly noodles or the bow ties.

“Hey, hold up,” I say as we head down the frozen isle. I open a cabinet and pull out a huge tub of rocky road ice cream. “This was your favorite flavor, right? Let’s grab it.”

Cameron doesn’t respond at first. His face does that thing where it goes very still and blank and I can’t read anything on it.

“Yeah,” he says, and adds it to the basket.

We leave the store with the tub of ice cream, as well as enough pasta and shredded cheese to open our own Italian restaurant. Only when we return to Cameron’s place and kick off our shoes again does Cam reveal the plan.

“I learned about it on Reddit,” he says. “It’s surprising how many decent recipes you can get there. First, we cook the noodles. Then, we add in some canned veggies and top it off with the cheese.”

He works on the noodles while I open cans of corn and vegetables and drain out the water. Once the pasta is ready, he has me dump out the canned stuff into a pan. As it begins sizzling, Cameron tosses the noodles in and stirs it all up along with seasonings.

“Okay, here’s the part that actually makes it taste good,” he says. “Can you open that bag?”

I tear open the bag of shredded cheese, and Cameron pours a terrifying amount onto the mixture on the stove. He lets it sit, and, when it’s all melted, starts doling everything out into bowls.

“Mac ‘n’ cheese?” I ask.

“Sort of. I find this more filling because of the veggies. It’s good. Try it.”

He holds up his fork, a gooey mass of corn and cheese and noodle dripping off it. It takes a moment before I realize he means for me to eat right off his fork, but when I do, he could befeeding me the dirt on the bottom of his shoes and I’d lunge at it with just as much enthusiasm as I spare for the mac ‘n’ cheese. I barely even taste it, my mind stuck on the casual intimacy of this simple gesture.

“Good?” Cameron says, a note of anxiety tightening his voice.

Right. Of course. He hates failing at things, and me hating this meal would definitely be a failure in his eyes.

“It’s great,” I say.

I mean it, but the meal is even better when we sit snuggled up on the couch and Cameron puts on a show about detectives with psychic abilities. The cheese is warm and filling, but letting my shoulder casually rest against Cameron’s while we eat is what really leaves me warm and satiated.

“Did you want to watch something else?” Cameron asks when the first episode ends.

At least, I think it was the first episode. Cameron turns his head and catches me staring at him, and I realize I haven’t watched more than a couple minutes of the detective show. I’ve been busy sneaking glances at him, like I’m trying to fill up a reserve for the long, dry days I’ll face when I return to New Jersey.

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