Crawling Into Bed With Becca Burton.
And a Good Book
Important things first, are these sheets silk or cotton?
Actually, they’re neither. My sheets are warm, soft, flannel goodness. It’s chilly where I live in Oregon, and I need all the warmth I can get!
What are you wearing?
Oh my, this relationship is progressing quite quickly. I’m wearing my super sexy oversized pajama pants with cat print all over them, and a warm, fluffy sweater.
What are we snacking on in bed while we read tonight?
Popcorn. Definitely popcorn. Fresh off the stove with just a little salt and butter. Divine. (Also maybe a glass of wine to top it all off).
If I open this nightstand drawer, what will I find?
I would be very impressed, because I don’t have a nightstand drawer! My nightstand is a table, and on it you’ll find a stack of to-be-read books, an eye mask, some pony tail holders, and a glass of water for my kitty (she likes a midnight drink also!)
Do you roll up in the blankets like a burrito, or kick the covers off during the night?
I usually start out rolled up like a burrito, and wake up with my covers mysteriously all over my bed and the floor.
Can I put my cold feet on your calves to warm them up?
Hell no. Chances are my feet are colder than yours anyways! (I will offer you some fluffy socks instead though).
We are reading Something Like a Love Song, my debut novel about Dylan and Landon, two long time boyfriends who are victims of a hate crime, and have to find the strength and courage to carry on and rebuild their lives
Landon’s brain is still swelling, the doctor tells them later, when the crying has calmed and the sun has lowered in the sky. They're giving him medication to draw the extra fluid off of his brain. A piece of his skull is still missing, embedded in his abdomen for safekeeping. His blood pressure has been mostly stabilized with more medication, and they're keeping him sedated so he can rest. He won't feel any pain.
Is that supposed to make them feel better, knowing that Landon isn't in any pain? Dylan concentrates on Landon while the doctor is talking. He sees the man he's supposed to marry, the man who was so vibrant, so energetic that Dylan used to insist there was more coffee than blood in his veins. He watches the rhythm of Landon's chest as it rises and falls with each whirr of the ventilator and the way he lies so unnaturally still, showing not even the slightest change in expression or the smallest twitch of his fingers when Dylan takes his hand. It's so wrong, the opposite of everything that Landon is, and there's nothing the doctor can say to make this better.
Someone asks questions. Helen, Dylan thinks. How long until they can expect changes? How long until they know what his prognosis is? What are his chances?
Dylan focuses on the hand in his, the freckled skin still showing the remnants of a tan from the summer sun. He's always prided himself in being logical, on knowing numbers and statistics and organizing everything into neat categories, but he can't bring himself to do that now. He doesn't want to know what chance Landon has of surviving, because then he'll know what chance he doesn't have. There's no way to calculate or figure his way out of this situation, to try to force things to make sense. He has no control, and it scares him.
He pretends to listen while the doctor rattles off terms he doesn't understand, answers questions he's too afraid to ask and gives reassurances he doesn't want to hear. He likes facts and truths and automatically distrusts anyone duplicitous, anyone who misleads and sugarcoats and manipulates. So he mentally lists the things he knows, marking each truth with a line in the starched white hospital blanket.
Landon's brain is swelling.
Landon's skull is in his abdomen.
Landon's blood pressure isn't regulating itself as it should.
Landon can't even breathe on his own.
Landon might die.
The doctors have no real answers.