by Penny Reid
I surmised this was where she expected me to freak out. I wasn’t going to do that, mostly because—though I’d heard of OCD—I didn’t know anything concrete about it.
Darlene had said once or twice, I’m so OCD about my laundry, or organizing her bookshelves, or some such thing. I’d heard other people use OCD to mean being particular in the same kind of context.
Shelly was definitely particular. But what she had going on seemed more serious than being fastidious about folding laundry or alphabetizing bookshelves.
So instead I said, “Hmm,” and with deliberate slowness, I slipped my hand into hers. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” Her attention was fastened to our entangled fingers and she gave mine a squeeze.
“Daisy’s. I’m hungry for something good.” And Daisy’s would be quiet during the middle of the week. And she had apple pie. “Mind if I drive?”
“Sure.” She was looking at me funny, sorta sideways, and her answer didn’t seem so sure.
I ignored her inspection, instead enjoying the weight and heat and texture of her hand in mine. I got the sense I’d won a battle of some sort.
Now all that remains is the war.
* * *
I closed the roller door and locked up, holding her hand the whole time. Each occasion where I might’ve released it—to maneuver through the backdoor or to make turning a key easier—her grip tightened and she stepped closer.
She was forced to let me go when we reached her car, still idling in the middle of the lot. I waited by my car as she parked hers, then opened the passenger door. Before she slipped in, Shelly surprised me by stealing a soft, almost tentative kiss. Yeah. It did strange things to my stomach, nice things, things that meant I’d likely be daydreaming—or night dreaming—about the moment over the coming weeks.
Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to deepen the kiss. I watched her through narrowed eyes as she settled in my GTO, promising myself I’d be ready for her next time.
If there is a next time.
The thought sobered because, what were we doing?
Strolling around to the driver’s side, I decided: we were about to settle things between us. That’s what we were doing.
As I pulled onto the road, the placement of her thumb along her wrist caught my notice. She was doing that thing again, scoring the skin of her wrist with her thumbnail.
“Why do you do that?”
Shelly tugged on her sleeve, covering the marks. “It is hard to explain.”
“Nervous habit?”
She huffed a laugh, leaning her elbow on the window sill and peering out of it. “Something like that.”
Tapping lightly on the steering wheel, I considered how best to proceed. Should I be pushy? I didn’t want to send her running, but something had to give.
“OCD is, uh, pretty common, right?”
“It isn’t uncommon.”
Okay . . .
“I’ve heard people say things like, I’m a little OCD about whatever they want to make sure is just right—like organizing and cleaning and such.”
I looked to the side just in time to see Shelly’s chest expand with a large breath. “That’s not OCD. Not even close. This disorder isn’t cute and it’s not admirable. It’s not something to be proud of, or something people who actually have it will advertise.” She was fidgeting in her seat as she said this, like she didn’t know how to sit still and talk about this at the same time.
“Okay, then. Tell me about OCD.” Maybe describing her experience with the disorder would give me insight as to why she acted so cold most of the time. I was convinced now she wasn’t a cold person. No one who kissed like she did could ever be described as cold. The woman had fire inside her, and I was guessing OCD was the reason she kept it hidden.
“It’s a chronic disorder in which a person has obsessions—meaning, uncontrollable reoccurring thoughts. The person then does things, compulsions, to avoid or escape the stress of the obsessions.” She sounded like she was reciting a medical dictionary.
“So the obsession is the thought, and the compulsion is what you do to avoid the thought?” That didn’t sound so bad.
“Yes. In my case, sometimes I can’t stop thinking about something as simple as, did I unplug the toaster. So I’ll check to make sure I’ve unplugged the toaster even though I know it’s not plugged in. I don’t know if that makes sense.”
“But doesn’t everyone do that?” I glanced at her; she was biting her thumbnail, staring anxiously out the windshield. “I’m always triple-checking things, just to make sure.”
“No. I don’t triple-check. I would check nineteen, or thirty-one, or thirty-seven times.”
My eyes widened at that. “Oh jeez.”
“Yeah.”
We sat in silence as I navigated past a few switchbacks, something about the numbers she listed seemed significant. “Wait a minute . . . Does it have to be a prime number?”
I felt her eyes on me, but more than that, I felt her energy; she was a bundle of nerves. “Yes. Most of what I do regarding my compulsions is based on prime numbers. Or odd numbers. And to clarify, I haven’t forgotten that I have unplugged it, nor have I forgotten that I’ve already checked. It’s like, the thought is that the toaster will plug itself back in or that I was dreaming when I unplugged it unless I check a prime number of times. And I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t stop myself from checking.”
“What happens if you don’t check?”
“That’s the goal. That’s why I’m in therapy. But I’m not there yet.”
I noticed she didn’t answer the question I asked, so I tried again, “And if you just leave the house without actually checking?”
“If I don’t check, then I can’t think about anything else until I do check.”
“You can’t think about anything else?”
Her knee started to bounce. “The analogy my therapist uses is, imagine someone standing in your face, banging on a pan and screaming, while you’re covered in spiders. That’s what my brain does to me if I don’t give in to my compulsions.”
“That sounds intolerable. You’re trying to learn how to tune them out?”
“Yes.”
None of this seemed terrible, not great, but not the end of the world.
“How long have you been in therapy?”
She hesitated, adjusting the seatbelt by her neck, and then twisting it with her fingers. “A few months.”
“A few months? I thought you said you were born this way.”
“I was.”
“And this is the first time you’ve been in therapy?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you do something before now?”
“I thought I could handle things myself.” Shelly rubbed her forehead and released a breath that sounded frustrated. “I’m not stupid—”
“No, you are not stupid.” I glanced at her, making sure she understood how not stupid I thought she was.
That earned me an almost smile as she continued. “As long as I could make the thoughts stop, therapy didn’t seem necessary.”
“So, you can stop the compulsions? Or the thoughts?”
“Sometimes the thoughts stop on their own. Like, I used to have thoughts that I would forget how to read if I read a book where the cover wasn’t blue. That lasted for a few months and then suddenly stopped.”
“So they eventually go away?”
“No, not all of them. Some come and go, some I’ve had since I can remember.”
“What’s your newest obsession?” I glanced at Shelly.
She was chewing on her bottom lip. “Uh. Well . . .”
I waited, biting back the urge to let her off the hook or apologize for asking. Everything she’d confessed so far had started to bring her into focus and I was hungry for more. I wanted to know everything.
Finally, after some intense hemming and hawing, she said, “I have trouble concentrating on what people are saying if their sentenc
es consistently contain an even number of words. If a person’s sentences contain an even number of words the thought is that the person is about to be violent, hurt someone.”
I blinked once at her confession. “Should I be counting my words . . . before I speak?”
“No.” She shook her head adamantly. “I don’t want you to do that. Usually, it’s fine. Statistically, the number of sentences with an even number of words should be the same as an odd number. Just as long as most of your sentences aren’t even worded—” She stopped herself, her face dropping to her hands. “I’m so sorry.”
A surge of something protective and warm had me reaching for her wrist, sliding my palm against hers and entwining our fingers; she stiffened at the contact, but she didn’t pull away.
“Do not apologize.” I made sure my sentence contained an odd number of words.
She shook her head, casting her eyes out the window. “This isn’t going to work.”
“What?” My fingers tightened automatically, though she made no move to withdraw.
“My crazy is too much. Too big for another person. I shouldn’t have—”
“I’m glad you did, I’m glad you’re telling me.” I had an urge to pull the car over, so I could hug her good and proper.
“I can’t think.”
“Why?”
“Because we are touching, and we have touched four times today.”
“. . . So?”
“I can’t think.” She swallowed, shaking her head. “I need to call Dr. West, I need to talk to her.”
I glanced at our hands; Shelly’s knuckles were white. “What’s going on? Does being touched—is that one of your obsessions? Or rather, compulsions? Not being touched?”
She nodded, like all she could do was nod.
I stared out the windshield as more and more of her past behavior came into focus, recalling the times she’d refused to shake hands. I felt like a right ass for judging her.
“What happens if someone touches you?”
“It’s only if I touch someone first.”
“Okay, what happens?”
“I obsess that something horrible will happen to the person.” Her voice cracked and her hand squeezed mine.
Holy shit.
I let that fact wash over me, now needing to pull the car over, pull her onto my lap, and embrace her. Maybe I’d never let her go.
But then suspicion, which quickly became cold dread, had me sitting straighter in my seat and making my neck itch.
“What’s the compulsion? What do you do to escape the thought?”
In my peripheral vision I saw Shelly shaking her head. So I really did pull the car over, my attention split between the skin of her forearm, her face, and the road. When we pulled to a stop, I saw a tear had escaped from her closed eyes, leaving a wet trail on her perfect cheek.
“What do you do, Shelly?” I’m wrong. Don’t say it.
“I don’t want to say. Then you’ll know.”
“Tell me.” Shit. Shit. Shit.
“I—” She choked. Sniffed. Shook her head. “I have to . . .”
Please don’t say it, Shelly. I don’t want to be right.
“. . . have to cut myself.”
I stopped breathing, a litany of recriminations running through my mind underscored by dread.
Has she touched me first? Did that ever happen?
Two times, maybe three. The first time was at the bar, over a week ago, when she grabbed my arm. The second time was just moments ago, when she’d kissed me before slipping into the passenger seat.
No way could I have focused on driving—even on roads I knew so well—with the thoughts currently sprinting in a circle through my mind. At least, that’s what it felt like the way my heart was beating. So glad I pulled the car over before she told me.
Unable to check the impulse, I tugged on her hand in my grip and scanned her arm for any sign of new cuts. When I discovered none, I reached for her other arm. She yanked it away before I could see. Turning her face to the window, she tucked the arm between her body and the door while giving me the back of her head.
“Shelly?”
She shook her head.
“You need to call your doctor.” I spoke to her hair, fear grabbing hold of each muscle, my body tight with it. And the fear was surpassed only by my sense of complete helplessness.
“Yes.”
“Do you have a phone?” I couldn’t remember ever seeing her with a cell phone, but then I hadn’t been thinking clearly.
Maybe it was selfish, it probably was, but the idea of this woman injuring herself because of me, it made me want to puke. And then bind her wrists and lock her up so she can’t do it again.
“No.”
“Do you know the number?” One-handed, I fumbled for my phone in my back pocket.
“Yes.”
Unlocking my cell, I opened her palm and placed my phone in it. “Call. Call her now.” Even as I said the words I was searching my car for sharp objects. Would she do it now? Or would she wait until she got home? Does she carry razors?
I was caught, ensnared in another undertow of helplessness. What the hell was I supposed to do? Babysit her in the car while she called her therapist? That didn’t seem right.
Give her privacy.
I didn’t move.
Shelly slid her hand from mine, unhurriedly bringing the unlocked phone to her lap, and navigated to the number pad. Slowly, so slowly, she dialed a number she knew by heart, waited until the screen indicated the call had been accepted, and brought my cell to her ear.
“Hello? Dr. West? Yes. Hi, it’s me. Shelly.”
It was time for me to go, to step out of the car, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave. If she cut herself . . .
“I am sorry to call, but I’m feeling overwhelmed.”
I stared at her profile, my mouth hanging open a half inch. She looked and sounded so calm. Too calm.
I could just hear a voice on the other end ask something like, “Where are you? What phone number is this?”
Shelly’s eyes darted to me and then back to the dashboard; they were wide, rimmed with panic; the only outward sign that something very not-calm was happening inside her.
“I’m not alone.” A pause, then, “Beau Winston’s phone.” Another pause.
Shelly was listening and I couldn’t catch what her doctor was saying on the other end. My attention had dropped to her hand farthest from me. Her sleeve was down. I didn’t have X-ray powers, so I couldn’t see beneath the fabric of her shirt.
“I believe once.” Shelly’s knee was still bouncing; she placed a palm on her thigh and appeared to be pressing her leg down, trying to stop its movement. She was quiet for a moment, then seemed to be responding to a question, “Before that, he kissed me.”
The therapist said something that sounded like, “That’s so great,” and I fought a disbelieving laugh.
It was great? How the hell was me kissing Shelly great? Well . . . other than the obvious reasons why kissing is great.
Wasn’t all the greatness undone by Shelly’s desire to cut herself after touching me?
No.
Why not?
Because kissing her was great. And what came after was great. And leaving together was great. You can’t rewrite history because of new information.
But doesn’t the new information change the history?
Stop being stupid.
Shelly sunk lower in her seat. “He’s right here.”
I didn’t catch what the doctor said next, but whatever it was seemed to be helping. Shelly stopped pressing on her leg and her knee stopped moving. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and pushed the back of her head against the headrest. Her features relaxed.
“Okay. That makes sense. I can do that.” She nodded subtly, picking at a thread on her pants. “Yes, he’s still here.”
She glanced at me, peering at me like I was a picture of a person rather than someone real sitting right next to her. “No. He loo
ks . . . worried.”
“That’s ’cause I am worried.” I spoke without thinking, but was able to keep my voice low and calm.
Flinching, her eyes dropped and she rubbed her forehead like she had a headache. I was reminded of what she’d said her obsessions were like, how they screamed at her and distracted her until she gave in to the resultant compulsions.
“What? No. We’re perfectly fine.” Her tone was sharp, like Shelly couldn’t hear the other woman but her patience was running thin. Her attention lifted to me again. “I don’t know.”
Very clearly, I heard her therapist instruct, “Ask him now.”
Shelly stared at me, a mixture of emotions playing over her features. Now, this was a sight to behold. Until recently, I’d never seen much in the way of emotion from Shelly Sullivan, just rare glimpses followed by taciturn caution.
So seeing the spectrum of feeling now—worry, desire, hope, despair—had me holding my breath and wanting . . . something. Something I couldn’t rightly name, but there it was.
Allowing the want to guide me, I held her gaze and reached for the phone, slipping my fingers over hers and taking the cell out of her hand. She let me, her stare now wary and bracing.
“Beau,” she said, and it sounded like a plea.
I lifted my eyebrows, giving her a second to object. When she didn’t, I brought the cell to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hello? Mr. Winston?”
“Yeah, but you can call me Beau.”
The woman on the other end sighed, like she was relieved. “Beau, thank you for agreeing to speak with me. Do you have me on speaker?”
“No, ma’am.”
“If it would make you more comfortable, you can place me on speaker.”
“Let me ask,” I placed my palm over the receiver and asked Shelly. “Do you want me to place her on speaker?”
She shook her head, reaching for the door. “No. I—I don’t want to hear. I’ll wait outside.”
“You don’t want to hear?” I almost choked on the irony. Here I couldn’t bring myself to give her privacy, and now she couldn’t get away from my impending conversation fast enough.
“No.”
“She’s your therapist.”
“Yes, but she’s going to ask you to do something, and I know what it is. I don’t want my being here to impact your response.” She was already halfway out the door as she said this.
