I wanted to chase her, to bring her back. But instinct told me not to push. The scars on her arm weren’t far from my mind, reminding me that—whatever was going on with her—control was an issue. For her it was necessary. Vital.
Slowly, a form of self-punishment perhaps, I walked to the front of the garage so I could see her drive away. She was still parked in the lot. She’d backed in, her windshield facing the front side of the garage. I couldn’t see her expression clearly in the driver’s seat, just the shape of her.
Her Buick pulled forward out of the space, turned, and turned again onto the main road.
But then she stopped in the middle of it. I scratched my jaw as I watched her loiter there for a good half minute. To my astonishment, she put her car in reverse and returned to the auto shop. She didn’t bother parking her car properly, just left it in the middle of the gravel lot.
Her car idling, she jumped out of the driver’s side door, marched back to me until approximately three feet separated us, and stopped.
“What just happened?”
She was breathing hard. She didn’t look angry. More like, chaotic. Instinct told me to speak softly.
“I kissed you.”
“Why did you kiss me?”
“I wanted to.”
She glared, saying nothing.
I didn’t think about my answer prior to giving it. It was simply the truth and, from what I knew about Shelly Sullivan, she preferred straight-talk. Even so, she seemed to be giving my answer a great deal of deliberation, like my admission was a puzzle.
Once more, we were standing in the garage, facing each other, not touching, just looking. Her labored breathing abated after a minute or so, like she’d searched for and found the control needed to calm down. She retreated into herself. Watching it happen was both frustrating and fascinating, like one of those time-elapsed videos of the seasons—spring became summer, summer became fall, and Shelly became winter.
The need to touch her, thaw this ice, bring back the woman I’d kissed had me swallowing past an intense tightness in my throat.
“What about Cletus?” Her tone was level now, more typical.
“He’s an idiot.” Again, straight-talk.
Her eyes moved between mine. “Cletus is nice.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Do you want Cletus to kiss you?” A surge of resentment hardened my words.
“No.” She shook her head and her gaze dropped to my mouth. “No, I don’t.”
Well now, with her looking at me like that, the urge to touch her went from nearly unbearable to completely intolerable. My attention was arrested by the strands of her hair that had sprung free over the course of the day, curling around her temples and ears. Taking three exceedingly slow steps toward her, I tucked the curls behind her ears. Other than a slight tremor paired with a flickering of her eyelashes, she didn’t move.
“He’s your brother,” she whispered, protesting weakly. “I don’t—I can’t—I don’t want to be—”
“Cletus is ass-over-ankles in love with Jennifer Sylvester.” My fingertips loitering at the curve of her neck, I swept my thumbs along the line of her jaw. A rawness in me soothed, appeased now that some part of me was touching some part of her and she wasn’t running away.
“He is?”
“Yes.” I twisted my lips to the side and decided to clarify my assertion. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“I understand why, she’s wonderful. I would like to be her friend.” While she spoke, her attention remained fastened to my mouth, her stare hazy. I vaguely comprehended that she’d said something positive about Jennifer Sylvester but Shelly’s lips were far too luscious to process other things.
Later. I’ll think on it later.
I wasn’t sure if things were going to be better or worse now that I’d kissed her. I surmised they’d be both: better because now I had the memory; worse because I had no idea if she’d let me do it again.
Either way, I had no regrets.
Confusion? Yep.
Regrets? Nope.
Now I just needed to get her talking.
“So . . . Have you heard the one about the fisherman and the pole?”
Her eyes clouded with confusion. “You’re going to tell me a joke?”
“No. I was just wondering if you’d heard it.”
“I have not heard it.”
“You should. It’s a good one.” I nodded at my assertion.
Shelly lifted her eyes to mine. “Will you tell the joke?”
“Depends. Are you going to be nice to me?”
She searched my gaze, dropping hers to the cement of the garage after a prolonged moment. “Because we kissed?”
“No.” I slid my teeth to the side, wondering what was going on in her head. “Because I don’t want to fight with you.”
Her head still lowered, she took several visible breaths, and then began haltingly, “I don’t know. I have”—she shook her head, and I got the sense she was warring with herself—“I don’t want to be mean to you, Beau. But I don’t want you to get hurt either.”
“Why would I get hurt? You planning on hurting me?”
“No, no, never.”
I studied her downturned face, or what I could see of it, and let my hands drop. “What’s going on with you? Why are you in therapy? Did something happen to you?”
She continued shaking her head. “I was born like this.”
“Like what?”
Shelly lifted her chin, giving her eyes to the sky and saying on a rush, “I have obsessive compulsive disorder.”
Obsessive compulsive disorder.
I’d heard of that.
“You mean OCD?”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes and gathered a large inhale. Then she opened them again and held mine, waiting.
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.
* * *