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 sentences 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?”