“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.”