How the hell did I get here? This was the strangest conversation I’d ever had.
All of these factors had me speaking without debating the wisdom of my words. “Listen, ma’am, I understand that Shelly has this disorder and you’re helping her work through things, and that’s great. But I care about this woman. She’s a fu—a freaking automotive genius. Did you know she can design, cast, and weld car parts?”
“Uh—”
“And diagnose problems just by listening to an engine? I’ve never met anyone who can do that. And she adopts cursing parrots. She may not come off as warm and friendly, but the woman has a big heart, and hiding it away ain’t doing anybody any good, especially not her. She’s starving, Doctor. I don’t know if you can see that, but I sure can. She needs affection more than a diagnosis, if you want my opinion, and not that you asked. But there it is.”
Dr. West made a sound that might’ve been a cough—or it might’ve been choking, I couldn’t tell. “Do you feel sorry for her, Beau? Is that why you want to help?”
“Hell, yes, I feel sorry for her.”
“That’s not a good basis for—”
“But mostly, I feel sorry for everyone else. Because from what I’ve seen, the glimpses of herself she’s shared with me, it’s a damn shame no one else gets to see it. It leads me to suspect that what we see of her on the outside has nothing on the beauty on the inside.”
Silence met this last statement. Shelly’s doctor was quiet for a while.
I glanced at the screen, seeing we were still connected, then brought it back to my ear just in time to hear her ask, “Beau, would you be willing to accompany Shelly this Friday afternoon? When she meets with me?”
“If she wants me there, I’ll be there.” Once more, I glanced at Shelly in my rearview mirror; she was still pacing, biting her thumbnail. The sight of her anxiety made me anxious. Her back was straight and tall, which was a miracle given the burden she balanced on her shoulders.
“Thank you.” Dr. West’s tone was friendly again, excited even. “Thank you, Beau.”
“For what? I haven’t done anything.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. See you Friday.” Dr. West ended the call, and if I was judging her tone correctly, she ended it smiling.
I tossed the phone to my dashboard, not smiling. I took a minute, marinating in the events of the day. But I didn’t get any further than our kiss in the garage, mostly because I didn’t want to. It had been the highlight not only of the day, but of the month. Maybe my entire year.
A soft knock on my window pulled me from my reflections. Shelly was hovering next to my door, her arms crossed, giving me an eye-interrogation.
I gave her a small smile and opened the driver’s side door, forcing her to back up a few steps.
“You spoke to Dr. West.”
I nodded, closing the door, inspecting the remarkable woman in front of me. She appeared to be struggling to erect her walls. Her gaze moved over me, like I was about to disappear and she was trying to commit my image to memory.
“I did.”
“Did she ask you about the touch therapy?”
That had me widening my eyes with acute interest. “Touch therapy? Tell me more.”
“She didn’t ask?”
“She asked me to come with you on Friday, for your appointment.”
Shelly blinked at me, three times, very quickly. “What?”
“She wants me to come with you.”
“Oh.” The word was more a breath than a real sound and her gaze had finally settled on mine, making my heart skip the requisite two beats.
“If that’s okay with you.”
Shelly nodded quickly. “Yes. That is fine with me. More than fine.”
“Good. I can’t make it this Friday. I have to close because Cletus has a thing in Nashville on Saturday, but I’m going with you next week.”
Finally still, she studied me at length before saying, “You’re taking me back to the shop.”
“What? Now?”
“I need to go back to the shop and get my car now. I think I need to go home.”
“Okay.” I nodded, letting my disappointment show but not wanting to push; a lot had happened and she clearly needed time to process things, but a nagging thought had me hesitating. “Shelly, can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Have you—have you hurt yourself because of me?” I couldn’t say the word cut, it caught in my throat and made it burn, so I motioned to her sleeve.
She shook her head, her attention moving to some spot behind me. “No, I haven’t.”
My relief was bone deep, yet apprehension still remained. “But you’ve wanted to?”
She nodded without speaking, her features blank, her eyes still affixed elsewhere.
“Tonight, when you go home, should I be worried—”
“Do not worry about me.”
“Impossible.”
Her gaze cut to mine, sharpened, scattering my wits as usual.
“I did not tell you about my—about me so you would worry.” Her hard tone belied frustration.
“Shelly,” I took a half step forward, “I was worried about you before you told me.”
She flinched. “Because you thought I was crazy?”
“Because I worry about people I care about.”
My admission seemed to fracture her ice wall and all at once her features melted. “I care about you, too.”
“Should I stay with you tonight? Do you need my help?” Do you need me?
“No.” Her tone now gentle, her gaze grew cherishing, and I believed she did care about me. “You don’t need to worry. I haven’t cut in over a year, and I don’t own any knives. Dr. West has really helped.”
Thank God.
“Good. That’s really good.” I tried not to let the extent of my relief show on my face, but I did allow a small smile. “How about a raincheck then?”
“Raincheck?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow for dinner, you and me go to Daisy’s. On a date.”
Shelly blinked, like my suggestion surprised the heck out of her. Her eyebrows pulled together, plainly confused. “You still want to go with me?”
“Yeah, of course.”
She shook her head, protest written all over her face. “But—”
“Let me ask you something.” I shuffled a step closer. “Your worry, or obsession, is about touching people?”
“Yes.”
“But if I touch you? That’s okay? That doesn’t make you want to do stuff?”
She crossed her arms. “Correct. I can’t touch other people, initiate it, but being touched doesn’t trigger any obsessive thoughts or compulsions. I just . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t usually like it, when people touch me. I can’t touch them back.”
“Should I stop?”
“No!” She said this in a way that had my small smile widening. “I like it when you do it.”
“Good to know,” I drawled. “I’ll be sure to keep doing it, then.” Yep. That was me flirting.
“I like it a lot when you touch me.” She hastened to add, “You can touch me whenever you want.” The last sentence was spoken like she was out of breath.
Good Lord, I really enjoyed her brutal honesty sometimes. It removed guesswork from the equation and simplified everything.