Shelly didn’t return my grin, instead her gaze clouded with that same sad surrender from earlier, and her obvious melancholy wiped the smile from my face.
Taking another step into her space, I held her stare. She lifted her chin to maintain eye contact, her body swaying toward mine, her breath coming short. Cupping her cheeks, I felt the tension in her freeze, and then melt beneath my palms. Her eyes closed, like she was relieved and grateful, and seeing her gratitude made my chest ache.
Damn. I felt sorry for her.
What must that be like? To be a prisoner to your own mind? To have your actions and desires held hostage by irrational fear?
I also felt a little sorry for myself. Her hands on me felt great. But knowing what I knew now, I didn’t want her to reach for me. I would likely flinch away from her touch, because I knew what it might cost.
With this thought on my mind, I brushed my lips against hers, enjoying everything about the hot and hungry way she reacted, how her body trembled, how she shifted restlessly.
But I did not enjoy how she clearly wanted me closer, yet was unable to do anything about it.
As I deepened the kiss, I slid my palms down her arms, entwining our fingers, and guiding her hands around my waist.
Immediately, she hugged me.
She held on tight.
Like she never wanted to let me go.
14
“It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.”
― Aristotle, Metaphysics
* * *
*Beau*
That night, I did not use Google to understand more about OCD. I wanted to wait until the appointment with her therapist. The search for cutting nearly sent me into a panic.
But I did dream of Shelly, as usual. Except, we weren’t getting busy. We were lying together. I held her and . . . that’s it. If it’s possible for a dream to be hopeful, that’s what this dream was. I woke up early, well rested with a single question on my mind: where could I buy Shelly potholders before work?
As I moved about, getting ready for the day, the worry set in. Had she given in to her compulsions last night? She said she didn’t own knives, but they weren’t hard to come by. She shaved her legs, didn’t she? So she had razors.
I wished she had a cell phone, and I wished I had some way to check on her.
I accidentally cut my neck shaving, penance for being distracted. Dabbing at the spot with a Kleenex, I tossed it into the toilet. But then the toilet didn’t flush. I made a mental note to grab the plunger from the basement and made my way downstairs where the smell of coffee beckoned.
My thoughts were still on Shelly as I entered the kitchen—whether I should take her someplace other than Daisy’s for dinner, whether I should pick her up flowers, what the rest of her obsessive thoughts were and the resultant compulsions—so I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings. My excitement for our date was irritatingly tempered by my concern for her well-being.
Would it always be like this with her? Would thinking about her always be half anticipation, half trepidation?
“What’s wrong?” Billy’s question had me looking up. My second-oldest brother was already dressed for work in his suit and tie. “And shouldn’t you be fishing with Hank?”
“I cancelled. I have an errand to run.” Grabbing a coffee cup from the cabinet, I tossed a thumb over my shoulder. “The toilet is acting funny.”
“Like what? You mean satire?” This question came from Cletus, not bothering to glance away from where he was reading at the table. He was still in his pajamas, his curly hair a mess. Nevertheless, I was surprised to see him up so early.
“No, I mean—”
“I hope it’s a dark comedy,” he added, still not removing his attention from the newspaper.
“Cletus. That’s disgusting.” Sitting across from Cletus, Duane’s tone was reprimanding.
Finally, Cletus tore his eyes from the paper. “What?”
“Dark comedy?” My twin lifted his eyebrows. “Meaning poop?”
“No, Duane.” Cletus paired this with a suffering sigh.
“That would make it a shitty comedy,” I piped in, adding fuel to the conversation fire as I was prone to do, feeling more myself as I smiled.
“Y’all are a bunch of toilets,” Billy mumbled under his breath.
We all turned our attention to our older brother, with Cletus speaking for us, “Let me guess, because toilets in this house act funny?”
Billy tilted his cup toward Cletus. “Exactly.”
I grinned, the rawness in me settling. Being around my brothers was a salve and a good reminder. We had all lived through dark times—sometimes together, sometimes separately—yet here we were, making toilet jokes on a Wednesday before 7:00 AM.
When our father was in the picture, we’d lived our lives in a state of constant agitation. We waited for tragedy to strike, for a shoe to drop, a punch to land.
Living that way was not an option, not anymore. Shelly’s therapist had said she was making remarkable progress. Anticipating failure wasn’t fair to her, and it wasn’t fair to me. No person is exempt from troubles and strife. Her baggage had the label of OCD, mine was labeled Darrell Winston.
As long as Shelly and I could have times like this, as long as the discord was diluted by frequent, everyday moments of knowing and enjoying each other, then I could deal.
I would not cheat myself out of the possibility of her, of us, of hope and happiness.
I refused to expect or anticipate misery.
* * *
The Piggly Wiggly had potholders. I picked up four, walking past the bundles of flowers to the checkout. Something told me Shelly wouldn’t appreciate flowers like most people would. In fact, I was pretty sure she’d hate them.
My detour to the grocery store meant that I didn’t get to the auto shop until after 8:30 AM, making me the third to arrive. Cletus’s car was still missing. I was excited nerves, now in the grip of happy anticipation. I couldn’t wait to see her.
Duane was stationed at the front of the shop and I came to a stop next to him. Hovering, I gave my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness of the garage and scanned the expansive space.
“Where’s Shelly? I saw her car in the lot.”
“Under Daisy’s Volvo in the back.” He glanced up from the Ford he was working on, wearing a scowl of concentration.
“Thanks.” Not needing to be told twice, I made to head in that direction, but was waylaid by my twin’s hand on my arm.
“Wait a minute.”
I glanced at his fingers, and then at him. “What’s up?”
He let his hand fall away, but he still wore a scowl. “You want to, uh, grab some lunch later?”
“Pardon?” I couldn’t have heard him right; he always had lunch with Jess.
“Do you want to go grab lunch later?”
“Is Jess out of town?”
“No.”
I surveyed him, the scowl he wore, the set of his jaw. He wasn’t angry, but he was something like it.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.”