Beau reached for my hand and tangled our fingers together. God, that feels nice. So nice.
“I can go, wait outside until you’re done talking. No pressure.” He squeezed my hand in a way that made me think he might withdraw his, so I tightened my hold.
We were sitting on a couch. The couch was new. I’d never seen the couch before. The couch was distracting.
“Where did the couch come from?”
Dr. West’s tone was as patient as ever. “I have it brought in when needed.”
“Did you bring it in so Beau and I would be sitting together?” I didn’t mean for the question to sound like an accusation, but it did.
“Yes.” She turned a warm smile to Beau. “I wanted Beau to be comfortable and I wanted you both to be on the same piece of furniture, so we can practice—”
“Touching,” I blurted. “You want me to practice touching him.”
My therapist nodded. “Yes. That’s why he’s here, Shelly.”
“Can we do the other stuff first?” I glanced at our entwined fingers, at the stain of grease under Beau’s fingernails that matched the stains under mine. I liked how our hands looked together. They looked useful, like they could tell stories, and some of the stories they told might even be the same.
“We can . . .”
I sensed her hesitation, which had me seeking out her gaze again. “What?”
“We can talk about your week, about what’s going on with you. But do you want Mr. Winston—”
“Call me Beau. Mr. Winston is my brother Billy.”
Dr. West turned a charmed smile to Beau—because he was charming—and continued, “Do you want Beau to be here for that conversation? I’ll be asking you about any new obsessions and we’ll be working through how to overcome them. And I have questions about your relationship as well.”
“Fine. Let’s do it,” I agreed quickly, sucking in a breath and holding it.
Anything to put it off, anything to postpone it.
She studied me, assessing, like she was trying to make up her mind.
Eventually, she conceded. “How about we talk for a while, then practice, then talk again after that? I’ve cleared the entire afternoon. We have plenty of time.”
“Okay.”
“Okay then.” She gave me an encouraging smile. “Has this situation with Beau caused any new obsessive thoughts?”
I sensed his hand tense in mine as I endeavored to focus on her question. “What do you mean?”
“Your relationship with Beau, are you having any thoughts in particular about him that you believe might be leading to new compulsions?”
I chewed on my bottom lip, not able to meet her eyes, heat crawling up my neck.
But I responded honestly. “Yes.”
Beau didn’t tense this time. He held still.
“Please tell me.” My therapist sounded so calm, reasonable, and it reminded me that we did this all the time. We had these conversations every Friday and sometimes during the week if I felt overwhelmed.
And Beau needs to know. He needs to see what he’s dealing with..
I lifted and then squared my chin, meeting Dr. West’s gaze evenly. “I can’t stop cleaning tools.”
“Please describe that.”
“At work, I can’t stop cleaning and organizing the tools or the garage. I worry that he’s going to catch something, a disease. Then he’ll get sick, because the tools aren’t clean.”
Dr. West nodded, writing something down in her notes. “And how long has this been going on?”
“About three weeks.”
“Okay.” She didn’t sound judgmental or disappointed in me, but then she never did when I revealed new compulsions.
I didn’t let Beau’s silence or stillness bother me. I distanced myself from it, from him. But I couldn’t completely, because he continued holding my hand.
And then I felt Beau sweep his thumb over my knuckles. Gently. So gently. My stomach gave an answering flutter.
He’s still here.
And my heart was sent racing, because what I’d just revealed about myself didn’t send him running. “But, the good news is that sometimes I’ve been able to speak in sentences with an even number of words, increasing the frequency over time. Beau does it, frequently. And he’s the least violent person I know. I told myself that if he does it, then it can’t be terrible.”
“Good.” She grinned approvingly, her gaze flickering to Beau and then back to me. “Good job reasoning through that. This is a victory, remember this victory.”
She was right, but it hadn’t felt like a victory during the times I’d had to tell myself over and over that expecting violence because of the number of words in my sentences was irrational. It had been a struggle for weeks, until it suddenly wasn’t.
I’d been wondering if she’d ask me about it. Perhaps she hadn’t picked up on how I hadn’t been obsessing, maybe other issues had simply taken precedence and she’d let it slide.
But it was a relief to not be counting every single sentence. I hadn’t known how taxing it had been until I stopped. Finding the control and determination to finally stop counting had made me feel less exhausted, and therein was the true victory for me.
“Thank you.” I paused, making sure she realized my last sentence only consisted of two words.
She smiled, tipping her head in acknowledgement. “You’re welcome.”
I squirmed. “Let’s not go crazy with the even-worded sentences.”
She laughed, so did I, and so did Beau, withdrawing his fingers from mine. He slid his arm along my shoulders and pulled me against him for a quick squeeze, like he couldn’t help himself.
As we separated, I glanced at him. So handsome.
I loved his red beard and thick, unruly red hair. I loved the angles of his jaw and cheekbones and strong nose. I loved his big eyes that twinkled and sparkled with meaning and mischief I couldn’t always decipher. But I didn’t care if I had trouble reading him all the time, because he was good all the time. And that’s what I loved most.
But the way he was looking at me now set my heart racing again. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to touch him.
“Let’s talk about your need to clean the tools.” Dr. West continued, “How can we interrupt these compulsions? Should we develop a plan?”
I heard her, but I was caught in a moment of bravery, one of those singularities where I knew I could succeed. I would succeed.
There’s nothing to fear from this. He’s here. He’s safe. He’ll be fine. You don’t have the power to hurt others by touching them. Give yourself this. Give this to him. Be strong for him.
I leaned away from Beau until his arm was no longer around my shoulders. He resettled it along the back of the couch. Holding my stare, his gaze grew questioning.
I reached out.
He is safe.
He is well.
And then a whisper . . . but what if—
In a rush, I touched him.
I cupped his face with my hand, before the small what if became a monster. And as soon as my skin connected with his, anxiety hit me.
A punch to the stomach.
A hand around my throat.
A knife in my chest.
My heart beat between my ears, growing louder, louder, louder.
Oh God, what have I done?
Beau covered my hand with his, pressing it to his cheek, looking at me with pride and happiness.
How could he be happy about this?