What have I done?
“Shelly.” Dr. West was speaking, but I couldn’t focus on hearing her.
I’ve touched him before and nothing bad happened—at the bar, at the shop—he’ll be fine.
Not this time. Not this time.
You’ve done it. It’s your fault. When it happens, it’s your fault.
I needed . . . I need . . .
“Beau, let Shelly drop her hand.” Dr. West was closer now, sitting on the couch with us. As soon as Beau released me, she removed my hand from his face. “Shelly, look at me.”
I did, I looked at her, at her lips, because she was speaking again.
“Touch Beau again.”
I shook my head.
“Please.”
I shook my head.
I couldn’t swallow. My stomach rolled. My ears were ringing.
“I can’t.”
“You have to be the one to do it, Shelly. You have to be the one to make the choice, to overcome the fear.”
“I can’t.”
“The time is now, Shelly.”
The time is now, Shelly.
So I did.
I touched his face again. His sweet, handsome face.
It will be your fault. It will be your fault.
Scratchy and soft hair on his incredible cheeks.
The time is now, Shelly.
He’ll be in danger because of you. His family will hate you for hurting him. You’re hurting him!
Soft skin beneath my fingertips.
The time is now, Shelly.
I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
And then I heard the loudest keening, oddly familiar, and my heart ached. Tore from my rib cage.
What is that sound?
My arm felt like it was on fire.
Make it stop.
My ears were ringing.
Let go. Let go. Don’t hurt him.
I felt tears dampen my cheeks.
My throat.
And then I knew who the anguished sounds belonged to.
They were mine.
23
“The mind once enlightened cannot again become dark.”
― Thomas Paine, A Letter Addressed to the Abbe Raynal on the Affairs of North America
* * *
*Beau*
Intense.
That’s what it was.
Incredibly intense.
I glanced at Shelly where she was slouched low in the passenger seat. She stared out the window, her elbow resting on the sill, her hand covering her mouth. She looked exhausted.
But she’d done it.
After several hours, touching me over and over—my face, my hands, my arms, my neck—over and over, until she didn’t struggle, didn’t flinch, didn’t cry.
My stomach dropped, remembering the crying.
At first she’d seemed completely lost to it, to fear. Her eyes were wild with panic. And her doctor, that woman had nipples of steel. Or something like it.
When we’d first walked into the office and I’d met Dr. West, she’d seemed so kind and accommodating. But the merciless way she’d encouraged Shelly to confront her fears, over and over, with no reprieve, almost had me second-guessing her sanity.
But then it got easier. Little by little. Touch by touch. Until Shelly touched me, and along with the fear were wonder and resolve.
Dr. West said she wasn’t cured, that there was no curing OCD. But that Shelly had taken a giant step. Now she would follow the prescribed plan over the next week, and hopefully none of the exercises would be as difficult as the first.
It was almost sunset, and we were just miles from her place when my stomach grumbled.
“You should have had the hamburger.” Shelly said this to the window, her voice monotone and slightly nasally from her earlier crying.
For the first time in hours, I smiled. “You’re right, I should’ve had the hamburger.”
On a whim, I placed my hand between us, palm up. I saw her glance at me and then at my offered hand.
She straightened in her seat, shifting away from my offering. “I’m not ready yet.”
“Okay then.” I reached for her, twisting our fingers together and bringing her knuckles to my lips. “Are you hungry?”
“No.” She tugged our joined hands to her lap, began tracing the lines of my bones with her fingertip. “Thirsty, not hungry.”
“Let’s just get you home then.”
“I have food.”
I gave her a teasing look. “Bread?”
A whisper of an almost smile drifted over her features. “Yes. Bread.” But then it was gone.
She was so absorbed in the lines she was drawing on the back of my hand, she didn’t notice we’d already arrived to her cabin until I’d cut the engine and said, “We’re here.”
Shelly stirred. “Already?”
I opened the driver’s door, and stepped quickly to open hers. Shelly took my hand as she climbed out, and I noticed she seemed to be moving gingerly, like she was stiff.
“Do you want me to carry you?”
That earned me an irritated look. And the look made me grin.
“What? Maybe I’m just looking for a reason to get my hands on you.”
“Or you think I’m an invalid.”
Before I could catch the impulse, I teased, “Or I think you’re a sexy invalid.” And I immediately worried my penchant for being playful had been insensitive.
Shelly tried to duck her head and walk around me, but I caught the beginning of her smile and the slight shake of her head as she strolled to her door. I followed.
Her dogs were already barking as we approached the cabin. She opened her front door and they bounded forth, wrapping their big bodies around her legs and mine, jumping up to lick my face and wish me welcome. I couldn’t help but smile at their enthusiasm, wondering why we’d never replaced our family dog.
Then I remembered why. I pushed the inconvenient thought away.
“We need to take them out. Let me go check on Oliver. Their leashes are by the door, do you mind?”
“Sure.” I followed her inside, the dogs happily trailing after us.
By the time I’d found their leashes, dodged their kiss attacks, and had them ready to go, Shelly had returned. She’d changed into those black exercise pants worn when not exercising—the more modern version of sweat pants, just a whole lot sexier—and a tank top.
“Would you mind walking the dogs? I need to lie down.”
“Sure,” I agreed readily, sliding my hand into her hair and pressing my lips to her forehead. “We’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
That earned me another shadow of a smile. It wasn’t much, but I’d take it.
* * *
Shelly was still asleep when I returned with the dogs and hadn’t woken up by midnight. Leaving her a note with a promise to return in the morning, I borrowed her garage key to free my GTO and drove home.
I didn’t sleep well.
Images of Shelly’s fearful face transposed with my mother’s painful last days hit me. And then there was Christine, a menace or an angel in the background. I couldn’t tell which.
Since sleep was elusive, I left early and drove back to Shelly’s. But when I knocked on the door, no one answered. Nor were any dogs barking.
I walked around the cabin, spotted Oliver on the porch, and waved to the bird.
He responded with a robust, “Bend over, asshole.”