Obsessive Compulsion

by C. E. Kilgore

  “Why, Mr. Rider,” she continues to eye me over the steam rising from her cup’s mouth vent. “You tryin’ to get me up to your apartment?”

  “Consider it an open invitation,” I shrug, refusing to admit that I’ve been dreaming about having her in my apartment for a month now, knowing perfectly well it would never happen. Well, maybe that’s not a complete impossibility now, but my past experiences still refuse to agree on the matter with my current situation concerning Charlie.

  She nods then shakes her cup at me slightly. “How’d you know what time I’d be comin’ out?”

  “I spoke with Emma,”

  “Emma,” she finishes with me and rolls her eyes.

  I can’t tell if that annoys her or not. I’m pretty certain she wasn’t pleased that Emma told me about the studio. The last thing I want to do is cause some sort of wedge between them. “It came up in conversation over breakfast on Saturday. Emma said you’d picked up an extra class for a sick teacher?”

  “Yeah, well, she’s not so much sick as she is eight months pregnant.” Charlie brushes her hand through her hair and my own hand twitches because it wants to do the same thing. “Her Color Theory class is moving into reductive tenting today, and she’s not supposed to be around things like paint thinner and tincture.”

  “Eight months? Why isn’t she on full leave?”

  “That’s what I said!” Charlie huffs. “She’s one of those homeopathic hippy-chicks. Says that laying down and resting all day isn’t good for her or the baby. She even does something called birthing yoga.” She shrugs. “I dunno. To each her own, right?”

  “Well…” I snort again. Dammit.

  Charlie blushes. Wow. I think she may actually like it when I do that. “I thought, maybe, I could drive you in and then we could do lunch?”

  “So, are we dating now?”

  “Uh,” I’m not sure how to answer that.

  I want to say ‘yes’, but I don’t want to label this, either. Dating often means different things to different people. It’s that grey area between friends and having an actual relationship. I don’t know what she wants out of this thing developing between us, whatever it is. I’m not even sure what I want, aside for a chance to try and make something in my personal life function somewhat normally. “Thought we weren’t going to label this.”

  “Right,” she smirks behind her coffee. “Alright. I could use a ride, anyway. My car’s having alternator issues again.”

  I open the passenger door to my sedan and hold her café mocha while she gets in. Once we’re on the road, I don’t like the silence that hangs. “You should get a more reliable car. Didn’t it break down last week, too?”

  “Yeah, well, guess I should get a more reliable paycheck and stop spendin’ all my money on art supplies.”

  I frown. Smooth, Rider. Really smooth. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I just don’t want you to end up stranded somewhere. Especially not in the middle of winter.”

  She sighs, stretching out one hand over the heating vent. “I know. Right now, I’m just lucky I have a job as an artist that lets me afford a studio space. It just doesn’t leave much wiggle room anywhere else, and since I haven’t received tenure at the university, I’m not guaranteed a position past the current semester.”

  “Why did you turn down Brandon’s offer then?” I ask the question that I already know the answer to, but it still bugs me that she’s doing all this work for us for free.

  “Shoe Village is about Emma, not money,” she states while looking out the passenger window. “I owe her so much. All I got to give right now is my time, so it’s what I’m givin’.”

  A stoplight allows me a chance to stare at her. “You know she doesn’t blame you for what happened. You’re best friends, Charlie. She loves you.”

  Charlie turns her sea-blue eyes on me, the whites a little moist and red. She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Her lips part, and I want to lean across and kiss them despite knowing I wouldn’t be able to stop with just one kiss. A car horn from behind crashes into the moment and I put my eyes back on the road.

  She stays quiet the rest of the way to the university and I know I’ve overstepped. Instead of pulling up to the drop-off, I park in the per-hour lot. Her class isn’t for another half-hour, so I hope she’ll let me try again. She makes no move to get out of the car. Instead, she appears to be waiting for something, idly sipping her café mocha.

  “I’m sorry,” I start. Once again, I’ve fucked up and find myself apologizing to this woman. I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t gotten out and slammed the car door in my face. “I don’t have the right to say anything on the matter. It’s between you and Emma.”

  Her lips touch the rim of her cup then she lowers it. She’s staring down at the dashboard, but I don’t think she’s seeing it. The look in her eyes tells me she’s seeing things only she knows about. “You’re right. She’s my best friend. She loves me unconditionally and I keep doin’ wrong by her.”

  “That’s not true,” I have to argue this, my place or not. I can’t stand the way her voice has flattened. Reaching across the console, I take one of her hands away from her cup and hold it, the warmth of her palm making me realize neither of us are wearing gloves. I stare down at our hands, her eyes following suit. I think she understands what a big deal it is that I’m not totally freaking out right now.

  Instead of pulling away, I tighten my grip and she takes in a sharp breath. “Charlie, you’re only human. People make mistakes, but you didn’t ever hurt her on purpose. If anything, all you’ve done your entire life is try to help her. From what Emma tells me, she’s not the only one you’ve tried to help, either.”

  Charlie’s eyes go wide, she pulls her hand from mine and grips the door handle. “I’m gonna be late. Thanks for the coffee and the ride.”

  “Charlie, wait,” I call after her, but she’s already out the door and closing it.

  Dammit! Dammit, dammit, dammit! Why the fuck won’t this seatbelt let go!

  Breathe in. Calm down. Press the release button. Go after her.

  By the time I catch up to her and grab her elbow, she’s heading into the building. Damn, her long legs can travel distance without even trying. I stop her in the entryway between two sets of doors, students and faculty ignoring us except to give annoyed looks because we’re blocking the way. I don’t know why what I said set her off. I’d meant it as a compliment, but apparently I fail at those, too.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing, Ian.” She’s winded, her effort to outrun me clear.

  I keep her elbow clasped tight, tugging slightly so she’ll look at me. “But I am sorry. It’s not right for me to be talking to Emma about you.”

  “It’s alright,” she says, then continues before I can disagree. “I’m glad Emma has someone else she can talk to about stuff. For a long time it was only me. She deserves to have more people in her life, and all of ya’ll are good for her. Well, ‘cept maybe Kyle, but even he has his merits.”

  I snort at that because, well, I know plenty about Kyle’s merits. She doesn’t smile or blush this time, but she does continue whipping my back for overstepping.

  “However, just ‘cause you and Emma are buddies now and talkin’ ‘bout me,” her mixed Oklahoma-Texas accent thickens, and damn me if it doesn’t turn me on like a fucking light bulb. “It don’t mean you know shit ‘bout me or my life, Rider.”

  A few students have stopped in the space between doors, pretending to examine their smartphones while they listen in on Charlie giving me a solid ass-kicking. I lower my head and nod. “You’re right. I don’t. That’s why I want to have lunch with you, and maybe dinner? If we’re going to try this, I want to get to know you, from you, if you’ll let me in.”

  My throat chokes. Why did I just say ‘let me in’? Now I sound like my damn therapist.

  I cringe inwardly, waiting for Charlie’s full flames to manifest. When she gets mad, she brings the fires of Hades with her
. It’s a glorious sight to behold, but I never wanted to be on the receiving end.

  To my relieved surprise, she relaxes into my touch. “Alright. I guess since I’m stranded here without a ride, you can pick me up at eleven for lunch.”

  “I’d like that.” I’d like to kiss her, too, but now we’re in public. My ticks do not mix with public displays of affection. Though, for Charlie… “I’ll be here. Have a good class.”

  “Thanks,” she smiles then heads into the building while I stand there, stuck between the doorways. My feet are planted in place, because I looked down only to notice the bastards used those horribly tiny floor tiles and not a single one of them is straight.

  Charlie

  Lunch turned out to be Ian and I eating sub sandwiches at Shoe Village. He apologized for the arrangement, and I told him again to stop apologizing. Saul was supposed to be supervising the framers with Ian, which is why Ian thought he’d be able to get away for an hour. Saul hadn’t shown up, however, with only a hint that something had happened with his sister. Ian said that Kyle was unreachable and Brandon was working on a contract in Plano with Victoria.

  Ian had been understandably frustrated, and I wondered if he was the glue that held the whole company together. So, I ate my sub, watched the framers and talked casually with him about what they were doing. It’d been a nice lunch and a pleasant conversation that somehow led to my currently pissed-off mood.

  I’m sitting in a really fancy Italian restaurant. The kind with napkin rings, wine glasses next to water glasses and a basket of fresh breadsticks. They’re garlic-buttered breadsticks, too. I should be all smiles and drooling over the authentic Italian menu choices, but instead, I’m brooding and glaring at the empty seat across from me.

  Ian is late. Forty-five minutes late.

  Our lunch on Monday led to breakfast on Tuesday before my classes, then pregnant Pamela popped (yes, someone posted that on the announcement board outside her office door), so I had to pick up her extra classes on Wednesday. It meant less time at Shoe Village, but I really need the money. We had agreed to meet here, at Alphonse, at seven on the dot. It’s now a quarter to eight and Ian is a no show.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been stood up, but I hadn’t been expecting it from Ian. He’d given me no indication that he wasn’t enjoying our conversations and ‘dates that aren’t being labeled as dates’ as much as I was. But, here I sit. Just me and the breadsticks, and my second glass of wine. The sympathetic looks from the wait staff are really starting to get on my nerves.

  With a deep inhale, I pull out my phone and do something I’ve never done when being stood up. I message Ian to see what happened. Normally, I would just chalk it up to the guy being a cowardly dick, but this time I can’t attach that idea to Ian.

  ‘Where are you?’ I type in and hit send.

  Five minutes go by with two more sips of wine before he replies. ‘At home.’

  Oh. Well. What does one say to that? Maybe he forgot? I’m about to text a reminder, when another message from him pops up.

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t.

  I want to.

  I suck.

  I’m sorry.’

  His staccato messages don’t fit his character at all. Now I’m worried. ‘Give me your address.’

  I clutch my phone and wait, ignoring the sad eyes from the blonde girl serving really awesome smelling Italian Wedding Soup to the couple one table over. And wait. And wait.

  Ten minutes go by, I give in, square up my bill for the wine and leave the restaurant hungry. I’m getting settled into my car when my phone chimes. Fishing it out of my purse, I look at it, smile and pull out of the parking lot.

  Alright, Mr. Rider, I’m gonna be patient and try to be understanding. My stomach growls to remind me why I should still be a little angry. Damn, that soup smelled good.

  Ian’s building is a rather nice looking mid-rise in Dallas’s West End. It actually sits against the Trinity waterfront. I grin and forget my rumbling tummy, because I’m admittedly a bit impressed. This is an artist-nerd’s dream area. Right across the river are the museums, Market Center, kick-ass shopping and the Spaghetti Factory!

  Okay, so maybe it’s just my dream area. I like that it’s across the river though. His building is looking at Dallas without being right in the middle of Dallas, which can be a noisy, traffic-infested and stress-inducing nightmare sometimes.

  I’d actually looked at getting an apartment in this area for me and Emma when I first came back to Dallas. It’s quieter, ten minutes closer to the university and way too expensive for my ramen noodle budget. So, I ended up in Deep Ellum thanks to a friend who knows the building owner. I don’t really mind Deep Ellum, except on weekends when I’m trying to sleep.

  After a short elevator ride up to the sixth floor, I head down a white-tiled hallway to the apartment at the end. With a deep inhale to calm my nerves, the simmering anger and the nudges from my hunger, I knock on the door and wait. Deep breath again.

  Resist the urge to pound down Ian’s door, Charlie. Maybe he’s naked and is looking for clothes.

  That image is so not helping my impatience. Ever since getting an eyeful of his bare chest and arms, I’ve been dying to see the rest. And touch it, too. And taste it. And…

  The door lock clicks. Then clicks again. It clicks several more times before going silent. God, I can’t imagine living with OCD. That thought washes away any lingering anger. I square my shoulders and put on a smile for him as the door opens.

  My smile falters. I’ve never seen Ian looking so disheveled. He has a loose, red tie around his neck that hangs between an unbuttoned white dress shirt, revealing a white tank top underneath. His black slacks are pressed, but he’s beltless, shoeless and one of his socks has a hole from which his big toe is sticking out. The sandy strands of his hair are a mess, looking as if he’s been constantly running his hands through them.

  “Are you alright?” I’m more than just concerned now as he stands in the doorway, looking at me like I shouldn’t be here.

  After a debate I can see taking place in his eyes, he lets out a breath, lowers his head and steps aside to let me into his apartment. “No. I’m not alright. I’m a complete mess.”

  “I can see that,” I try to lighten the mood a bit as I step inside. He snorts at my comment then closes the door and clicks the lock. Twelve times.

  He then steps away, lets out a noise of frustration and goes back to the lock. Ten more clicks. Pause. Two more. I wait patiently, not watching him do it.

  Instead, I focus on the apartment. It’s immaculate. Clean lines, zero clutter, white and crisp. I giggle a bit on the inside. It’s just like Ian.

  “I’m sorry,” he sighs behind me, having finally won the battle with his door.

  “Stop…”

  “Apologizing,” he finishes with another sigh. “I know. I’m sor… I’m trying. Can I take your jacket?”

  “Please.” I unsnap the front and slide it off as he takes it from my shoulders to hang it in a closet next to the front door. The first room on the left is a galley style kitchen with a dining alcove at the end that then turns into the living room. I could go straight down the entry hall to the couch I see peaking around the corner, but I turn and set my purse on the grey stone kitchen counter. “This kitchen is really nice. Are those restaurant grade appliances?”

  “They are,” he confirms, stepping past me. “Not that I ever use them. This is one of Brandon’s first conversions. It used to be a hotel. He insisted on using top grade appliances and furnishings. Nearly blew our budget, but it ended up being a good idea.”

  “Maybe you should let Brandon know your stove is broken?” I point at the dead digital readout.

  “Unplugged, actually.” He twitches, side-glancing me. Pointing to a countertop two-burner stove that’s plugged into the same surge protector as his microwave, toaster and coffee maker, he gives a stuttered laugh. “I… It’s easier than trying to crawl behind the stove every night to unplug
it from the specialty amp outlet it uses.”

  “Every night?” My eyebrow raises, then I put all the context clues together. “You unplug all your kitchen appliances every night?”

  “No,” his head lowers, shoulders slumping. “I unplug everything, every single night.”

  I digest that concept for a moment then shrug it off. It’s weird, but it’s part of Ian’s disorder. I have no right to judge him for it. “Do you use surge protectors like that to make it easier?”

  His gaze snaps up to mine and I can tell he’s relieved I’m not freaking out about it. “Yeah, where I can. Like my kitchen and my entertainment center.”

  “Clever,” I give him a reassuring smile that it really is no big deal. My traitorous stomach picks that time to interrupt the relaxing tension between us. “Er, sorry. My stomach has no manners.”

  “Shit,” he curses. “I… have,” he casts his gaze about his kitchen, “…absolutely nothing. Unless you like mac n’ cheese.”

  “Love it.”

  He blinks at me slowly, as if he’s trying to determine if what I said was in his imagination or not, then he snorts with a shake of the head and grabs a pot. Filling it with water and setting it on the little countertop stove, he focuses on the water. “I won’t say I’m sorry about tonight, because you don’t want me to, but I really am.”

  I lean on the counter next to him, looking back over his appearance. “Want to tell me what happened?”

  His eyes don’t leave the water. “I don’t do dates so well. Well, restaurant dates. Or anything public for that matter. First, I couldn’t figure out what color tie to wear, then all I could think about was how you were going to be sitting across from me, being forced to watch as I examined the silverware, cleaned it, then asked for a new set, twice. Then I would turn my plate counter clockwise, find something wrong with it and ask for another. I would embarrass you. Over and over. All while wearing mismatched socks because this pair has a damn hole in them.”