Theo squints at me. “And what,” he asks, “would you have me call it?”
“Um, I don’t know. Honking, like a normal person?” My voice is teasing.
“Honking? What are you, a goose?” Theo displays a wide grin. I gape at him, at a loss for a witty comeback. He has me there.
“Beeping?” I suggest.
“Beeping,” he agrees.
I fight the urge to smile. We’re silent for a moment, and when the traffic causes us to stop again I glance at his forearms, taking in the swirls and patterns decorating them, like illustrations on a page, a tangible piece of a story.
“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” I remark. “I noticed one earlier at school.”
He glances at his arms. “I have several. Would you like to see?”
I lean over the center console to study his skin, my curiosity getting the best of me. “What are they?” I resist the urge to trace the images with my fingertips. My eyes linger on a small scar on his right wrist. It’s shaped like a circle, and I can’t help but notice how similar in size it is to the end of a cigarette. I don’t comment on it, and instead study the tattoo next to it. It’s an outline of a small hand, with a name in cursive underneath. Lucy. “Who’s Lucy?” I ask, wondering briefly if it’s his girlfriend back home.
Theo glances down, and then out the window. He places his palms flat against his thighs, obscuring my view of his tattoos. “My sister.” His voice is quiet, resigned. My eyes flicker to his face. He doesn’t look upset, but he’s not smiling either. My mom never mentioned him having a sister, nor did I see one in that old Christmas card. In fact, I remember thinking that another child was the only thing missing in his perfect little family.
Well, perfect at the time. Or so I’d thought.
I decide this subject might be sensitive, so I don’t ask him any more questions, though my curiosity is anything but satisfied.
“And we’re here.” I pull Mitten Chip into my mom’s driveway. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Theo offers me a humorless half-smile. “Are you?”
I sigh. “I don’t have a choice.” I shut the engine off and grab my stuff. “Let the torture commence.”
At that he laughs. He grabs his jacket and backpack from the backseat of the car and follows me inside the house. “Spending time with me could never be torture.”
I roll my eyes. “That is yet to be determined.”
Once we’re inside my bedroom, Theo looks around. I wonder what he thinks of my cool, dusty-blue walls, white curtains, white furniture, and white bedding.
“Your room is interesting. Not quite what I expected.”
I frown. It bothers me that my room gave him expectations at all. “What do you mean?”
He stands and walks around, surveying my personal objects. “I don’t know. I suppose I assumed everything would be ridiculously clean. Sterile, even. But it’s not that clean.”
I laugh. “Why did you expect it to be clean? Because I have OCD? That doesn’t necessarily mean I like everything like the inside of a doctor’s office, you know.” Despite my room not being clean, it’s arranged exactly how I like it. Not a single object is out of place. Yes, there are dust motes in the corners of the ceiling. My surfaces aren’t shining from being wiped down, but everything is where it belongs. I know most people would be baffled that I don’t spend my free time as a maid, but that’s only because of the way society tends to portray OCD. As a quirk for cleanliness rather than a debilitating disorder.
He faces me, his blue eyes searching mine. “How do you like everything, then?” His voice is soft, quiet.
“Are you always this nosy?” I ask, annoyed by the thrumming in my veins. But then I remember that part of him helping me involves telling him all about exactly what I try to hide on a daily basis.
I point to the right corner of my dresser, where a pen and paper rest at a perfect angle. “See that pen?” I ask. “Notice anything particular about it?”
He studies it intently before glancing at me. “It’s black.” He sounds proud of his observation.
I roll my eyes. “It’s in a certain position. The clip attached to the cap is on the left side.”
Theo frowns and looks at the pen again. He lightly touches it with his index finger, just enough that it rolls. The clip is now on the right side.
I inhale sharply. “Don’t.” I roll the pen back to how it was before.
I tap my finger against my dresser repeatedly until my anxiety ebbs. Theo doesn’t miss a thing. He watches me tap the dresser, but he doesn’t acknowledge it.
“Why? What’s wrong with the pen facing the other way?” His voice is gentle now. I’m surprised he’s not laughing. Most people would. He could readjust the pen to aggravate me, so he can watch me fix it over and over again, but he doesn’t.
I shrug. “It just bothers me. I can’t explain why. It’s like, I get this feeling of dread. Like something terrible will happen if certain things aren’t positioned the right way.”
He nods like he understands. Maybe he does. Maybe he’s worked with people like me before at his dad’s practice.
“Does your cousin know you have OCD?”
“Ash? Yes. She’s known forever.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Forever? How long have you had it?”
My cheeks heat. “Since I was really young, but I wasn’t diagnosed until about thirteen.” This is a lie. I was actually diagnosed at twelve, but the fact that I was an even-numbered age kills me. So, I lie to everyone. I lie to myself. Thirteen.
I cough into the silence that has filled the room. It’s not an awkward silence. More like a thoughtful silence. It makes me uncomfortable, regardless. “Do you still want to help me?” I ask. “Or are you secretly planning to have me committed to a rubber room instead?”
He laughs, his face lighting up with an impossibly bright grin. “You’re a funny one, love.” He grabs the notebook and pen from my dresser. “First things first. Are the majority of your compulsions mental, or physical?”
I shrug. “Both, probably.” I’ve never taken the time to consider such a thing. “How can I find out?”
“A crucial part of this will be creating a complete inventory of your compulsions,” he says more to himself than me. “That’s going to be your homework for tonight, little Willow.”
I huff loudly. “Yeah, except I don’t even know what half of them are. I’ve been like this for so long, I don’t even notice some of my compulsions anymore.”
He nods. “Learning what they are along the way and catching them before you have a chance to respond to them will be a huge part of this. Like the pen thing.” He sits down on my bed. “For example, does my sitting here bother you? If so, how would you react to make yourself feel better?”
It’s a mystery to me how he knows his messing up my perfectly made bed makes me feel like my blood is rushing at top speed. But my reaction to it is a second nature. “I would tap,” I say, my voice sounding strained. “Until I felt better.”
Theo nods again, his gaze like hard blue ice on mine. “Don’t.”
I laugh, but humor is the last emotion I feel. It’s an uncomfortable, anxiety-driven laugh, and Theo must know it, because he takes one of my pillows from the head of the bed and holds it on his lap without looking away from me.
“This is a really nice pillowcase,” he comments. “So smooth.”
“It’s satin, if you must know,” I huff. “It keeps my hair from drying out.”
Theo eyes the pillow with renewed interest. “Perhaps I should get one.”
“I mean, if you’re worried about premature aging, then sure. But trust me, you don’t have the kind of hair that needs it.”
Theo runs his fingers along the shiny material, and I resist the urge to cry out, to tap the walls or my leg, to rush over and stop him. But I can’t help it. I can’t breathe. I can’t see straight. I can’t think properly. I might even faint. Tears well up in my eyes, obscuring my already distracted v
ision. “I can’t do this,” I whisper. “Stop. You have to stop.”
Theo’s voice is low and steady. “I know it’s uncomfortable, Willow. But you can do this. Breathe. Let this pass and you’ll see that nothing terrible is going to happen.”
I breathe rapidly, short and angry spurts of air inhaling and exhaling. My brain feels foggy and I’m hot all over. My throat is thick with tears. “You can’t possibly know that. Has this ever actually worked for anyone?”
“Yes,” Theo says evenly. “I’ve seen it with several patients.”
I shut my eyes. “I don’t think I can be one of them.”
“Of course you can.” Theo’s voice is closer than I expect, so I open my eyes. He’s no longer sprawled across my bed but standing right in front of me. A piece of his dark hair falls into his eyes, steady and blue and staring into mine.
I blink rapidly. “I—”
“Don’t have to participate in this,” he finishes for me. “You have other options. You simply must decide which option you can live with.”
I inhale. He’s right. I know without hesitation I can’t live with any of the options my mom gave me.
My bedroom is silent save for the sound of our breathing; mine uneven, his relaxed. I meet his gaze, blinking back the remaining tears I’ve conjured. “Okay.” I glance over his shoulder at my bed, which is still in complete disarray. “Let’s try again.”
Theo holds up a finger. “First,” he says, “I think it might be best for you to create that list of your compulsions. That way we can start conquering them from smallest to largest. We need to build your confidence as you tackle each of your fears so that you can move forward in a systematic way.”
I exhale deeply. The idea of continuing what I just endured is too much to handle. Making a list, however, I can do. I eye my comforter. “I’m going to make my bed first.” I start toward it, but Theo’s hand on my shoulder stops me.
“I think,” he says, “that if you can make the list while sitting on your unmade bed, we can call your first attempt a success.”
I sigh, my blood still racing. “Fine. As long as I can fix it right after.”
The list doesn’t take me long to create, which surprises me. The hardest part is placing the compulsions in the correct order and making sure there isn’t an even amount of them. When I’ve done the best I can, I wave the sheet of paper in the air like a white flag. “Done.”
The corner of his mouth turns up. He walks over and takes the list from me, reading it over. “Brilliant. Now what I want you to do is write next to each compulsion, in parentheses, how you would react to it with a ritual, whether mental or physical.”
I glare at him. “I thought I was done. I want to make my bed.”
He chuckles. “You’re nearly done, little Willow. You can make your bed right after this.”
I scowl and return to my list.
Willow’s Top 11 Compulsions/Fears That Come to Mind (In Descending Order)—AND THEIR RITUALS:
11. Contamination (washing the contaminated area repeatedly)
10. Conflict (tapping and imagining the worst-case scenario so it doesn’t happen)
9. Not being in control (tapping, or finding little things to control to prove I am in control)
8. Not being happy (most of my rituals, like smiling at my reflection, serve as a way to prevent this from happening. If I find myself unhappy, I will sometimes think of my happy place)
7. Objects in an “uncomfortable” position or in the wrong place (readjusting the object repeatedly)
6. Losing time (tapping, arranging objects, anything involving odd numbers)
5. Even numbers (tapping my fingers an odd amount of times)
4. Going out on a Friday (there is no ritual for this because I would NEVER do it!)
3. Sitting in the passenger seat of a car while someone else drives (see above parenthetical comment)
2. Taking medicine (forcing myself to vomit until all the medicine has been expelled. But again, taking medicine is not something I would ever do unless my life depended on it)
1. The idea of a loved one dying (the last time this happened, all my rituals were collectively exacerbated)
“You’re tapping again,” Theo tells me, breaking my concentration. “Why are you doing it right now?”
I glance up at him, and then at my left hand, on my comforter. He’s right. My fingers are moving without my awareness, the other hand gripping the pen.
I breathe in. “I don’t know,” I say. “It helps me calm down. It helps me stay calm.”
“What’s bothering you right now that you feel the need to tap?”
I shake my head. “This list, obviously.”
His lips thin. “Perhaps we should take a break, then. Get some fresh air.” Theo takes the paper from me and folds it into a square. He puts it in his pocket and gives me a small smile. “I know just the place.”
Six
When I park the car, American River—not the college, but the actual river—is nowhere in sight, hidden beneath the surrounding trails and tall brown grass mixed with threads of green. I carefully roll up the black leggings I changed into before we left, grateful for the feeling of warmth on my skin. I hope Theo didn’t come to California expecting actual seasons, because we don’t get them here. It’s mid-January, but instead of snow melting into spring, it’s merely cold in the morning before warming up in the afternoon. My hair is in a thick braid, allowing the warm breeze to caress my neck.
I’ve come here before, but I have no idea how Theo knows this place exists. When I ask him about it, he looks at me like I’m crazy and replies, “Google, of course.”
Theo walks ahead of me, and the wind blows his scent in my direction. It reminds me of expensive stores at the mall that make you want to eat the clothes because of how enticing they smell. I don’t dare tell him he smells nice, though. His ego wouldn’t be able to handle the compliment.
Instead, I opt for small talk. “I hope Ash is okay. I know she’s only pretending to be right now.”
He laughs. “Ah, yes. The famous language of women. Saying the opposite of what you actually want.”
I scoff. “That is an unfair stereotype. And an untrue one, at that.”
Theo holds his hands up. “Fine, little Willow. You know her best.”
Our footsteps are the only sounds, crunching through the maze of grass until the trail opens up, revealing the river. The wind feels amazing, slightly warm, and a chorus of birds tweet from their nests, creating an ambiance I wouldn’t be opposed to napping in, had I the chance. Theo takes it in for a moment, staring at the small waves rippling under the bright sun. The pebbled shore glistens with moisture, its array of colored rocks begging to be plucked up and examined. I give him a sideways glance. “Haven’t you ever had a best friend?”
Theo laughs softly, bitterly. “None worth mentioning. In fact, the only that is...I can’t even recall what her name was. Some details from my childhood are a bit spotty. I’ve been told it’s a symptom of PTSD.”
I don’t know how to respond at first, because I don’t want Theo to think I pity him, but I kind of do. The fact that his dad is probably the reason he has PTSD, and memory problems, makes me unexpectedly angry. But then his earlier words catch up to my train of thought. His only friend was a girl? For some reason this surprises me. I’d pictured Theo to be the kind of guy with lots of other guy friends, or mates as he would say.
“Tell me about her,” I insist, hoping to satisfy my curiosity and keep from saying something stupid. “Why was she such a good friend?” We walk closer to the water. It’s clear as day, empty save for two or three paddle boats floating atop its surface.
Theo smiles without mirth. “I think I must have been seven years old the last time I saw her. We used to play in my tree house.” He smiles faintly. “One time my dad was watching us, and while we were playing king and queen together, I fell straight out of the tree house and broke my arm.”
My eyes widen. “You what?�
�
“I know,” he continues. “And when I went to my father for help, he told me to stop whining like a girl.”
His story stirs my mind like a stone tossed into a stagnant pond, resurfacing memories I had no idea I’d even repressed. The tree house, his dad, the fake plastic crowns. The king and queen game. I feel like I can’t move. My eyes are wide as saucers. It can’t be. “Go on,” I whisper.
He frowns at my expression. “After that, she...” He runs a hand through his dark hair, shining under the sun’s rays. “It was so long ago, yet it remains one of my fondest memories. She told my father that if he expected me to act like a grown up, he should probably start setting an example of one.” A smile tugs at his lips. His impossibly blue eyes seem far away. “He’d never heard a child speak to him like that before.”
“Theo,” I say, my voice urgent. “Did your tree house have a pink flamingo curtain for a door? With a red and blue striped rug inside?”
Theo meets my gaze. “How did you know that? Did your mum tell you?”
“And the inside of your house had pale wood floors that smelled like Pine-Sol...” I trail off, trying to recall every detail. “Your dad had a room with a pool table and a cart for drinks, and your room was blue, with a brown carpet. Your closet door was broken, so it only slid open halfway ...”
“It was you,” Theo states. “All this time, it was you, wasn’t it?”
We stare at each other for a long moment, both of us in complete and utter shock.
And then Theo laughs, loud and unconfined. It feels like my entire life is a dream, or maybe a joke. Of course it would be me, this person Theo remembers talking back to his dad for him.
It’s hard to believe fate would bring us back together after all these years, after I’ve lost my mind and he’s grown out of his awkward, juvenile appearance. It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize him. In fact, I’d managed to forget about him completely. But the memory of his scrawny frame flashes behind my vision, the way his dark hair used to be cut short, how his wide blue eyes were like gaping holes that led straight to the ocean. I take in his lean yet muscular frame, his neatly combed hair. His eyes narrowed in on me. I shiver.
One Carefree Day Page 6