“I saw you tapping in class,” Theo says, walking toward me.
I play with my hands. “I’m surprised you noticed, considering your eyes were glued to your phone.”
He laughs. “Shall we get started?” He stops right in front of me.
“Sure.” I sink deeper into the couch. “Do you still have the list?”
“Why, of course I do, little Willow.” He pulls it out of the pocket of his jeans. “And it says here number eleven is contamination. I think we can move on from that, though, after the way you managed your dirty hands at the river.”
I think back to that moment, remembering the way those men started hollering at me right after my hands became dirty. The way Theo came back and defended me, how I discovered shortly after that I knew him when I was five.
“We’ll continue working on it, but for now let’s move on to number ten,” Theo says. “Conflict.”
I scoff. “You can’t just create conflict for me to not react to, Theo. I’ll know it’s fake and it won’t work.”
He raises his eyebrows. “The same can be said for nine and eight, then. ‘Not being in control’ and ‘not being happy’. If you won’t let me create bothersome conflicts or scenarios, it will be up to you not to react when they happen naturally.”
I inhale.
“Can you do that?” He fixes me with his intense blue stare.
“Yes,” I say softly. “I’ll do my best from now on.”
“That means no more tapping,” he says, scanning the list. “No more smiling into mirrors or imagining things so they won’t happen. If you can do that, we can move onto number seven. Objects in an uncomfortable position.”
I sigh and nod simultaneously.
Theo takes a pen out of his pocket. “So, let’s start with this,” he says, setting the pen down on the end table next to me. “Try not to react.” He rolls the pen so the clip is resting on the right side.
I meet his gaze. His blue eyes are steady on mine, but my skin feels too tight on my bones, like I’m suffocating in myself. My blood races too quickly for my heart to keep up. “I can’t,” I whimper. “Theo, I can’t.”
He sits down next to me on the couch. “But you already are. You haven’t tapped once.”
I glance at my hands. He’s right. But now I’m aware and I’m yearning to tap even more than before. I inhale deeply, and Theo grasps both of my hands together in his, steadying them. I don’t move, unable to take my eyes off our joined hands. His skin is warm and shades lighter than mine. The contrast is so blatant.
I can’t look at his face. Not with my heart making plans to escape from my chest and the temperature of my body getting too hot for me to endure. Just when I think the anxiety is going to push me over the edge, Theo lets go of my hands and picks up the pen. “Take a few deep breaths,” he murmurs. “And then we’ll try it again.”
It takes six rounds of the same torture for me to finally understand why ERP works. Each time Theo turns the pen the wrong way, he makes me withstand it for longer, with no rituals. And each time it becomes a little bit easier. By no means does the anxiety go away, but it’s almost like it gets smaller and smaller, until it becomes like a mosquito bite—still itchy, but no longer a flesh-eating virus.
The triumph of refraining from my compulsion for so long makes me slightly dizzy. I laugh aloud.
“What?” Theo asks.
“I just can’t believe it’s getting easier. It doesn’t make sense. It should be getting harder, right? But it’s not.” I can tell I’m rambling now, so I shut my mouth.
Theo smiles slowly. “I told you.”
I laugh again. I suddenly want to change the subject because my success is making me uncomfortable. This is a different kind of success than what I’m used to. Masking my anxiety with a ritual doesn’t feel quite as clean as this, this nipping in the bud. I shake my head a little, averting my eyes. “What do you like to do in your free time, Theo? You already know I’m a reader. Do you have a hobby?”
“Of course I do, little Willow,” he says. “I’m an incredibly talented and creative person, as I’ve told you many times.”
I roll my eyes. “So what’s your hobby?”
“I have many.” Theo stretches on the couch. “Fixing people’s problems, fixing people’s hair, painting—”
“Painting?” I interject. “You paint?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Is that so hard to believe?”
I smirk. “I guess not. Anyone can paint. But the question is if you can paint well.”
Theo displays a wide grin. “All right. I accept your bait. Come and see.”
He gets up and I hide my smile as I follow him to his bedroom.
It’s clean, and relatively simple. A standard guy’s bedroom. His grey flannel comforter I’m familiar with, after sleeping under it not too long ago. It’s neatly tucked under his pillows, and I notice a pair of shoes peeking out from under his bed. The walls remain the neutral beige my mom had them painted when the guest house was built for my sick grandma to live in, and I notice that—like me—he doesn’t have any pictures hanging on them. Stacks of books are visible from the floor of his closet door, which is slightly ajar. I spy the titles of a few classics on the spines. Of course he would like the classics. His desk is clear, with the exception of an old tin can holding sharpened number two pencils.
I clear my throat. “Well? Are you the next Monet or have you been lying to me?”
He chuckles. “Close your eyes.”
I squeeze my lids shut dramatically.
He rustles around his room, mostly near his closet, and my curiosity intensifies. When I hear him come closer to me, I ask, “Can I look now?”
“Yes, little Willow. You can look.”
I open my eyes. He’s standing next to me, and on his bed are several canvases. Some of them are incomplete, with nothing more than rough pencil markings traversing their smooth surfaces. But others are saturated with color.
I’m immediately drawn to one painting in particular. The urge to touch it is nearly irresistible. The painting is dark on the outsides and light in the center. It takes me a moment to realize it’s from the perspective of someone looking through the tiny lock on a door. Through the keyhole, a snowy landscape at dusk is visible. The snow glows like a fiber-optic Christmas tree. The painting makes me feel poignant in a way I can’t describe.
“Did ... did you really paint these?” I whisper. I’m still staring at the canvas.
“I did, little Willow.”
I gape at him. “I thought you said this was a hobby!”
“It is.”
“But they’re amazing!”
He shrugs. “I know.”
I laugh in spite of his vanity. “Theo, these are beautiful. You could sell them if you wanted to.”
He offers me a small smile. “I’m glad you like them. As you said,” he points to himself, “the next Monet.”
I shake my head at him, and turn back to his art. I study some of the others, all beautiful and unique in their own ways. His use of color makes me never want to look away. All of them include some form of nature, laced with exaggerated elements. One of the paintings depicts a rose with the microscopic silhouette of a human trapped inside the vase holding it.
Another shows a jacuzzi atop a mountain in the middle of a forest. Trees are everywhere, some taller than the mountain itself. Though it’s raining in the image, the steam rising above the water makes me long to be there. I shiver, completely awestruck by Theo’s artistic talent. He really wasn’t lying.
I tear my gaze from his work, against my will. When I look at him, he’s closer than I expect. We lock eyes, and I’m hit by a rush of adrenaline.
I take a step backward, trying to put distance between us. But I can’t help but ask him, “Why don’t you hang them on the walls?”
He looks around his room. “I don’t know,” he says. “The paintings are nothing special. And the idea of displaying them seems quite vain, to be honest.”
Theo gets a text, and the mysterious E’s name appears on the screen again. I’m about to ask who E is when I realize it would sound nosy. So I bite my tongue and instead say something that’s been on my mind since seeing Theo’s work. “Your paintings remind me of my happy place.”
“Your happy place from your list?” Theo tilts his head sideways. “How so?”
I shake my head. “Your paintings make me feel like I’m somewhere else completely when I look at them,” I murmur. “Thinking of my happy place does the same. That’s why it helps so much. It’s this image I get in my mind. Of myself as a child, lying on my stomach under a tree. It’s a flowery spring day, and I’m holding a book. My little black dog is sleeping on the grass beside me while I read.” My voice has turned dreamy, and I hold in the happy sigh I want to release. “For whatever reason, it calms me. I think of it as my happy place.”
Theo tries not to smile. And fails. “You have a little black dog?” he asks.
“No, but I’ve always wanted one. Black dogs are always the last to get adopted at the pound, you know. I’ve always wanted to save one, but my mom never let me.”
He laughs, but there’s a softness in his expression that wasn’t there before. “Is that why you walk dogs?”
“Yep. I like to pretend they’re mine.”
Theo laughs again just as he gets another text from E. This time, I can’t hold my tongue. “Who on earth is E? And why do they keep texting you?”
“That would be the ever-annoying Eliza,” Theo sighs. “My ex-girlfriend.”
My stomach clenches. “Oh. And you still keep in contact with her?”
Theo shakes his head, distracted by the response he’s sending her. “Not on purpose. She can’t seem to take the hint.”
He rolls the sleeves of his shirt up, and my eyes fall on his tattoos. The Lucy one in particular. The tiny handprint with the name in cursive underneath. It’s such a sad tattoo, though I can’t pinpoint why. It’s like his artwork; it makes me feel a very particular way every time I see it. Poignant.
“Has your mum told you yet?” he asks me. I’m startled to find that he’s been watching me study his tattoo.
My face heats. “Told me what?”
“What happened to her.” Theo’s voice is even. “To Lucy.”
I feel like a deer in the headlights. I don’t know what to say, so I shake my head. “No.”
“Eight months before my mum died,” he says staring at his paintings on the bed, “she got pregnant. She kept the pregnancy a secret and was planning on leaving my father because she didn’t want him to raise another one of her children. Unfortunately, he found out she was going to leave, because her credit was run for a flat in a suburb near London.” Theo pauses a moment before continuing. “He beat her bloody, and to stop him she was forced to tell him about the baby. He didn’t touch her again until four months later, and my mum lost the child because of it. A girl. Her name was going to be Lucy. She never told anyone what my dad did.” He eyes me. “Except your mum, perhaps.”
My tongue feels like cotton in my mouth. I don’t know what to say. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for Theo, watching his mom suffer abuse, and then losing the sibling he never even had a chance to meet. “Theo,” I whisper, “I’m so sorry.”
His smile is mirthless. “I’m just glad the bastard is in a different country,” he states. He runs his hand through his hair.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “You said she lost the baby a few months before she passed away? Did that have anything to do with...”
Theo’s eyes are hard. “That’s what I’ve been asking myself. Did she take her life because my dad took Lucy’s? I don’t know. But it’s too much of a damn coincidence otherwise. I never told authorities about the situation, because what proof did I have that my dad caused my mum’s miscarriage? Her bruises had faded by then.”
“Has your dad tried to contact you since you moved here?” I can’t help but ask.
Theo sighs. “Every day.”
“You can block the jackass,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
Theo smiles, but it falters. “Can I ask you something?” he murmurs.
I nod, ready to tell him anything if it will make him feel better.
He studies my face, like he’s trying to decide if he should ask, or possibly working up his nerve. “Who is Daniel?”
My heart sinks. I’m willing to tell him anything, except that. The memory is too painful for me to discuss. I feel ashamed knowing I won’t answer him, especially since he just confessed to me what happened to his unborn little sister. To his mom. To him. “No one,” I say, hating myself. “Daniel is no one.”
Theo doesn’t push further for an answer, but I can sense his disappointment. He changes the subject. “Are you going to the party?”
“Party?”
“That bloke Charlie’s back-to-school Valentine’s shindig.” Theo gathers up his canvases to put them away.
I tilt my head at him. “When is it again?”
“Tomorrow night. We should go together,” he says. We lock eyes, causing my heart to flutter.
“Valentine’s Day is tomorrow?” I ask, and suddenly recall why I can’t go. Theo must have forgotten number four on my list of fears: going out on a Friday. Or maybe he just hasn’t made the connection that the party is on a Friday and that’s why he’s asking me. If I remind him, the conversation will inevitably lead to me going and implementing ERP. Which is not an option.
"Sorry, I can't," I say. "I have ... chores to do. Lots of them."
Theo narrows his eyes at me. “Is that so, little Willow?”
“That’s so, Theo.” I widen my eyes, hoping my expression appears innocent. “It’s my turn to deep clean, and I can’t give my mom another reason to want to kick me out.”
He laughs at that. If he knows I’m lying, he doesn't say so. My stomach tightens at the lie, but it’s my only option. If there’s anything on my list that I’d want to get away with never facing, this would be it.
Eleven
I sleep in Friday morning. Two weeks in, and it already feels odd not to be in the car with Theo or sitting next to Ash at our stations right now.
I eat the breakfast my mom left me on the stove. It’s been nice having her cook for me lately, something she never usually makes time for. I wonder if she’s been doing it so I won’t want to move out. She probably thinks that by cooking for me every day, she’ll make me want to stay so badly I’ll actually get on meds. She even cut the French toast into little hearts for Valentine’s Day.
Nice try, mom.
If I told her right now how I’ve been using ERP to face my compulsions, it wouldn’t be enough for her. I’ll need to give her proof by conquering most of my rituals. Once she sees my progress, she won’t be able to deny that I’ve changed.
After taking the dogs around the block, I finish my homework for the rest of the week. It takes hours, and I’m burnt out when I’m done, but I don’t have the ability to pace myself with assignments. I’d much rather suffer for one day while I trudge through it all than have to remember to do a little bit of homework every day.
I decide to take a shower after, and when I’m done I make myself comfortable on the couch in the living room. Theo will probably be getting ready for Charlie’s party soon. The thought of him there without me makes my stomach heavy with dread. He might even meet a girl there. Not that it matters.
I send Ash a quick text, remembering she’s going to tell Joseph she’s pregnant. Good luck tonight.
She responds instantly. Thanks, babe. Love you.
I briefly consider asking her to keep an eye on Theo for me. But I know how that would sound, and I know it’s not my business what happens at the party. I’ve seen the way some of the girls in our class look at him, like he’s the hottest guy they’ve ever seen. And they’ll be there tonight, most likely.
I need to distract myself.
I grab my book from my room and sprawl out on the couch. I read for a few hours, breaking only to eat and use the restroom. Those brief pauses, however, lead me to think of Theo, so I quickly reinstate myself in my reading spot. I turn the next page, ready to continue well into the night. The words on the paper consume my imagination, playing out behind my eyes like a movie. A movie directed by my own interpretations, by my own impressions, by the effect the words printed on the paper have on my subconscious.
A swift knock on the door rips me out of the story so abruptly that for a second I forget where I am. In a daze, I open the door.
Theo is here, holding a paper bag. The night sky is set like a stage behind him. Stars peek out from their daytime dormancy like a cluster of white Christmas lights. Theo is dressed for the party, his dark hair neatly styled, framing his bright blue eyes, which are made even more luminous by his black V-neck shirt and dark jeans. His face is freshly shaved of his light stubble.
I blink. "What are you doing here?"
Theo holds up the bag. "I decided to help you with your chores, little Willow," he says with a wry smile. "It’s such a shame you’re missing the party. But I wouldn’t want you to do all this work alone.” The challenge in his eyes is blatant. “I've got here some all-purpose cleaner, gloves, and scrubber brushes. I wasn't sure if you had any. Can make a job so much more pleasant if you ask me." When his gaze travels behind me to the couch where my blanket and book are resting, he arches an eyebrow at me. "Aha! I suspected as much."
I begin to stutter a string of gibberish even I can’t decipher. "No, I am! I just—"
One Carefree Day Page 11