Disobeying Him

by M. K. Hale

  Ten minutes into eating, Ryan tossed a fry in his mouth and said, “All the female RA’s have been bad talking you.”

  “Why?”

  “Cause you’re the only girl Nate has ever talked about.”

  I cough-choked on a sip of my soda. My raised eyebrows were enough of a question for him to continue.

  “He complains about how you break the rules a lot but when they ask him why he hasn’t written you up for it yet, he gets real quiet and changes the subject.” I attempted to calm my throat as he went on. “They don’t like you because they see the way Nate talks about you and they like him. It’s all very soap-opera-y. If you get into a girl fight, text me the deets right before.”

  “I would not get into a girl fight over Nate.”

  “Shame.”

  “Why are all these girls so obsessed with him?” Like yes, he was sexy as heck, but he put up an attitude to be left alone. As a psychologist, I found that interesting, but why were other girls so into knowing him too?

  “You tell me.”

  I blinked in surprise. Was Ryan insinuating I had feelings for Nate? “I’m not interested in him in that way.”

  Ryan smiled. “Did you know your lip twitches when you lie?” I was not lying. Nate was a project. A patient. I would help him, not be with him. “I noticed because I’ve been closely monitoring your lips. For scientific reasons, of course.”

  “Scientific?”

  “From my knowledge of biology, I believe if we reproduced, we would create beautiful offspring.”

  I laughed. “You’re not the best at flirting, are you?”

  He shrugged, but his grin was full of mischief. “I haven’t started trying yet.”

  Chapter 8

  Allie:

  I screamed, but no sound came out. My therapist sat in his chair, calm, as I attempted to shriek with volume. He could not hear me. He never heard me. I was back in high school.

  “A lot of girls have gone through what you have, Miss Parser,” he told me. I tried screaming again. It did not work. “Don’t expect things to go back to normal.” He did not look me in the eyes. He stared down at his notebook as always, telling me what was wrong with me without even glancing my way. Without even seeing how ready I was to break. “You should expect to fall into a slight depression for a while.” Check. “Suffer from lower self-esteem than before.” Check. “And even problems with intimacy—”

  I jumped up and ripped his notebook from him. When I glanced down at the papers, they transformed into pages from a textbook, listing long-term effects and symptoms as if everything I felt could be labeled or defined. As if I was a question on a test and not a person. I closed my eyes and tried to scream again.

  When I opened my eyes, my mother stood in front of me as I laid on my bed. She wiped a stray tear off my cheek and picked up one of the fifty frilly pillows she had bought for my room. She shoved the pillow down on top of my face, muffling my screams until they were as silent as before, suffocating me. Suffocating me.

  I woke up, startled in my bed. Sweat soaked my pajamas, and I took two deep breaths to calm myself down. That was not my normal nightmare. What was happening? Why was I having nightmares again? Hadn’t I healed? I thought I was over it.

  Distraction time. Find a distraction.

  My leg bounced under my desk from excitement in my psychology class, eager for a distraction from my morning nightmare. With every chapter we read, I felt more prepared to write an amazing paper on Nate and help him work through his issues.

  “Please come see me if you have questions about the first quiz. It will get harder from here,” the professor told us as she passed back the graded quizzes and concluded class. Once mine dropped in front of me, my leg stopped bouncing.

  I couldn’t believe it. I had gotten a D on my first psychology quiz. A D. What. The. Hell. How? I knew psychology. I knew it better than anything else. It was what I wanted to do with my life. How could this happen? My chest tightened, and I took a deep breath and counted to ten. A D.

  Waves of panic crashed over me. Breathe. A couple of minutes after the class ended, I approached the professor as she stood next to a teaching assistant at her computer.

  “Hi, um—”

  “I don’t offer extra credit,” she said.

  “Okay, but do you have any advice on how I can improve my grade? I know there are only a few graded assignments in the class—”

  “If you want to do well in my class, write a good final paper. In the end, the quizzes don’t weigh much. Just the midterm and the final paper. Do you know whom you will write about yet?” She asked it like she knew the answer was no and that my last name was Procrastinator. Well, not in psychology. I did not procrastinate in my dream class.

  “I do.” I smiled when she seemed impressed. “I’m still getting to know him.”

  She spun around, facing me once she knew I was dedicated. “And what will be the focus of your analysis?”

  “He has an obsession with control that I believe is due to a traumatic childhood experience.” I did not know much but, from context clues, that was what I had picked up on. “He has a list of rules he lives by.”

  “Hmm, I’m intrigued.” She leaned against her podium. “And you have this list of rules?”

  Not exactly. “I know it exists.”

  “You’ll need to know everything on it for an in-depth paper.”

  “I will.”

  “Allie, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” my best friend and past roommate, Eliza, from my time in France messaged me after I explained my plans for sneaking into Nate’s room to find his list of rules for my paper.

  “If I find his rules, it will help me better understand how I can help him and also help me not fail the required class for my major,” I sent back. Jennifer, the blonde from my first week, had mentioned he might keep a paper with the rules in his room.

  Eliza: “I know you just want to help, but breaking into his room? C’est fou, non?”

  It was a bit crazy, but I needed to do it. Sure, I needed a good grade, but I also wanted to help people live their best lives. Nate closed himself off from people and as far as I could tell, he lacked strong friendships and relationships. He needed to let go of his control issues and do something unexpected. He needed to break his own rules.

  If I could get into his room and find his list of rules, they would serve as the topic of my final paper and a to-do list for his breakthrough. In the end, he would thank me. Hopefully.

  “Helping someone who did not ask for help is dangerous,” she messaged.

  When I had first met her in France, Eliza had been a shy girl with dreams of pursuing a career in performance. With my help, she had found the courage and taken the stage. Her smile under the spotlight gave me chills. She looked set free. Home. I wanted to do the same for Nate.

  He would be upset with me trying to help him, but I saw myself in him as I was a year ago. I had pushed away everyone and everything. If I could help someone not go down that rough road, I would.

  When he went to the bathroom, I sprinted into his room and searched the place. Automatic signs that Nate was not the typical college boy: no clothes scattered the floor and the smell of sweat and Axe body spray did not pollute the air. The soft scent of apples and cleanliness lingered in the air. The smell of Nate.

  I ran my hand over his bed sheets. No crumbs. He needed to explore the pleasure of eating food in bed. My mind took a dirty turn as I imagined lying back on the smooth mattress in nothing but whipped cream.

  His lips would curl up in his rare mischievous smile. “You look good enough to eat.”

  “Then what are you waiting for? Devour me.”

  Focus, Allie. I moved away from his distracting bed and looked around for any piece of paper labeled “rules” or “why I hate fun.” Instead, I stumbled across a photo on his desk of him kissing the cheek of a young dark-haired girl. Nate had a sister? My original assumption of him as an only child was proven wrong. Hmm.

&nbs
p; “What more is there to know about you?” I asked and bent down to look under his bed. Nothing but books and a bin of microwavable noodles. A small black box grabbed my attention. I pulled it out and opened the lid. “Fuck.” I shut it and shoved it back under the bed. Stop thinking about Nate putting you in those handcuffs. This is not the time. And was the slip of silk a blindfold? Shit. Focus. Focus. Focus.

  “If I were a list of rules, where would I be?”

  I opened a couple of drawers in his dresser. Mm, a boxers man. Jesus, now I was just being creepy. I just wanted to find a simple list of rules. The sound of heavy footsteps outside the door made my heart freeze in my chest. I stepped toward his closet.

  No. No way he was back so soon. Did he remember to wash his hands? Of course, he did, he was Nate Reddington. I had gotten too distracted and wasted all my sleuthing time.

  If he found me in his room….

  The doorknob turned.

  My heart thumped so hard in my chest, I worried he could hear it through the door of his closet. I had jumped inside the second I saw him open the door. Since his closet door had not been closed, I left it cracked open a bit so it would not raise suspicion. That way I could see him and know when he left his room again.

  Please, pick up a book and go to a class.

  Instead of grabbing something and leaving, he sat down on his bed and let out a deep breath. A part of me wanted to ask what had him so stressed. The other part of me realized I hid in his closet. Like a stalker.

  Oh my God, I had snuck into his room. And gone through his stuff. And now I was trapped here until he either found me or left. What if he never left? It was after five-thirty, so he had already eaten dinner. What if he stayed in here for the rest of the night? Would I have to sleep in his closet? What if I snored? Jesus, what had I gotten myself into?

  I shuffled my phone out of my pocket and texted Eliza. “Why did you let me do this?”

  Eliza: “You are the most impulsive person I know. You would have done it no matter what. Did you get caught?”

  I did not know what would be worse: getting caught any second, or waiting two hours and then getting caught. No, if I got caught, everything would be over. Nate would think I was a freak. An obsessed freak. Oh God, why couldn’t I have just thought this idea through more? Why was I so stupid?

  Through the crack of the closet door, I peered out, hoping he was finishing up with his bed wallowing. Instead, he had his phone pressed up against his ear. Jesus, what college boy called someone on the phone anymore? I found that kind of sexy.

  “Hey, Blue.” Who was this mysterious Blue? He listened for a bit. “You know I don’t want to talk to him.” Who? “Did you eat today?”

  For an eavesdropper, I had bad luck in finding out anything interesting. As far as I could tell, the call was a simple “how are you doing.” My heart did a funny flip when he ended it with, “I love you.” Nate loved someone. So Blue was his sister in the photo? If he had a bond with her, there was still hope of him making bonds with other people. He did not completely isolate himself. I wanted to walk out of his closet and give him a medal. Then I realized I still stood in his closet.

  “Hey, could you do something for me without asking any questions?” I texted Gavin.

  After two minutes of watching Nate read from a textbook, Gavin responded, “Oh man, what is it?”

  Me: “Please find a way to get Nate out of his room for at least a minute.”

  Gavin: “Why?”

  Me: “You promised you wouldn’t ask any questions.”

  Gavin: “I did no such thing.”

  Me: “Please.”

  I waited for a text back that never came. Instead, a light knock sounded at Nate’s door. Gavin led him out with a fake problem, and I prayed my thanks to him. Slipping out of Nate’s closet, I took one last look around the room and saw his dreaded color-coded calendar. Notes from colored pencils, highlighters, and post-it notes littered the days. It was insane. It was the root of his problems. I grabbed it before I let myself think it through.

  Once I was back in my room, I laid the spiral-bound booklet of months down on my bed.

  Shit, what did I do?

  The sound of Nate’s door shutting echoed through our shared wall. He was back in his room. No calendar.

  My original thinking when taking it was, you can’t leave empty-handed. My original thinking was stupid. I was stupid.

  He would notice it was gone. What would happen then? Maybe the next time he left the room, I could run it back in.

  A big shuffling noise came through the wall, followed by a “What the hell?”

  He noticed. Within one minute of it being gone.

  More noise came from his room. Things being moved around. His chair legs scraping against the tile floor.

  He would stop looking eventually. He had to.

  Two hours later of light cursing and loud sounds, he still searched for the calendar. The same calendar sitting on my bed. I wanted to bang my head against the wall and scream, “It was me.” Guilt cut me up into little regret pieces with its shame fork and opened its remorse mouth to eat away at me. No wait, Guilt did not need to bother with cutting me into small slabs. It had already swallowed me whole.

  “You’ve got to return it,” Eliza messaged me.

  The goal was to return it when he left again, but as time went on; I started to accept I would have to return it in person before he tore his whole room apart. Once he knew I had snuck into his room and stolen it…

  I buried my face in my hands and groaned. I needed to swallow my pride.

  My hand thumped against his door.

  “Busy,” he yelled, not opening it.

  I knocked again.

  “What is it?” He tore open the door, then paused. His gaze raked down my body. “Oh, Allie, hi.”

  “Hi.”

  He started, “Sorry, but I’m—”

  “I found this.” I pushed his calendar into his face.

  He took it from me, and his shoulders dropped from their tense state. “You found it?”

  Just nod and stick to the plan. “Found it in the hallway.”

  “You found my calendar in the hallway?”

  Shoot. “I’m lying. That was a lie.” Deep breath. “I took it.”

  “What?”

  “I snuck into your room and took it.”

  “You what?” The raising of his voice should not have given me tingles the way it did.

  “I also saw the handcuffs you keep under your bed. Very dom-y of you,” I babbled. “Sorry, by the way. Didn’t think you would miss the calendar that much,” I jabbed him with my elbow in a joking manner. He was not amused.

  He stood there with a stone expression carved by the most talented of statue artists. Sculptors. That’s what statue artists are called. The silence and stillness of his reaction scared me. Had I broken his brain? Was he also having a hard time remembering the word for sculptors?

  “Are you going to stop staring at me anytime soon?” I asked.

  “Are you crazy?” His voice came out as tight as the knots in my lower abdomen.

  “Apparently, yes, since I snuck into your room and all.”

  “Breaking and entering is a crime.” The familiar vein in his forehead came out to play. “An actual crime.”

  “You left your door unlocked—which breaks rule fourteen from the manual, by the way—so I wasn’t breaking in. It was just your average entering.”

  His mouth opened. More silence. Then, “Why?”

  The truth? “Someone told me you had a list of your rules in your room.”

  He still appeared confused. “For someone who asks ‘why’ so much, you sure don’t answer the question very well.”

  I could not just open up and tell him it was for a psychology paper that would ruin any future analysis, so I went with the other half of the truth. “You shouldn’t be living by a list of rules. When I couldn’t find it, I took your calendar because I was trying to help you realize you don’t need
to follow a schedule. You can’t let a clock or agenda dictate how each day will go.”

  He creaked his door open wider and pulled me into his room by the arm. His grip was the perfect mix of hard, soft, desperate, and calm. He closed the door behind me and stood with the tips of his shoes against mine. The scent of apples infiltrated my nose. A part of me wondered if he smelled liked baked apple pie when he got hot. “This thing between us, you wanting to learn more about me, it needs to stop.”

  “I just want to help you.”

  “You keep saying you want to help me. What does that mean?” he asked, narrowing his intense eyes on me.

  Synonyms. “Help you. Assist you. Fix you.”

  “Fix me?” The low tone of his voice shot shivers down my spine. Cold shivers licked down every vertebra with minty saliva. There was a tremble in his bottom lip, which I noticed because his lips were close. So close.

  “You need to stop relying on control to feel safe,” I said. “I can fix—”

  “Have you ever thought that maybe the reason you’re so concerned with fixing others is so you don’t realize you are the one who’s broken?” He spat verbal poison at me.

  The poison took root instantly. My breathing slowed. My heart halted. A coolness itched in my veins.

  “I’m sorry.” He tried to suck the poison out. “Allie, I’m sorry. That was—”

  “I’m not broken,” I whispered. I was a bee hovering over a dead flower. Willing pollen that was not there. Willing life to crusted petals.

  “You’re not.” His fingers stabbed through the dark strands of his hair. “That was a horrible thing to say. I was upset—”

  “I’m sorry I took your calendar.”

  He closed his eyes and released a frustrated breath. “Thank you for returning it.”

  “I’m going to leave now.” The words came out with no emotion. I felt myself retreating. Laying the foundation for a nice, big wall to come shooting up. All my hard work from the past year crumbled.