by Penny Reid
“Shelly—”
“Beau, you don’t know me—”
“I want to.”
“Really? Still? Are you sure? Because it doesn’t get better than this.” Her tone was stark and the depth of sadness—of desolate surrender—I saw in her eyes almost made me miss the ice and arrogance. Almost.
But it also made me want to take away her sadness, to prove her wrong.
Before I could say anything else, she was out of the car and closed the door, pacing to the back of my GTO and leaning against the trunk.
“Beau? Are you still there?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m here.”
“Am I on speaker with you and Shelly?”
“No. She decided to give us privacy.”
“Ah. Okay.” It sounded like the woman was walking, I could hear the click-clack of shoes against a hard floor. “That should be fine, but it does complicate what I’m allowed to say and share.”
“I have a lot of questions,” I glanced at the rearview mirror, where Shelly’s stiff, straight back was visible, “but I’d prefer to ask her.”
I didn’t want Shelly to feel that we’d talked about her, that I’d been given information she wouldn’t have been willing to share. I wanted Shelly to have . . . some control.
“Good, you should.”
“She said you had something to ask me? How is it that you know who I am?”
“Shelly has mentioned you on many occasions.”
“She has?”
“Yes.”
“Because we work together?”
“No.” There was unmistakable humor in the single-word answer and also finality, communicating very effectively that she was not at liberty to discuss the context of how and when my name had come up. “But I can tell you that she speaks very highly of you.”
She speaks highly of you. Despite everything, that had me grinning, which might’ve meant I was the crazy one.
“Beau, I can also tell you, Shelly has made great progress in the last several months, especially since moving to Tennessee, and I think you—and her position at the Winston Brothers Auto Shop—are contributing factors. I think, and I’ve discussed my theory with Shelly, that you in particular could be instrumental in helping Shelly’s therapy moving forward.”
“How so?”
“First, let me ask you, do you consider Shelly a friend?”
No.
“Yeah.” Even to me, my response sounded hesitant.
Clearly the woman sensed my insincerity, because she asked, “Really?”
“Well,” my gaze flickered to Shelly’s rigid posture, “I’ve made overtures, which she rejected.”
“Last week, correct?”
“She told you about that?”
Dr. West ignored my question, instead asking, “But you would like to help her? If you could?”
“Absolutely. I don’t want her cutting herself because she touched me, or anyone else.”
The doctor was silent for a long time, prompting me to ask, “Are you still there?”
“Yes.” Her voice altered, now wary and stern. “She told you about the cutting?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Just before she called you.”
“That’s very surprising.”
“What?”
“She trusts you.” The woman suddenly sounded fierce, angry, like she was warning me not to mess things up.
And her tone had me automatically defending myself. “I’m very trustworthy.”
“Good. I hope you’re also a very responsible driver, and don’t needlessly put yourself in harm’s way.”
“I don’t,” I snapped. I wasn’t the daredevil in our family; that title belonged to Duane. Besides, why was she bringing up my driving skills?
“In light of this development, I will need to speak with Shelly to determine the next steps.”
“What development? Me being a safe driver?”
“No. Shelly trusts you.”
“So? What’s wrong with her trusting me? I trust her.”
“You don’t know her—”
“I’m trying to change that.”
“She doesn’t know you very well—”
“I’m trying to change that, too.”
“This is not a simple matter, Mr. Winston,” the doctor continued as though I hadn’t spoken.
“I told you to call me Beau.”
“This is not a simple matter, Beau. I’m not able to delve into specifics for obvious reasons, but her trusting you—after so little time—changes everything.”
“What does it change? And what were you going to ask me?”
The physician hemmed and hawed, saying nothing for a good ten seconds. “That’s no longer a viable course of action, Beau. But I do appreciate your willingness to speak with me.”
I sensed that the woman was shutting the door in my face, and that did nothing for my mood. Whether this woman liked it or not, Shelly was my business.
And another thing, I’d just kissed a woman I’d been fantasizing about for weeks. I should be planning my next move, not stuck in my car speaking to her therapist while the literal woman-of-my-dreams paced outside.
How the hell did I get here? This was the strangest conversation I’d ever had.
All of these factors had me speaking without debating the wisdom of my words. “Listen, ma’am, I understand that Shelly has this disorder and you’re helping her work through things, and that’s great. But I care about this woman. She’s a fu—a freaking automotive genius. Did you know she can design, cast, and weld car parts?”
“Uh—”
“And diagnose problems just by listening to an engine? I’ve never met anyone who can do that. And she adopts cursing parrots. She may not come off as warm and friendly, but the woman has a big heart, and hiding it away ain’t doing anybody any good, especially not her. She’s starving, Doctor. I don’t know if you can see that, but I sure can. She needs affection more than a diagnosis, if you want my opinion, and not that you asked. But there it is.”
Dr. West made a sound that might’ve been a cough—or it might’ve been choking, I couldn’t tell. “Do you feel sorry for her, Beau? Is that why you want to help?”
“Hell, yes, I feel sorry for her.”
“That’s not a good basis for—”
“But mostly, I feel sorry for everyone else. Because from what I’ve seen, the glimpses of herself she’s shared with me, it’s a damn shame no one else gets to see it. It leads me to suspect that what we see of her on the outside has nothing on the beauty on the inside.”
Silence met this last statement. Shelly’s doctor was quiet for a while.
I glanced at the screen, seeing we were still connected, then brought it back to my ear just in time to hear her ask, “Beau, would you be willing to accompany Shelly this Friday afternoon? When she meets with me?”
“If she wants me there, I’ll be there.” Once more, I glanced at Shelly in my rearview mirror; she was still pacing, biting her thumbnail. The sight of her anxiety made me anxious. Her back was straight and tall, which was a miracle given the burden she balanced on her shoulders.
“Thank you.” Dr. West’s tone was friendly again, excited even. “Thank you, Beau.”
“For what? I haven’t done anything.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. See you Friday.” Dr. West ended the call, and if I was judging her tone correctly, she ended it smiling.
I tossed the phone to my dashboard, not smiling. I took a minute, marinating in the events of the day. But I didn’t get any further than our kiss in the garage, mostly because I didn’t want to. It had been the highlight not only of the day, but of the month. Maybe my entire year.
A soft knock on my window pulled me from my reflections. Shelly was hovering next to my door, her arms crossed, giving me an eye-interrogation.
I gave her a small smile and opened the driver’s side door, forcing her to back up a few steps.
“You spoke to D
r. West.”
I nodded, closing the door, inspecting the remarkable woman in front of me. She appeared to be struggling to erect her walls. Her gaze moved over me, like I was about to disappear and she was trying to commit my image to memory.
“I did.”
“Did she ask you about the touch therapy?”
That had me widening my eyes with acute interest. “Touch therapy? Tell me more.”
“She didn’t ask?”
“She asked me to come with you on Friday, for your appointment.”
Shelly blinked at me, three times, very quickly. “What?”
“She wants me to come with you.”
“Oh.” The word was more a breath than a real sound and her gaze had finally settled on mine, making my heart skip the requisite two beats.
“If that’s okay with you.”
Shelly nodded quickly. “Yes. That is fine with me. More than fine.”
“Good. I can’t make it this Friday. I have to close because Cletus has a thing in Nashville on Saturday, but I’m going with you next week.”
Finally still, she studied me at length before saying, “You’re taking me back to the shop.”
“What? Now?”
“I need to go back to the shop and get my car now. I think I need to go home.”
“Okay.” I nodded, letting my disappointment show but not wanting to push; a lot had happened and she clearly needed time to process things, but a nagging thought had me hesitating. “Shelly, can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Have you—have you hurt yourself because of me?” I couldn’t say the word cut, it caught in my throat and made it burn, so I motioned to her sleeve.
She shook her head, her attention moving to some spot behind me. “No, I haven’t.”
My relief was bone deep, yet apprehension still remained. “But you’ve wanted to?”
She nodded without speaking, her features blank, her eyes still affixed elsewhere.
“Tonight, when you go home, should I be worried—”
“Do not worry about me.”
“Impossible.”
Her gaze cut to mine, sharpened, scattering my wits as usual.
“I did not tell you about my—about me so you would worry.” Her hard tone belied frustration.
“Shelly,” I took a half step forward, “I was worried about you before you told me.”
She flinched. “Because you thought I was crazy?”
“Because I worry about people I care about.”
My admission seemed to fracture her ice wall and all at once her features melted. “I care about you, too.”
“Should I stay with you tonight? Do you need my help?” Do you need me?
“No.” Her tone now gentle, her gaze grew cherishing, and I believed she did care about me. “You don’t need to worry. I haven’t cut in over a year, and I don’t own any knives. Dr. West has really helped.”
Thank God.
“Good. That’s really good.” I tried not to let the extent of my relief show on my face, but I did allow a small smile. “How about a raincheck then?”
“Raincheck?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow for dinner, you and me go to Daisy’s. On a date.”
Shelly blinked, like my suggestion surprised the heck out of her. Her eyebrows pulled together, plainly confused. “You still want to go with me?”
“Yeah, of course.”
She shook her head, protest written all over her face. “But—”
“Let me ask you something.” I shuffled a step closer. “Your worry, or obsession, is about touching people?”
“Yes.”
“But if I touch you? That’s okay? That doesn’t make you want to do stuff?”
She crossed her arms. “Correct. I can’t touch other people, initiate it, but being touched doesn’t trigger any obsessive thoughts or compulsions. I just . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t usually like it, when people touch me. I can’t touch them back.”
“Should I stop?”
“No!” She said this in a way that had my small smile widening. “I like it when you do it.”
“Good to know,” I drawled. “I’ll be sure to keep doing it, then.” Yep. That was me flirting.
“I like it a lot when you touch me.” She hastened to add, “You can touch me whenever you want.” The last sentence was spoken like she was out of breath.
Good Lord, I really enjoyed her brutal honesty sometimes. It removed guesswork from the equation and simplified everything.
Shelly didn’t return my grin, instead her gaze clouded with that same sad surrender from earlier, and her obvious melancholy wiped the smile from my face.
Taking another step into her space, I held her stare. She lifted her chin to maintain eye contact, her body swaying toward mine, her breath coming short. Cupping her cheeks, I felt the tension in her freeze, and then melt beneath my palms. Her eyes closed, like she was relieved and grateful, and seeing her gratitude made my chest ache.
Damn. I felt sorry for her.
What must that be like? To be a prisoner to your own mind? To have your actions and desires held hostage by irrational fear?
I also felt a little sorry for myself. Her hands on me felt great. But knowing what I knew now, I didn’t want her to reach for me. I would likely flinch away from her touch, because I knew what it might cost.
With this thought on my mind, I brushed my lips against hers, enjoying everything about the hot and hungry way she reacted, how her body trembled, how she shifted restlessly.
But I did not enjoy how she clearly wanted me closer, yet was unable to do anything about it.
As I deepened the kiss, I slid my palms down her arms, entwining our fingers, and guiding her hands around my waist.
Immediately, she hugged me.
She held on tight.
Like she never wanted to let me go.
14
“It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.”
― Aristotle, Metaphysics
* * *
*Beau*
That night, I did not use Google to understand more about OCD. I wanted to wait until the appointment with her therapist. The search for cutting nearly sent me into a panic.
But I did dream of Shelly, as usual. Except, we weren’t getting busy. We were lying together. I held her and . . . that’s it. If it’s possible for a dream to be hopeful, that’s what this dream was. I woke up early, well rested with a single question on my mind: where could I buy Shelly potholders before work?
As I moved about, getting ready for the day, the worry set in. Had she given in to her compulsions last night? She said she didn’t own knives, but they weren’t hard to come by. She shaved her legs, didn’t she? So she had razors.
I wished she had a cell phone, and I wished I had some way to check on her.
I accidentally cut my neck shaving, penance for being distracted. Dabbing at the spot with a Kleenex, I tossed it into the toilet. But then the toilet didn’t flush. I made a mental note to grab the plunger from the basement and made my way downstairs where the smell of coffee beckoned.
My thoughts were still on Shelly as I entered the kitchen—whether I should take her someplace other than Daisy’s for dinner, whether I should pick her up flowers, what the rest of her obsessive thoughts were and the resultant compulsions—so I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings. My excitement for our date was irritatingly tempered by my concern for her well-being.
Would it always be like this with her? Would thinking about her always be half anticipation, half trepidation?
“What’s wrong?” Billy’s question had me looking up. My second-oldest brother was already dressed for work in his suit and tie. “And shouldn’t you be fishing with Hank?”
“I cancelled. I have an errand to run.” Grabbing a coffee cup from the cabinet, I tossed a thumb over my shoulder. “The toilet is acting funny.”
; “Like what? You mean satire?” This question came from Cletus, not bothering to glance away from where he was reading at the table. He was still in his pajamas, his curly hair a mess. Nevertheless, I was surprised to see him up so early.
“No, I mean—”
“I hope it’s a dark comedy,” he added, still not removing his attention from the newspaper.
“Cletus. That’s disgusting.” Sitting across from Cletus, Duane’s tone was reprimanding.
Finally, Cletus tore his eyes from the paper. “What?”
“Dark comedy?” My twin lifted his eyebrows. “Meaning poop?”
“No, Duane.” Cletus paired this with a suffering sigh.
“That would make it a shitty comedy,” I piped in, adding fuel to the conversation fire as I was prone to do, feeling more myself as I smiled.
“Y’all are a bunch of toilets,” Billy mumbled under his breath.
We all turned our attention to our older brother, with Cletus speaking for us, “Let me guess, because toilets in this house act funny?”
Billy tilted his cup toward Cletus. “Exactly.”
I grinned, the rawness in me settling. Being around my brothers was a salve and a good reminder. We had all lived through dark times—sometimes together, sometimes separately—yet here we were, making toilet jokes on a Wednesday before 7:00 AM.
When our father was in the picture, we’d lived our lives in a state of constant agitation. We waited for tragedy to strike, for a shoe to drop, a punch to land.
Living that way was not an option, not anymore. Shelly’s therapist had said she was making remarkable progress. Anticipating failure wasn’t fair to her, and it wasn’t fair to me. No person is exempt from troubles and strife. Her baggage had the label of OCD, mine was labeled Darrell Winston.
As long as Shelly and I could have times like this, as long as the discord was diluted by frequent, everyday moments of knowing and enjoying each other, then I could deal.
I would not cheat myself out of the possibility of her, of us, of hope and happiness.
I refused to expect or anticipate misery.
* * *
The Piggly Wiggly had potholders. I picked up four, walking past the bundles of flowers to the checkout. Something told me Shelly wouldn’t appreciate flowers like most people would. In fact, I was pretty sure she’d hate them.