Beard In Mind: (Winston Brothers, #4)

by Penny Reid

  “You think what he sees will scare him away?”

  “Not at all. Your OCD is a big part of your life, and it always will be to varying degrees, but it isn’t the sum total of who you are. You’re a world-class artist, I’ve read articles describing you as a genius. You’re also a gifted mechanic. You donate your time and money to worthy causes. You’ve fostered countless animals. You have a great deal of empathy and a lot to offer a person.”

  I didn’t know why, but I felt like crying. I couldn’t manage anything more than a rough, “Thanks.”

  Unexpectedly, Dr. West leaned forward and captured my hand, forcing my gaze to hers. “Let him see these parts of you, give him time to discover how great you are. Then—when or if the obsessive thoughts start—you’ll have a solid foundation. You’ll be able to reason your way through it. You’ll have a level of confidence in him, that he knows who you are and that’s why he’s with you. If you rush into things, it’ll be easy to doubt, both him and yourself.”

  “Okay. That makes sense.” I liked how she explained things, how she always had good, logical, defendable reasons. It made believing her so much easier.

  “Do you think he’ll still want to help?”

  “With my therapy?”

  “Yes.” Her expression was patient and encouraging.

  “I don’t know.” I took a deep breath, feeling tense about what she had planned.

  Are you ready for this?

  I didn’t know the answer. We’d drafted the ERP plan for my touch aversion weeks ago, but without someone for me to touch, someone I trusted, I couldn’t initiate it.

  As though sensing my reluctance, she asked, “What is it?”

  “Specifically, what will you request Beau do? I mean, what is the plan for when he comes next week?”

  “Oh, yes, I have a paper for you to give him.” Dr. West pulled a blue folder from her lap and handed it to me. “Please make sure he reads it and that he calls me this week.”

  “What is it?”

  “Frequently asked questions relating to Exposure and Response Prevention. The paper will give him an overview and when he and I speak on the phone, I’ll go over the details.”

  “Okay.”

  “Shelly, this is the first step. You understand, this means you will be initiating your ERP plan to overcome touch aversion. Depending on how things go next Friday—and I’m very optimistic based on how much self-directed progress you’ve made—you will be expected to follow the plan between sessions.”

  “I understand that.”

  She studied me. “The other two options we’ve already discussed—you coming in to the office five times a week for your exercises so you can be monitored, or checking yourself into a facility so you can be monitored—are still on the table.”

  “No, I can do this. I’m ready to do this.”

  “Please also understand that the only reasons I’m considering this method instead of insisting on one of the others is because it’s been a very long time since you’ve engaged in self-harm and because you’ve shown remarkable ability to follow self-guided ERPs. You’ve resisted the compulsion to self-harm entirely on your own, even when avoidance of touch wasn’t possible. And you’ve always reached out, called me when you’ve felt overwhelmed.”

  “Understood.” My knee began to bounce.

  This was where I lived my life, being afraid of the things I wanted the most.

  I can do this. I can do this. I will do this.

  “What’s on your mind, Shelly?” she asked conversationally, like she’d just told me about the chance for precipitation in the forecast.

  “It’s just . . . I do not want to use him.”

  “Use him how?”

  “I don’t want him to feel like I’m using him, for my treatment.”

  She gave me a blank stare, like I’d confused her. “But we are going to use him for your treatment.”

  “I know, but I do not want him to think that I’m just using him. I would never do that. If he didn’t want to help, I’d still want to be with him.”

  Dr. West lifted her chin, like she was absorbing my point. “From what you’ve said about Beau, and from my short conversation with him this week, he seems disposed to think only the best of you, Shelly.”

  “That’s just how he is. I do not want to take advantage.”

  “But if he wants to help,” she reasoned, like she was trying to lead me to a shared conclusion, “then it’s not taking advantage. Right?”

  Right.

  I stared at her.

  Say it.

  I opened my mouth, then closed it, swallowing.

  Just say it.

  “Shelly?”

  “Right.”

  She was right, of course. It wouldn’t be taking advantage.

  But if he helped me move past this, the most fearsome of my obsessions, how could I ever repay him? What could I possibly offer him in return?

  17

  “I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.”

  ― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

  *Beau*

  After Shelly left me on Wednesday, I went home and sulked.

  I tried fixing the toilet in the upstairs bathroom, but the damn thing didn’t want to be fixed. So, naturally, I drank bourbon instead. Then I passed out. And because all my dreams were drunken fantasies about the woman I was trying to forget, I woke up hungover and sulked some more.

  Exacerbating matters, there was a new message from Drill on my phone Thursday morning—a missed call and a text. I didn’t listen to the voicemail, but I did glance briefly at the text,

  * * *

  Drill: Last chance asshole. U pick a place or she will.

  * * *

  Grumbling to myself, I turned off the screen and shoved the phone in my back pocket. I didn’t need to meet with that crazy psychopath Christine St. Claire if I didn’t want to, and no amount of cryptic bullying from Drill would persuade me otherwise.

  Sulking wasn’t like me and I didn’t much like doing it. By mid-morning Thursday, I resolved to stop being such a cranky ass and I called Hank to see about going fishing. We did, and that helped a little. Then I bartended at the Pink Pony. That didn’t help at all.

  Firstly, Tina Patterson was working—Duane’s ex-girlfriend—and she and I don’t like each other much. When she wasn’t on the stage giving me dirty looks, she loitered at the bar, trying to sneak free drinks and giving me dirty looks.

  Secondly, I couldn’t help comparing Shelly’s long, strong, beautiful body to all the lady strippers. Which meant I spent the whole night thinking about Shelly naked.

  Desperate for a distraction, I tagged along with Drew on Friday morning for one of his trail runs. Keeping busy and wearing myself out seemed to help. By the time I made it to work Friday afternoon, Shelly was already gone to her appointment. I’d couldn’t figure out if I was relieved—because I was so tired—or disappointed—because I’d lost out on a chance to see her.

  Disappointed. Definitely disappointed.

  Bonus, watching Cletus torture himself over Jennifer Sylvester all day Saturday helped more than anything else. All of us, Jennifer Sylvester included, had gone to Nashville to watch Cletus and Claire McClure participate in a music contest. Usually, I would have used the opportunity to flirt with Jenn, rile Cletus up a bit.

  Turns out, riling Cletus was not necessary. He’d already riled himself. The looks Cletus sent Jennifer at dinner were pathetic. Not having a death wish, I kept my trap shut.

  Unfortunately, a tortured Cletus on Saturday led to a rampaging Cletus on Sunday. Most everybody attributed his short tempter to residual nerves about the contest, but I knew the real story. And now I also had firsthand experience how a woman could wreck a fella without him consenting to be wrecked.

  I wasn’t wrecked, not by a long shot. But I’d come precariously close to stand
ing on the edge of that cliff and thinking to myself, I wonder what’s down there?

  Yeah, no. No thanks. No me gusta. None of that for me.

  Duane and I drove into work together Monday morning. He needed to borrow my car, and leaving early with my twin was much preferable than suffering through Cletus’s current mood. I pulled into the auto shop just after 6:30 AM and both Duane and I were surprised to see Shelly’s car in the lot.

  “She’s here early, right?” Duane unbuckled his seatbelt.

  “Yeah, real early. Usually she’s here at seven thirty.” The rubber band around my chest made a reappearance and I chased it off, threatening another trail run with Drew Runous. Lord knew, nothing worked to numb a mind and body like a twelve-mile trail run with Drew. It was like getting in a fistfight with yourself. And maybe a bear.

  I sensed my twin’s eyes on me so I spared him a glance. “What?”

  “Jess asked if Shelly wanted to get together sometime.”

  “Why’re you asking me?”

  “Jess says y’all are friends.”

  “Why would she say that?”

  “I reckon because of the way you were with her at Genie’s that one time, how you chased her out of the bar.”

  “I didn’t chase her.” I did sorta chase her. “We’re not friends.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Good,” I grumped, glaring at Shelly’s Buick GSX. It reminded me that I still had her potholders in my car, just behind the driver’s seat, so I reached behind me for the bag. “Like I said, we’re not friends.”

  “So you said.” Duane lifted his chin toward the bag in my hands. “What’s that?”

  “Potholders.”

  “What for?”

  “For Shelly. She doesn’t have any, she’s been using a towel for weeks.”

  Duane blinked at me, just once, his expression unchanging.

  I squirmed in my seat. “I don’t want her to burn her hands.”

  He blinked again, slower this time.

  “She mentioned it to Jenn Sylvester last week and I overheard, so I picked them up when I was at the store. No big deal.”

  Now Duane was shaking his head, real slow.

  “You got something to say, just say it.”

  “I ain’t got nothing to say about you and Shelly Sullivan at the buttcrack of dawn, o’dark thirty in the morning. Just get out of this car so I can get to Knoxville.”

  “Fine. Leave.” I didn’t give my brother a chance to respond.

  I gripped the Piggly Wiggly bag to my chest while Duane and I exited at the same time, him walking around the front as I strolled toward the garage.

  “Hey,” he called, forcing me to stop and turn back to him.

  “What?”

  “You know . . .” He hesitated, took a deep breath, then started again. “If something is up with you, if you need anything, you can tell me.” He sounded concerned, but he also sounded frustrated. I got the sense he was trying to communicate something without coming out and saying it.

  I studied him, unable to read his meaning. And the fact that I couldn’t read my twin’s mind—like I’d done countless times in the past—was depressing.

  We were going in two different directions, he and I. He had his path, I had mine.

  “Sure.” I nodded, clearing my expression.

  Duane looked disappointed, but said nothing. He gave me a once-over and then slid wordlessly into the GTO.

  Just before he shut the door, I called to him, “You take good care of her.” Meaning my car, of course.

  “You know I will.” Duane switched her into drive and set off, not even giving the engine a superfluous rev.

  Duane was by far the best driver in our family. He’d cut his teeth at the dirt races in the canyon and he always won. Well, except that one time he’d totaled his Road Runner because he was in a fit about Jessica James.

  See? That’s what I’m talking about. Getting wrecked over a woman. What kind of crazy must a man be to enter into such a state?

  First Duane, then Jethro, now Cletus. More reckless than a pig at a barbeque, that’s what they were.

  “Beau.”

  My steps slowed at the sound of my name, my spine straightening, and I braced for the sight of her. But then I decided I didn’t need to see her. I could keep my eyes lowered. I didn’t need the double-heart-skip of doom.

  I’d made it inside the garage and halfway to the supply closet before she’d called to me. Seeing no reason to stop, I kept going.

  “Morning, Shelly,” I said placidly to the general direction of her voice, tucking the Piggly Wiggly bag under one arm.

  By the time I made it to the closet and had it unlocked, she hovered at my elbow.

  “Here.” I pushed the bag at her, which she accepted automatically, and opened the door to the closet. “These are for you.”

  Not waiting for a response, I stepped into the closet and scanned the farthest shelf for the car part I’d ordered and received last week for Joyce Muller’s Pinto. The woman was crazy about that Pinto, loved it more than her husband, even though it broke down ten times a year. I’ve rebuilt the damn thing seventeen times already and—

  “Beau.” Her voice was behind me, but I didn’t turn. Couldn’t.

  Or rather, I didn’t turn until I heard the door shut. Then I turned, pointing my scowl at the door.

  “You want something?”

  “I am really sorry about last Wednesday.”

  I shrugged, not giving her my gaze. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Was I still sore?

  Yeah.

  Yeah, I was. I was what my sister Ashley called butt-hurt.

  But I’d get over it. I’d told myself I was moving too fast and I was. Shelly had proved me right last week. Now I knew. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again, diving in when I should have been testing the water with a toe.

  Something about this woman made me want to jump. To leap first and look later, or maybe not look at all. It wasn’t like me. I needed to guard against the impulse, and against her.

  “Beau.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Look at me.”

  I closed my eyes and released a sigh through my nose. “It’s okay, Shelly. I understand.”

  “What do you understand, Beau?”

  I turned my head, opened my eyes, and glanced to the right of her, beyond her, to the shelves of machine parts. “Family comes first.”

  “I didn’t expect Quinn to show up,” she blurted, trying to move into my line of vision. “He didn’t tell me he was coming.”

  “Okay.”

  “I was surprised.”

  “I noticed.”

  I made to move past her and she stepped to the side, blocking my way. “Beau, last Wednesday was the first time I had seen my brother in a long time.”

  The edge of desperation in her voice drew my eyes to her person. She was twisting her fingers, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

  “How long?”

  Our eyes met, my wits scattered, and I gathered a deep breath. The air tasted like irritation and futility. I hated how defenseless I was to this woman.

  Shelly hesitated, her gaze searching mine. “Over two years.”

  “Two years?” I’m sure I looked shocked, because I was. “I thought y’all lived close to each other? In Chicago.”

  “We do, a few hours. My house in Illinois is on an old farm, surrounded by several acres. I used to go into the city on Saturdays and we would have breakfast together. But I stopped, just after Quinn and Janie married.”

  “Why? Janie seems nice.”

  “She is nice. She is wonderful. I’m the problem.”

  That had me frowning, but I said nothing, waiting for her to explain.

  Clearly sensing my reticence, she made a small sound in the back of her throat, like a pained groan. “Please do not be mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “You are mad,” she said on a rush.

 
“I’m not mad, I’m just—” I shook my head, looking beyond her once more, hoping the interior of the closet held the words I sought.

  “We had plans, and I was thoughtless.”

  “We did and you were.” I spoke plainly, bringing my hands to my hips.

  “Do you have plans tonight?” Her voice was very small.

  I looked to her. She’d inched closer.

  “Yes.” I did have plans. Duane and I had promised to help Jethro and Sienna at the carriage house, assembling furniture and unpacking boxes.

  Shelly winced and then grimaced. “Oh. Okay.” Her eyes fell as she stepped back and nodded repeatedly, struggling to swallow. To my astonishment she looked close to tears. “I am sorry. I will leave you alone. I am sorry.”

  Acting on impulse, I caught her by the arms and pulled her close. I waited until she lifted her gaze to mine before speaking, also on impulse. “But tomorrow, my plans are with you and a hamburger at Daisy’s, assuming more of your family doesn’t show up.”

  Instant relief spread over her features and she launched forward, kissing me. I released her arms and they came around my neck, holding me tightly as she planted her lips all over my face.

  Damn this woman. Damn her for making me weak. Damn her for being able to wreck me.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I will make it up to you.”

  The exuberance of her apology and fervor of her relief did wonders to settle my nettle. Also, the feel of her body beneath my hands helped a lot, too.

  ’Cause I’m a guy.

  And a willing woman’s body is the universal antidote for being butt-hurt.

  “You don’t need to make it up to me. Don’t forget I’m in a room again and we’ll call it even.”

  “I definitely won’t. I’ll never forget. I’m so sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing, Shell.” I caught her mouth as it brushed over mine, turning and easing her against the door so I could kiss her good and proper.