Beard In Mind: (Winston Brothers, #4)

by Penny Reid

  I nodded, staring unseeingly out the window behind her. “Makes perfect sense to me.” Bringing my attention back to her, I added, “And isn’t that true with anyone, not just people with OCD? Getting in a bad routine, a rut, is the same as developing and sticking to bad habits. There’s a reason they say bad habits are hard to break.”

  “Or people who are habits,” she mumbled.

  “Pardon?”

  Shelly finished arranging her banana and lifted her gaze to mine. “People can become bad habits.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” I slanted my head, considering this. “Like my—my momma and Darrell.” I stumbled over calling Bethany my momma. It didn’t seem right, knowing what I knew now.

  But I didn’t have time to dwell on the issue. I needed to focus on Shelly, so I pushed it aside.

  “You think your father was a bad habit for your mother?”

  “Well, he wasn’t a good habit. Until he went after Billy in front of her, Bethany kept letting him back in our lives. And when he treated her well, when he’d compliment her, or make her feel special, she was so happy, her feet didn’t touch the ground. He walked on water. It was like she was addicted to him.”

  Shelly nodded thoughtfully, her features more serious than they’d been just moments prior. “You deserve the best, Beau.”

  “Thanks. So do—”

  “I mean it. Don’t let anyone in your life who isn’t the best, and don’t hesitate walking away from a person who can’t give you what you need.”

  “O-o-o-okay.” Something about her tone raised the hairs on the back of my neck, had me sitting straighter and peering at her. “You referring to anyone specifically?”

  Shelly used her fork to spear a piece of banana, then a piece of pancake, saying quickly before shoving the bite in her mouth, “No one specifically, just crazy people in general.”

  22

  “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”

  ― John Milton, Paradise Lost

  * * *

  *Shelly*

  “This is a lot harder than I thought it would be.”

  Beau reached for my hand and tangled our fingers together. God, that feels nice. So nice.

  “I can go, wait outside until you’re done talking. No pressure.” He squeezed my hand in a way that made me think he might withdraw his, so I tightened my hold.

  We were sitting on a couch. The couch was new. I’d never seen the couch before. The couch was distracting.

  “Where did the couch come from?”

  Dr. West’s tone was as patient as ever. “I have it brought in when needed.”

  “Did you bring it in so Beau and I would be sitting together?” I didn’t mean for the question to sound like an accusation, but it did.

  “Yes.” She turned a warm smile to Beau. “I wanted Beau to be comfortable and I wanted you both to be on the same piece of furniture, so we can practice—”

  “Touching,” I blurted. “You want me to practice touching him.”

  My therapist nodded. “Yes. That’s why he’s here, Shelly.”

  “Can we do the other stuff first?” I glanced at our entwined fingers, at the stain of grease under Beau’s fingernails that matched the stains under mine. I liked how our hands looked together. They looked useful, like they could tell stories, and some of the stories they told might even be the same.

  “We can . . .”

  I sensed her hesitation, which had me seeking out her gaze again. “What?”

  “We can talk about your week, about what’s going on with you. But do you want Mr. Winston—”

  “Call me Beau. Mr. Winston is my brother Billy.”

  Dr. West turned a charmed smile to Beau—because he was charming—and continued, “Do you want Beau to be here for that conversation? I’ll be asking you about any new obsessions and we’ll be working through how to overcome them. And I have questions about your relationship as well.”

  “Fine. Let’s do it,” I agreed quickly, sucking in a breath and holding it.

  Anything to put it off, anything to postpone it.

  She studied me, assessing, like she was trying to make up her mind.

  Eventually, she conceded. “How about we talk for a while, then practice, then talk again after that? I’ve cleared the entire afternoon. We have plenty of time.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay then.” She gave me an encouraging smile. “Has this situation with Beau caused any new obsessive thoughts?”

  I sensed his hand tense in mine as I endeavored to focus on her question. “What do you mean?”

  “Your relationship with Beau, are you having any thoughts in particular about him that you believe might be leading to new compulsions?”

  I chewed on my bottom lip, not able to meet her eyes, heat crawling up my neck.

  But I responded honestly. “Yes.”

  Beau didn’t tense this time. He held still.

  “Please tell me.” My therapist sounded so calm, reasonable, and it reminded me that we did this all the time. We had these conversations every Friday and sometimes during the week if I felt overwhelmed.

  And Beau needs to know. He needs to see what he’s dealing with..

  I lifted and then squared my chin, meeting Dr. West’s gaze evenly. “I can’t stop cleaning tools.”

  “Please describe that.”

  “At work, I can’t stop cleaning and organizing the tools or the garage. I worry that he’s going to catch something, a disease. Then he’ll get sick, because the tools aren’t clean.”

  Dr. West nodded, writing something down in her notes. “And how long has this been going on?”

  “About three weeks.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t sound judgmental or disappointed in me, but then she never did when I revealed new compulsions.

  I didn’t let Beau’s silence or stillness bother me. I distanced myself from it, from him. But I couldn’t completely, because he continued holding my hand.

  And then I felt Beau sweep his thumb over my knuckles. Gently. So gently. My stomach gave an answering flutter.

  He’s still here.

  And my heart was sent racing, because what I’d just revealed about myself didn’t send him running. “But, the good news is that sometimes I’ve been able to speak in sentences with an even number of words, increasing the frequency over time. Beau does it, frequently. And he’s the least violent person I know. I told myself that if he does it, then it can’t be terrible.”

  “Good.” She grinned approvingly, her gaze flickering to Beau and then back to me. “Good job reasoning through that. This is a victory, remember this victory.”

  She was right, but it hadn’t felt like a victory during the times I’d had to tell myself over and over that expecting violence because of the number of words in my sentences was irrational. It had been a struggle for weeks, until it suddenly wasn’t.

  I’d been wondering if she’d ask me about it. Perhaps she hadn’t picked up on how I hadn’t been obsessing, maybe other issues had simply taken precedence and she’d let it slide.

  But it was a relief to not be counting every single sentence. I hadn’t known how taxing it had been until I stopped. Finding the control and determination to finally stop counting had made me feel less exhausted, and therein was the true victory for me.

  “Thank you.” I paused, making sure she realized my last sentence only consisted of two words.

  She smiled, tipping her head in acknowledgement. “You’re welcome.”

  I squirmed. “Let’s not go crazy with the even-worded sentences.”

  She laughed, so did I, and so did Beau, withdrawing his fingers from mine. He slid his arm along my shoulders and pulled me against him for a quick squeeze, like he couldn’t help himself.

  As we separated, I glanced at him. So handsome.

  I loved his red beard and thick, unruly red hair. I loved the angles of his jaw and cheekbones and strong nose. I loved his big eyes that twin
kled and sparkled with meaning and mischief I couldn’t always decipher. But I didn’t care if I had trouble reading him all the time, because he was good all the time. And that’s what I loved most.

  But the way he was looking at me now set my heart racing again. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to touch him.

  “Let’s talk about your need to clean the tools.” Dr. West continued, “How can we interrupt these compulsions? Should we develop a plan?”

  I heard her, but I was caught in a moment of bravery, one of those singularities where I knew I could succeed. I would succeed.

  There’s nothing to fear from this. He’s here. He’s safe. He’ll be fine. You don’t have the power to hurt others by touching them. Give yourself this. Give this to him. Be strong for him.

  I leaned away from Beau until his arm was no longer around my shoulders. He resettled it along the back of the couch. Holding my stare, his gaze grew questioning.

  I reached out.

  He is safe.

  He is well.

  And then a whisper . . . but what if—

  In a rush, I touched him.

  I cupped his face with my hand, before the small what if became a monster. And as soon as my skin connected with his, anxiety hit me.

  A punch to the stomach.

  A hand around my throat.

  A knife in my chest.

  My heart beat between my ears, growing louder, louder, louder.

  Oh God, what have I done?

  Beau covered my hand with his, pressing it to his cheek, looking at me with pride and happiness.

  How could he be happy about this?

  What have I done?

  “Shelly.” Dr. West was speaking, but I couldn’t focus on hearing her.

  I’ve touched him before and nothing bad happened—at the bar, at the shop—he’ll be fine.

  Not this time. Not this time.

  You’ve done it. It’s your fault. When it happens, it’s your fault.

  I needed . . . I need . . .

  “Beau, let Shelly drop her hand.” Dr. West was closer now, sitting on the couch with us. As soon as Beau released me, she removed my hand from his face. “Shelly, look at me.”

  I did, I looked at her, at her lips, because she was speaking again.

  “Touch Beau again.”

  I shook my head.

  “Please.”

  I shook my head.

  I couldn’t swallow. My stomach rolled. My ears were ringing.

  “I can’t.”

  “You have to be the one to do it, Shelly. You have to be the one to make the choice, to overcome the fear.”

  “I can’t.”

  “The time is now, Shelly.”

  The time is now, Shelly.

  So I did.

  I touched his face again. His sweet, handsome face.

  It will be your fault. It will be your fault.

  Scratchy and soft hair on his incredible cheeks.

  The time is now, Shelly.

  He’ll be in danger because of you. His family will hate you for hurting him. You’re hurting him!

  Soft skin beneath my fingertips.

  The time is now, Shelly.

  I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

  And then I heard the loudest keening, oddly familiar, and my heart ached. Tore from my rib cage.

  What is that sound?

  My arm felt like it was on fire.

  Make it stop.

  My ears were ringing.

  Let go. Let go. Don’t hurt him.

  I felt tears dampen my cheeks.

  My throat.

  And then I knew who the anguished sounds belonged to.

  They were mine.

  23

  “The mind once enlightened cannot again become dark.”

  ― Thomas Paine, A Letter Addressed to the Abbe Raynal on the Affairs of North America

  * * *

  *Beau*

  Intense.

  That’s what it was.

  Incredibly intense.

  I glanced at Shelly where she was slouched low in the passenger seat. She stared out the window, her elbow resting on the sill, her hand covering her mouth. She looked exhausted.

  But she’d done it.

  After several hours, touching me over and over—my face, my hands, my arms, my neck—over and over, until she didn’t struggle, didn’t flinch, didn’t cry.

  My stomach dropped, remembering the crying.

  At first she’d seemed completely lost to it, to fear. Her eyes were wild with panic. And her doctor, that woman had nipples of steel. Or something like it.

  When we’d first walked into the office and I’d met Dr. West, she’d seemed so kind and accommodating. But the merciless way she’d encouraged Shelly to confront her fears, over and over, with no reprieve, almost had me second-guessing her sanity.

  But then it got easier. Little by little. Touch by touch. Until Shelly touched me, and along with the fear were wonder and resolve.

  Dr. West said she wasn’t cured, that there was no curing OCD. But that Shelly had taken a giant step. Now she would follow the prescribed plan over the next week, and hopefully none of the exercises would be as difficult as the first.

  It was almost sunset, and we were just miles from her place when my stomach grumbled.

  “You should have had the hamburger.” Shelly said this to the window, her voice monotone and slightly nasally from her earlier crying.

  For the first time in hours, I smiled. “You’re right, I should’ve had the hamburger.”

  On a whim, I placed my hand between us, palm up. I saw her glance at me and then at my offered hand.

  She straightened in her seat, shifting away from my offering. “I’m not ready yet.”

  “Okay then.” I reached for her, twisting our fingers together and bringing her knuckles to my lips. “Are you hungry?”

  “No.” She tugged our joined hands to her lap, began tracing the lines of my bones with her fingertip. “Thirsty, not hungry.”

  “Let’s just get you home then.”

  “I have food.”

  I gave her a teasing look. “Bread?”

  A whisper of an almost smile drifted over her features. “Yes. Bread.” But then it was gone.

  She was so absorbed in the lines she was drawing on the back of my hand, she didn’t notice we’d already arrived to her cabin until I’d cut the engine and said, “We’re here.”

  Shelly stirred. “Already?”

  I opened the driver’s door, and stepped quickly to open hers. Shelly took my hand as she climbed out, and I noticed she seemed to be moving gingerly, like she was stiff.

  “Do you want me to carry you?”

  That earned me an irritated look. And the look made me grin.

  “What? Maybe I’m just looking for a reason to get my hands on you.”

  “Or you think I’m an invalid.”

  Before I could catch the impulse, I teased, “Or I think you’re a sexy invalid.” And I immediately worried my penchant for being playful had been insensitive.

  Shelly tried to duck her head and walk around me, but I caught the beginning of her smile and the slight shake of her head as she strolled to her door. I followed.

  Her dogs were already barking as we approached the cabin. She opened her front door and they bounded forth, wrapping their big bodies around her legs and mine, jumping up to lick my face and wish me welcome. I couldn’t help but smile at their enthusiasm, wondering why we’d never replaced our family dog.

  Then I remembered why. I pushed the inconvenient thought away.

  “We need to take them out. Let me go check on Oliver. Their leashes are by the door, do you mind?”

  “Sure.” I followed her inside, the dogs happily trailing after us.

  By the time I’d found their leashes, dodged their kiss attacks, and had them ready to go, Shelly had returned. She’d changed into those black exercise pants worn when not exercising—the more modern version of sweat pants, just a whol
e lot sexier—and a tank top.

  “Would you mind walking the dogs? I need to lie down.”

  “Sure,” I agreed readily, sliding my hand into her hair and pressing my lips to her forehead. “We’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.”

  That earned me another shadow of a smile. It wasn’t much, but I’d take it.

  * * *

  Shelly was still asleep when I returned with the dogs and hadn’t woken up by midnight. Leaving her a note with a promise to return in the morning, I borrowed her garage key to free my GTO and drove home.

  I didn’t sleep well.

  Images of Shelly’s fearful face transposed with my mother’s painful last days hit me. And then there was Christine, a menace or an angel in the background. I couldn’t tell which.

  Since sleep was elusive, I left early and drove back to Shelly’s. But when I knocked on the door, no one answered. Nor were any dogs barking.

  I walked around the cabin, spotted Oliver on the porch, and waved to the bird.

  He responded with a robust, “Bend over, asshole.”

  As I was coming around the other side of the house, I spotted Shelly jogging up the drive, both of her dogs with her on leashes. She saw my car first, then seemed to search the front of the cabin, her steps slowing to a walk when she caught sight of me.

  Meeting her halfway, I placed a kiss on her cheek and fell into step beside her. “Do you want to go get some breakfast?”

  “No, thank you. I have work to do.”

  “Work?”

  “The angels.”

  “Ah, yes.” I nodded absentmindedly, a sense of panic flaring in my chest. Scrambling for a reason to stay, and not deal with the current hurricane of excrement in my life, I asked, “How are you? After yesterday?”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yes.” Her tone was firm. “I’m okay.”

  “Can I do anything for you?”

  I felt her eyes on the side of my face as we approached her front door and she opened it. “Like what, Beau?”

  I shrugged, following her inside, and was about to suggest I install some gutters for the cabin, when she bristled. “I don’t need a babysitter.”