OCD Love Story (12 page)

“I think they're okay . . . ,” I say. But the feeling I had at Lisha's place when I saw her supersharp scissors boils up and my breath becomes a little less available. Not gone completely, but a little out of reach.

I don't think the fork and knife look dirty, but God, do they look sharp.

For no reason at all this article I read in the newspaper a few months ago lodges itself in some corner of my mind and then stubbornly refuses to move aside. This blurb about a woman who used a steak knife to do some really horrifying damage to her husband. It was meant just to harm him, she said at the trial, but he bled to death. She wasn't pretty, but she also didn't have missing teeth or serial-killer eyes or anything. I'm sure if you saw her on the street you wouldn't think twice. She had brown ringlets not unlike mine on a frizzy bad hair day. She looked petite: narrow-shouldered, almost a full foot shorter than her husband, if the picture from their wedding day was any indication.

It doesn't feel like such a stretch to think I could be capable of something terrible too, if someone as plain and sweet-smiled as that woman was. I stare down the knife. It definitely,
definitely
stares back.

Beck's waving over the waiter, and asking for plastic utensils, individually wrapped ones, he specifies, and before he has a chance to blush or apologize, I ask for the same. The waiter's in a crisp white shirt and has a just-shaved face and a
napkin folded neatly over his forearm. He knows how to hide judgment.

“You don't have to do that,” Beck says. “I mean, thank you, but you can eat with normal utensils.”

“I actually—I'd rather plastic too. That knife . . . is it bigger than a normal one? Sharper? It looks sort of . . . intense.”

“Huh, didn't notice,” he says. For a moment an awkward silence threatens us, but then Beck starts to laugh. And I don't know exactly what's so funny, but his laughter is contagious, and I catch the giggles too. “I mean, I notice
everything
but the one thing that bothers you,” he sputters out, shaking his head at himself. “I don't know why that's so funny. Maybe it's not funny. I just can't stop—” One hand holds his stomach, and the other, I'm happy to see, is still on the table. No tapping.

It feels good to laugh, and by the time our plastic utensils have gotten to the table, we've worked up quite an appetite. The boy can
eat
. I guess that's what multiple workouts a day does for you.

Armed with the plastic fork, and with the knife cleared off the table, I'm calmer, and my in-knots stomach unwinds itself so that there's room for pumpkin ravioli and veal parmesan and mushroom risotto so creamy it's bordering on soup. I'm still a little distracted by the other shiny knives on the other candlelit tables, but if I watch Beck's beautiful arms or catch his arresting blue gaze, it's a little easier.

“My mom says to move risotto to the edge of the plate to cool it off,” Beck says, demonstrating with his fork. “She studied abroad in Italy when she was like, nineteen, and acts like she grew up there.” He shrugs, embarrassed to have said so much without prompting.

“Sounds funny.” He nods and I nod, and maybe it's silent for a little too long, but it's not the worst kind of silence. I smush the cream rice to the edges of the plate and then scoop it up like Beck does, with the long dull side of the fork. Then we just eat. It's delicious, the array of food he's ordered, and it's too rich and plentiful to leave much room for chitchat. When my mind wanders too much to knives and life's uncertainties, and the nutmeg buried in the ravioli pillows isn't distracting enough, I pinch my thigh. It's a quick fix and doesn't last, but it will do.

I could be wrong, but I think Beck chews each piece eight times before swallowing.

“I had a really good workout today,” he says.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep. Gonna go after therapy too. Then it'll be a really good day.”

I'm thinking:
This is the weirdest date ever
, except I don't really feel that way. There's something undeniably intimate about how small the table is, how my foot keeps accidentally hitting his shin when I go to cross my leg, how he keeps looking at my plate to make sure I'm eating.

We don't have time for dessert. As it is, we're already going to be pushing it to get to group on time. The check comes and Beck pays like it's a real, live date, and it occurs to me I haven't actually been on one of these before. The guys I've dated have taken me to lame parties and hooked up with me in their cars. Kurt and I would rent movies and make out on the couch or get ice cream, but he never paid. It's funny how acting like an adult only ever makes me feel like more of a child. It's why I don't bother with nice clothes or leather purses or low, conservative ponytails.

“You know, you're really pretty,” Beck says as we stand up. I think maybe he'll take my hand or kiss me, or something datelike. And maybe he even wants to, but he doesn't. I grin from the praise but only for an instant because the joy that bubbles up from that supersweetness is too much, and before it has a chance to really latch on to my mood or my heart or anything at all, I push my mind to Austin.

I fell for you first because of how pretty you were,
Austin said to Sylvia a few sessions ago. It made her stop crying. Dr. Pat called it “good work” and sent them on their way.

“Hang on, okay?” Beck says. “Sorry.” He puts up one finger, telling me to wait for him. I stand there watching him as he lifts the chairs at our table and the empty one next to us up about a centimeter off the floor eight times each. He does it with as little movement as humanly possible. He tries to look casual, like he's just adjusting the chair, but the movement is
exact and unmistakable and people are trying not to look but they're looking anyway. The heat from his face is so strong, so red, I imagine I can physically feel it.

When Beck gets back to me, he's embarrassed but relaxed, like he can breathe again even though he wishes no one was watching him do it.

“I'm so sorry,” he says again, like the preemptive apology wasn't enough.

“Let's stop being on a date and let's just, like, hang out,” I say. Lisha warned me about saying this kind of thing, which is a testament to how well she knows me, but if Beck's going to go to all the trouble of wearing a tie and complimenting my horribly underdressed self, than I'm going to at least be myself. We have got to be past the formality already anyway, and if he's gutsy enough to do his chair-lifting, number-eight compulsions in front of me and not totally disintegrate, I want him to know who I am too. I am not a quiet girl who keeps my mouth shut. I am not a girl who is capable of even imitating that kind of girl. He deserves to know me, if I'm going to get to know him.

I assume this all must be clear to him, because the logic is all neatly laid out in my head, but there's a frown on his face, a quick reverse of that goofy smile, and I know I've pushed things one step too far. I never know where I am until I've crossed that border. I never anticipate it. I never know it's approaching.

It usually takes me a minute to get what it is I've said that's made someone upset, so I review the last few lines of conversation in my head until I have one of the mini-epiphanies I have about a million times a day.

“Oh my God!” I say to the face that used to be Beck. “No, no, we're on a date, I meant let's not be formal. Or let's not be on a date with a capital
D
. Like, you seem nervous. And I wasn't really prepared for a super formal—I'm a disaster and I just mean we should both relax and—”

Dr. Pat would call this self-sabotage.

“Is it the tie?” Beck asks. His face has relaxed into something sweet again but he still has the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks. “I can ditch the tie. My mom made me—” He starts untying it before I can get a word out, but I guess it is kind of the tie that's bothering me so I let him untangle it from his neck. He's so buttoned up and clean that I expect the process to be deliberate and controlled. But the tie is a mess in his hands; he is knotting it rather than unknotting it and he's so flustered that the whole thing is choking him. I sort of giggle but try to keep it under control: There's something raw about Beck that I hadn't fully understood when we met. He's ready to fall apart at any minute.

When the tie is finally off, he rolls it into the neatest little ball I've ever seen and tucks the whole thing into his pocket. Then he nods to the door because we really need to get to group.

“I don't really know what I'm doing,” Beck says in a mumble that breaks my heart.

Do the sweet and perfectly awkward moments from earlier in the afternoon still exist after I've screwed it all up? Or do they vanish into the air? I can't be sure. I do know that for a few minutes there it was something unmistakably romantic, if only to people like me and Beck.

He doesn't kiss me or anything, but I feel like maybe he's thinking about it, because when we get into the car he won't stop tapping his finger against the steering wheel in little clusters of eight.

I look at a picture I snuck of Austin's apartment building on my phone and kinda hate myself. I google “Austin, Boston, MA” on my phone, hoping it will magically come up with more information about him, but without his last name it's a pointless venture. I ask Beck to turn on the news station on the radio, and listen for the names Austin and Sylvia or their cross streets, just in case. When Beck looks over to smile at me, I hide my phone's screen and admit to myself that I do not deserve this nice a date.

I think I'm about to fall for Beck, and it's making me crazier than I was before. I know both of these things for sure: I like Beck, and I'm probably going to screw up in some major way because of it.

And that's how it starts.

DR. PAT ASKS ME TO
stay after group session, like I'm nine and passing notes or throwing spitballs, or whatever it is that disobedient grade-school kids are doing these days. If Beck were a normal guy, he'd maybe give me a hug after session or even just nudge my ribs and tease me about getting in trouble with our therapist. But instead his face droops and he waves and makes a beeline for the bathroom, probably to give his hands a good thorough scrubbing.

Was it really only an hour ago that we were caught in the spectacular awkwardness of a first date?

I learned a lot about Beck this afternoon during session because Dr. Pat seemed especially focused on him. For instance, I learned that baby wipes are something he considers a very poor substitute for actual hand washing. And that he would do everything,
everything
in groups of eight if he could. So I was right to count off the table taps and chair lifts. But shouldn't he have kissed me eight times, then?

The room is an overheated, dusty mess and I'm dying
to get out of there. I'm
thisclose
to sweating through my sweater and not just the thin camisole underneath. Meanwhile, Dr. Pat is wrapped up in a collared shirt and a cashmere sweater-vest and a bulky light-violet scarf that I'd use as a blanket, it looks that comfortable. She's probably the kind of person who is always in the most appropriate outfit for every occasion. If it had been her on a date with Beck today, I'm sure she would have intuitively known to wear heels and a cocktail dress instead of the homeless-bum-meets-hipster-OCD-chick look I came up with for the occasion.

“You're not talking much in group,” Dr. Pat starts off. Unlike in our comfortable, quiet, one-on-one sessions, she's not letting me take the lead. It's awkward to have her speak to me so pointedly. I don't know that she's ever called me out so deliberately and it totally reorganizes our dynamic. I cross my legs and flutter my fingers above my thigh, reminding myself not to give in and pinch the skin.

“I don't know that this is the right group for me,” I say at last, like I've been thinking about it very seriously and have finally come to a mature, well-thought-out conclusion.

“I have a feeling there's some stuff you're not telling me,” Dr. Pat says. I miss the old Dr. Pat who would just nod and take little notes. This one is looking me right in the eyes and not letting me cut off eye contact for even a moment. When I try to look somewhere else, she dips her chin and moves her head around until she gets me to meet her gaze again. “It
seems like there's more going on inside than you're letting on. But this is the place to address those concerns. We still have our private sessions once a week, but I want you to do a lot of your work in group, okay?”

I shrug. I'm so not committing to that.

She doesn't stop. “I'm also worried that we haven't talked enough about your diagnosis since I gave you those pamphlets. I've been hoping you would come to me with some thoughts. I know it's hard to really address how you're feeling about your obsessive-compulsive disorder—” I shake my head. Every time she brings it up I've told her I need more time, but she's getting more aggressive, and this is the first time she's laid it out quite so starkly.