Checked (30 page)

I nod. I don’t know what to say. Or how to take this sudden mood change.

Rolling over toward me, he pulls me into the nook of his arm. “Good. Now, I believe I promised you a meal.” He begins to “make” London Broil, and I eventually pretend to fall asleep. A little while later, he trails off, and I soon hear heavy sleep breathing beside me.

Luckily, the television is still on to lull me to sleep hours later when I’m exhausted from thinking of possible answers to all of the questions lined up in my head.

HIS STORY STORMS BACK INTO my mind as soon as I open my eyes.
{
“The Story”
is already playing again too. Or has it been playing all night?}
I try to push it aside as he looks over at me and smiles.

“Hey. You better get up and get your routines moving. We have a road trip to take today.”

Mom’s dinner. Right. I’m going to have him drive me to my mother’s birthday party the day after he’s recounted all kinds of events surrounding his own mother’s death
. So unbelievably thoughtful, Callie.
I’ve got it all together just as well as usual.

“You know, I really can drive myself to this. You don’t need—”

“Stop. I’m taking you.”

He squeezes me further into his side with his arm, the arm that has been around me all night. I really hope it’s not asleep.

“Unless, of course, you’d like me to get some popcorn to watch your morning show.” I can hear him smiling.

Ugh.
“Fine. When should I be ready?”

We discuss our traveling plans, and he soon heads out to leave me to my preparations. He kisses me goodbye, but it’s brief. He’s still not all here, even though he’s trying to pretend otherwise. Perhaps I should tell him that, for him, pretending to be normal should not involve a cheesy smile.

Of course, I don’t tell him that. I wave as he drives away, shut the door, and get to work.

Morning routine. Leaving routine. Church. Wrap Mom’s presents. Another check-in call from Melanie. Stare at poetry notebook for a couple of hours while picking my nails and never even reaching the point of needing a pen. Leaving routine.

3:30 p.m. He’s here. Open door. Grey pants. Royal blue dress shirt unbuttoned at the top. No tie. Casual, comfortable. Big smile. Not fake this time.

He leans in to brush his lips against mine. “Hi,” he whispers, only a centimeter from my face. I close the space between us, my lips finding his and my hands grasping the collar of his shirt to pull him closer yet.  

{An oldies station accompanies us. The Supremes with
“I Hear a Symphony.”
They get more than halfway through the song before—}

“Callie, Callie, Callie,” he mumbles against my lips as his hands continue to move up and down my back, my neck, my hair. “We have to go. You know we have to go. Dinner. Your mom’s birthday. Remember?”

“Yeah…I remember something like that,” I breathe out between kisses on his cheek and neck. As I rub my head against the slight stubble on his cheek, he leans down to my ear, breathing once before speaking. Heated, hot, hot breath on my ear.

“Soon,” he promises again in a whisper.

Not soon enough.

Unfortunately, I know he is right so we disentangle ourselves, and he waits as I triple check the lock on the door. He then takes my hand to lead me to his car. His screaming quiet car. Is his radio broken? Does he really not have an iPod?

His car is not quiet for long this time. He fills the silence with constant questions, continuous chatter. He asks for a run down on my family members. I scrounge up what information I can think of, spending more time on Jared and my sisters than on my parents. I probably offer no more than one sentence on Mom.

He seems genuinely interested in my siblings and tells me how different it is to have grown up as an only child.

{Cue The Beatles (once again) with
“Eleanor Rigby.”
Guess we really are on an oldies’ station today.}

When we finally arrive at my parents’ house, he probably has enough information to write a decent sized research paper on my family. He parks the car, and we head toward the house. He doesn’t hesitate to grab my hand, the one not holding Mom’s presents.

Guess that sheds some light on the question I couldn’t get up the nerve to ask:
How am I supposed to explain you to my parents?
Since we are holding hands, I’m guessing that introducing him as my doctor isn’t really good enough. Doctor with benefits? But not really all of them yet because first I’m insisting that he is tested for all possible sexually transmitted diseases. Or, wait, is he the one insisting?

The door opens before we even get up the last porch step. Dad and Mom are both standing in the doorway like they are in some holiday food commercial or something. Melanie has clearly filled them in on my traveling company.

“Glad you could make it,” Dad says as he opens the door. Normally they both would have hugged me by now, but I’m still attached to him.

Here goes.

“These are my parents, and Mom, Dad, this is Aiden.”

Our hands naturally drop in the jumble of greetings. Dad promptly shakes his hand while Mom gives me a cheesy grin.

“Happy birthday, Mom,” I blurt out in an attempt to wipe off her suggestive grin and, well, because I really do hope she is having a nice birthday. As I hug her, I hear that low, soft voice from behind me.

“Yes. Happy birthday, Mrs. Royce.” He reaches out to shake my mother’s hand as he says it. Smooth. Natural. Charming.

Dad motions for us to go inside so I lead the way to the dining room. Dinner isn’t bad. The steaks Dad grilled are good, conversation flows pretty freely, and Mom seems to really like her presents. There are only a couple of differences from any other family dinner—the arm that periodically reaches over under the table to squeeze my hand, and the nudges and looks shared between different sets of my family members when they think no one else is watching.

{Here’s Elvis Presley and
“Suspicious Minds”
with a special dedication message for my family members: Hello—could you be any more obvious?}
The only person acting completely normal is Abby, who has sung a number of songs, shown us several dance moves, and tried to get out of eating the asparagus on her plate.

When it is eventually time to go, both Melanie and Mandy offer to drive me back. Before I can give either of them a response, they are both gently told no, that he will take me back, that he wants my company on the trip. I, of course, offer no arguments. We say our goodbyes, thank my parents for dinner, and wish Mom a happy birthday once more.

When we finally step back out to the porch, each holding bags of leftovers and extra slices of birthday cake, he smiles, takes my hand again, and leads me down the driveway.

I barely even notice the silence playing in his car because we spend almost the whole ride discussing dinner, particularly my family members and their not so inconspicuous looks at each other. After we imitate looks and nudges, impersonating all the different people from Dad to Jared’s girlfriend, he suddenly switches to a more serious tone.

“I guess we should have a better definition for us, for what we are exactly, before I attend another family gathering with you.” He says it quietly as he looks ahead at the road in front of us.

Say more. Say more. Say more. What do you want us to be?

Nothing. Guess I have to respond.

“Yeah, you are probably right.” I also look ahead as I respond, kind of grateful that he is driving during this awkward discussion.

This is where the silence comes back at full volume; for the next ten minutes or so, until we pull up in front of my house, neither of us says anything. He meets me as I step out of the car and walks me to my front door.

We stop on the porch, and he wraps his arms around me. After a slow, lingering kiss, he pulls back slightly so he can meet my eyes.

“I want you to think about your treatment—where you want to go with it and what we should do.” He pauses as he runs a hand over my hair. “I also hope you’ll think a little bit about us and what we’re doing here, what you want. If you’re ready for a relationship with me…”

I start to open my lips, but he puts his finger over them. “Don’t answer tonight. Think tonight.” He starts to rub his finger slowly across my bottom lip. “I know how difficult it is for me to think clearly around you so I’m going to go in case it’s the same for you. Besides, Mandy will probably be back any minute—with plenty of questions, I’m sure.” He smiles and presses another light kiss on my mouth. “I’ll miss you tonight.”

“Me too.”
Me too. Me too
.

“Good night, Callie. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Aiden.”

Chapter 21

day six

{THE SCAN BUTTON HAS BEEN pushed, and I’m hearing a new over-the-top love song every three seconds.}

Maybe his scent on my two-day old pajamas triggers the medley. Or maybe it’s because his words from last night have been tumbling through my mind for hours. I guess it could also be part of my anticipation about going to see him today—to give him my answer to the question I needed no time to consider. I even have a plan for his first, less interesting, question about my therapy. A plan that might help. A plan that might improve our therapy. But he’ll find all of this out when I surprise him before my obligatory appointment with Dr. Spencer.

For now, I need to get moving—time for class in a few hours. On your mark. Get set. Morning Routine.

1:00 P.M. I LEAVE CLASS, RELIEVED to have turned in my paper and already thinking about my
Jane Eyre
assignment. Not for long though. As I get into my car and start to drive toward the therapy office, my stomach starts bouncing around. Nerves? Anticipation? Both, no doubt.

I arrive twenty-five minutes before my appointment. That leaves me with plenty of time. Before I get out of the car, I grab the little pack of tissues I have stored in my glove compartment. I pull out three tissues and shove them into my coat pocket. Just in case I need them. Then I head into the office as another person is leaving. She holds the door open for me. I slide into the waiting room without brushing up against her and without having to use my emergency tissues. Score.

Rather confidently (for me), I go right up to the front desk and ask to see Dr. Blake for a short meeting. It is only at this moment, as Annie starts to fumble around with her computer and an appointment book, that I realize I have no idea what his schedule is today (or any day, for that matter). He might have patients booked all day. It’s not like I can just barge into his office. I guess I could leave a note to tell him I was here to see him, but then I really—

“Dr. Blake is out this afternoon. He will return around four o’clock.”

Oh.
There goes my plan. Clearly, I pretty much suck at surprises. I thank Annie, move a little to the side, and stand to wait for the next twenty-five minutes to be called in for my appointment. Annie doesn’t say a word.

Time to think of another plan. Different options run through my head. Calling him. Texting him. Asking him to meet me somewhere to talk. Boring. I could try to surprise him later, but I work until mid-evening, and he’ll probably be gone by then. I could go to his house, but I have no clue where he lives, and I’m pretty sure Annie isn’t going to hand over an address. Hmm…if I could—

“Miss Royce, Dr. Spencer will see you now.” Annie is holding the door open for me.

Impressive
. Guess I’m getting some perks now that I’m seeking treatment with two of the doctors in this office—that must be close to a quarter of the practice, after all.

Annie waits for me to pass through the door and then takes the lead again. No long walk this time. We stop at a door in the middle of the first hallway. Annie opens the door and presses her back against it.

“Miss Calista Royce, Doctor Spencer.”

“Send her right in.” Dr. Spencer’s voice. I recognize it from that very first day in this office. Before…well, before everything.

Annie, who must be feeling terribly generous today, waits until I step into the office and then takes the time to grab the handle and pull the door shut behind me.
Thank God I brought emergency tissues.

“Miss Royce,” Dr. Spencer greets me from behind his desk. “Won’t you have a seat?” He nods toward a flowery couch to his left. It looks like it was made in the seventies. It’s probably been here, in his office, since then too. Hundreds and thousands of patients have sat on it, I’m sure.

“No, thanks.” I get right to the point, remaining rigid in the doorway, him looking at me amusedly from his desk chair. “Dr. Lennox wants me to talk to you about a prescription.”

“Yes, that’s right. Are you interested in starting a medication treatment?”

Here goes my new plan to fix our therapy. I silently pray that a certain someone doesn’t refer to my plan as a “medicinal bandage.” Then I pray twice more. And finally, I speak. “I am. I’d like to try it in combination with the therapy I’ve been doing with Dr. Blake—if you think that’s okay.” 

“Definitely. Blending medicine and therapy is a very healthy, effective way to face and control your OCD symptoms.”

“Good.”

“So you feel you are making progress with your therapy plan then? Dr. Blake hasn’t sent me any information since…” He thumbs through the paperwork on his desk. “Since your medical examination.”

Wow. Wasn’t that a lifetime ago?

He’s looking at me, waiting for an answer.

“Um, yes, I think I, we, are making some headway. But I think I need more, and I want to do more to help the therapy succeed. If the medicine just takes some of the edge off, maybe I can make it through tough situations or even just everyday events without losing it right away.”

“Well, yes, Miss Royce. The medication is designed to do just that—it should calm you somewhat and make things a little less unbearable.” He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes while he pauses. Like he’s given this speech three million times and is bored by it. “But I do have to warn you that the pills won’t work miracles. You won’t just pop one and be ‘cured.’ You also won’t really begin to feel the benefits until the medicine has some weeks to build up in your system.”