Obsessive Compulsion (20 page)

Between me and Austin, who are dressed
casually in jeans and t-shirts, Emma looks like our little kid
sister, and I don’t think either of us minds that one bit. Austin
is another person Emma has
clicked
with, and our little trio
has spent the last four hours wearing out store clerks along with
our credit cards. Speaking of, the lovely blonde behind the counter
hands over my latest charge.

Emma’s eyes are wide as she grins at the
little jewelry bag. “They’re done already?”

I nod with a small blush, tempted to peek
into the bag to stare at the engravings again. “How’d you make
out?”

Emma holds up a larger bag with green
sparkly tissue paper puffed out the top. “Done!” She leans in and
lowers her voice. “I think Austin needs a nap,” her eyes glance
over my shoulder, “and I need new panties!”

The blonde clerk behind the counter snickers
as Emma dashes off to the lingerie department, then the blonde eyes
Austin head to toe and I swear she’s mentally undressing him. Not
that I blame her for the laugh or for checking out my friend.
Austin looks like he just stepped out of this year’s Mesquite Rodeo
pinup calendar. He’s even got on his grey Stetson and a Texas size
belt buckle.

He’s also completely oblivious to the blonde
checking him out as he casts his grey-eyed gaze my way. “I don’t
know where that girl gets her energy, but she’s runnin’ circles
‘round me like a foal let out of the barn for the first time.”

“Sorry about that.” I head us over to a
seating area near the front. I know Emma will make her way there
when she’s ready. “I know she can be a handful.”

“Aint no problem, Charlie girl,” he shrugs
with a gentle smile as we sit. “I love havin’ her ‘round the house.
That place was too quiet before she showed up. Now it’s full of
life and laughter. Feels more like home now than it ever did
before.”

He stretches out his legs, crossing his
ankles. “Shoot, just the improvement in Brandon’s mood is worth a
pair of sore feet, though I kina wish I’d worn sneakers.”

I have to laugh at that. “Do you even own
sneakers?”

His light chuckle joins mine. “No, ma’am.
Saul tried to get me to buy a pair once. Boy made me try on like…
twenty pairs till he finally gave up. They just don’t feel right.
Nothin’ beats a pair of old, worn-in leather boots.”

With a heavy sigh, he takes off his hat and
runs a hand through his shortly cut, thick black hair. “Thanks for
lettin’ me tag along today. A few hours to forget what I keep
messin’ up… Well, it’s appreciated.”

I slip my hand against the inside of his
bare forearm, covering the faded blue tattoo ink that reads ‘
Los
Lost Boys’
in bold script. I know it’s prison ink, but I don’t
know why he was in prison. Like the story with Saul’s mom, I’m
guessing it’s none of my business. Austin is younger, just twenty
three, but his eyes carry the weight of a man who was forced to
grow up way too fast.

My empathy pushes me to try and ease that
burden, but I’m not sure how. “Sometimes, you just need to take a
step back to see how to move forward.”

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Wise words,
Charlie girl.”

“My momma’s words,” I smile. “She’s a wise
woman who raised a tornado and a girl she can’t hug.”

“Emma and your mom never… you know…?”

“Clicked?” I give him the word I use. “No,
but my momma’s never held it against her. She just appreciates
Emma’s... special nature.”

“So,” his lips spread into a grin, “that
makes you the tornado? Well, shit, no wonder Ian’s been lookin’ all
flustered. You blew right into his world and jumbled it all
up.”

“Or maybe he’s tamed the tornado a bit,” I
muse.

“You two fit together real nice. I hope it
works out. I really do,” he bites his lower lip and I can see the
emotions welling up in his eyes.

I squeeze his forearm. I won’t pretend to
know what he’s going through or compare it to Ian and I. I get the
feeling that me and Ian’s complications are just a rocky road while
the mess between Austin, Saul and Victoria is more like a damn
Everest hike, full of places waiting to let you fall off the
mountain to your death. Seems they’re all treading so carefully
around one another in a strange dance that can’t seem to find its
rhythm. Even Victoria’s not being straight forward, and that scares
me.

“Panties!” Emma’s voice breaks in before I
can come up with anything encouraging to offer Austin. She’s
holding up a new red bag with silver tissue paper and Austin’s
expression switches back to a grin.

“Well, we best get you back to Brandon
then,” he winks, “so you can show him all your purchases.”

By the time Austin drops me off at my
apartment, I’m completely tuckered out. Tromping up the stairs to
the third floor takes away my remaining energy, and all I want is
my bed. I’m already making plans for tomorrow, though – which
includes a whole lotta nothin’ and a whole lotta Ian.

Ian
…

After dumping my purchases onto my lime
green couch, I pull out my phone to check my messages. Not a single
thing from Ian, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t hurt just a
little. It’s nearly six in the afternoon and I haven’t seen him
since he left Brandon’s place just after eleven. Seven hours apart
and I’m missing him something fierce.

It’s kinda worrisome and pleasant at the
same time to realize how attached and clingy my heart and body have
become to the man. It’s not like me. Usually, I part ways with the
boy the next morning or within a week with no shed tears and no
looking back. Now, I’m depressed because my boyfriend hasn’t
messaged me.

I guess maybe that’s love? I’ve never felt
like
this
. Not exactly. Not with…

The sniffle escapes before I can swallow it
back down. Dammit. Why’d I have to go and think about that?

Because tomorrow is the day, Charlotte. The
day you promised never to forget, yet here you are, lost in love
with Ian and forgetting your promise. Forgetting Neil.

The tears start and I guess today isn’t
going to be a victory after all.

Curling into the corner of my couch, my
message-lacking phone clutched tight, I let myself have a
pity-party. I wish Ian was here. I think he could help chase these
feelings away and help me forget promises I never should’ve made.
Promises that keep pinning my heart to my past, resealing the
cocoon and ripping my wings to shreds.

I just wish Ian was
here
.

I wake up confused by the bleak morning
light filtering through the sheer curtains covering the sliding
glass door. Unfolding my sore, crumpled body from the couch, I’m
feeling exhausted and restless at the same time. Blinking the sleep
away, I stretch with a yawn then begin the hunt for my phone so I
can call Ian up and tear him a new one for not even bothering to
call me last night.

Clingy or not, I no longer give a shit. I
told the man I’m in love with him and he thinks it’s okay to not
even send me a text message? I
knew
something wasn’t
completely right with him before he left, but I let it go to give
him some space.

I find my phone wedged between the seat
cushions, its notification light blinking rapidly. Sliding it on, I
notice the sound is on silent sleep-mode with it being just a
quarter after seven. There’s a voicemail from the University’s
automated system reminding me of my end-of-semester meeting with
the Dean’s office tomorrow. Lord, I hope they finally give me
tenure or let me keep Pamela’s classes, especially now that I need
to get a new car.

There are also six missed calls and eighteen
text messages from Ian.

Well, shit
.

I scroll rapidly through the messages. He
had to go to Fort Worth for Brandon. Did I have fun with Emma? Was
I back safe? Did I get a rental car yet? Was I okay? Why wasn’t I
answering? Was I mad at him?

And the messages went downhill from there.
The last messages contained an apology for all the messages,
followed by an apology for apologizing then a final message that
was separate from all the others.

‘
I miss you, Charlotte.’

That one had come through at four this
morning. Cursing the phone-app that had saved me many rude
awakenings from early-morning telemarketers, I switch it off then
dial Ian’s number. It rings and goes to voicemail. I don’t bother
leaving a message and instead try calling again.

Jumping off the couch, I pace the length of
it, chewing on a fingernail. Kitkat, my overweight brown cat, gives
me a disgruntled look from the bed she’s made right in the middle
of all the shopping bags. I get Ian’s voicemail again, this time
taking a long inhale to calm my nerves before leaving a
message.

“Hey, sweetie. Sorry I didn’t get your
messages. Emma wore me an’ Austin out. I crashed soon as I got
home… No plans today, so… Call me or… If you want to do something.
I… I miss y…” the beep from his service cuts me off. “Fuck.”

I flop back down on the couch, debating on
if I should call and leave another message. Just how lame do I want
to be? I know it’s more than that. I’m desperate not to be alone
today. I need Ian’s arms around me to help tempter the pain that’s
already started hammering through my head in an involuntary
reaction to the date on my phone.

I hate this. I hate how much it still
cripples me. I hate that it’s seven a.m. and I’m already sobbing
with my head between my knees. I hate how alone it makes me feel,
and I hate it even more because I know why it’s so bad this
year.

After six years, I’d finally let my heart
back open. I’m in love with Ian Rider, and I’m so afraid of it
happening all over again. I’m afraid he’ll ask me to make promises
I can’t keep. I’m afraid he’ll take this love and leave me. I’m
afraid I won’t be able to fix what gets broken inside me this
time.

I’m just… afraid.

I must’ve cried myself back to sleep,
because it’s two in the afternoon the next time I open my eyes.
Kitkat has her butt in my face with a reminder that I haven’t fed
her since Friday. Sure, she’s got dry food out, but it’s not what
she wants. Spoiled brat.

Deciding I’m done being some flimsy
wet-blanket, I push myself off the couch to make her and me some
dinner. After staring blankly at my sad fridge and empty cupboards,
I fix Kitkat her wet food then opened a can of tuna for me. A
second hunt rewards me with some Ritz crackers. Score!

After fighting Kitkat away from my tuna, I
sink back into the couch corner and debate trying to call Ian. My
heart says I should stop being stupidly stubborn and call him. My
pride says I’d already called and left a voicemail, so the ball is
in his court. The rest of me is just trying to get through the rest
of today without thinking about Neil again.

Dammit.

I pop a cracker into my mouth only to find
out it’s stale. Fucking perfect. Today has been just perfect.

So far, Monday is turning out to be just as
shitty as Sunday. I woke up late this morning with a medication
hangover then had to rush out to meet with Vincent and his contact.
The news on Forester wasn’t good. Now, I’m sitting in the damn
waiting room at my therapist’s office and I’m having to take sharp
breaths to keep from ripping apart the two-year-old issue of
National Geographic in my hands.

I have no problem attending my appointments
with Michelle or the emersion therapy she puts me through, but
sitting in this waiting room is what I sometimes imagine Hell to be
like. People coming and going while avoiding eye-contact. Others
sitting, staring and looking lost. Idle flips through outdated
magazines, leg position switching and staccato coughing. Smartphone
thumbing with covert side glances of assessment and observatory
diagnosis as to why you’re here for therapy. I’m sure Hell has at
least one circle like this.

It’s even worse today since it’s so close to
Christmas and everyone is trying to cram in last minute mental
evaluations, confessions of their fuck-ups and requests for
prescription refills. The office will be closed until after New
Year’s. I jokingly told Michelle that was why the suicide rate was
so much higher over the holidays – all the doctors are away
vacationing in the Bahamas. She laughed, but then she upped my
dosage of Lorazepam.

I guess clinical humor has its limits. Not
that I blame her. It’s all in the file – including my attempted
suicide back in college. I’m still not sure I would have jumped,
even if Victoria hadn’t been there. I’m glad I didn’t, and I would
never consider it again. Now I have friends that I know will always
have my back. Now I have Charlotte.

Well, I hope I still have Charlotte. I went
from making love to her on Saturday morning to frantically
bombarding her with messages Saturday night into Sunday before I
could pry the phone away from my twitching fingers. She did leave
me a voicemail, which I didn’t get until my medicated coma released
its grip at seven this morning. My lucid, unstable state of mind
didn’t let me send a reply.

I
had
to medicate myself. I was so
afraid I’d go over to her place, completely lose my shit and then
lose her for good. I need to get this obsession for her under
control first so that I can love Charlotte the way she
deserves.

“Ian?” Michelle’s soft but cheery voice
calls me from the doorway. “Come on back.”

Back to where?
I often ponder that
question as I let Michelle lead me down the bland, mustard-colored
corridor to her office. I wish I knew the answer – how to get back
from what I’ve become. I thought Charlotte might be the key, but
now with the way I’ve tipped over the edge the other way, I think
I’m too far gone to ever get back.

“So,” she begins as we sit across from each
other in matching chairs.