Obsessive
Authors: Isobel Irons
OBSESSIVE
An Issues Series Novel
Isobel Irons
Copyright Isobel Irons 2014
CONTENTS
An Introduction by Isobel Irons
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Where the Hell is Margot?
Educate Yourself About OCD
From Prince to Beast: Unraveling Mr. Perfect and the Happily Ever After
An Introduction by Isobel Irons
“In real life, Prince Charming would’ve had some skeletons in his closet. Possibly even some evil ex-girlfriends. …Or ex-boyfriends. No judgment, but that guy’s boots
were
pretty damn shiny.”
–
Tash Bohner,
PROMISCUOUS
(Deleted Scenes)
When I first published PROMISCUOUS, it occurred to me that a lot of women were going to see Grant as this kind of magical, ideal creature—like the Holy Grail of fictional [non-vampire] high school boyfriends. And in a way, he is pretty damn close to perfect. He’s exactly the kind of guy a girl like Tash would dream about meeting, and if he somehow happened to fall in love with her too, it would seem like kind of a miracle.
But that’s where the problem starts happening. Because finding someone who’s willing to love you for who you truly are is pretty damn miraculous as it is. That’s when “damaged” girls like Tash and I start looking for those skeletons. Sure, he
seems
perfect, and to all outward appearances he’s totally devoted to you, but let’s see if we can’t test that theory, shall we? ‘Will you still love me when I’m old and insane, and smell like eggs?’ Or, ‘Will you still think I’m the most beautiful girl in the world, after I’ve popped out a couple of kids and you hire a hot new secretary who’s ten years younger?’ Why wait to find out, when you can start asking these theoretical questions now? Or better yet, let’s find sneaky ways to test for the latent secretary weakness or geriatric bailing gene now, while we’re young. (You’re laughing, but I know a lot of girls who are guilty of this mentality.) And guess what? Chances are, your guy hasn’t
thought
about these things yet, so he likely doesn’t even
know
the answers to your questions about diapers and office affairs.
Contrary to popular belief, ‘I love you’ is not a happily ever after. It’s more like a secret password that gets you into the final round of the emotional Hunger Games. And if you survive that experience, you get to learn a lot about each other, and hopefully stay together. If not, you get to learn a lot about yourself.
So here it comes, the usual warning. Some of you might hate this book. Among the more common bits of feedback I got from my OBSESSIVE beta readers were things like: "what's up with Grant?" and, "poor Grant!" Like when he would freak out or make bad choices, the readers didn't understand how that could happen to someone like him. Or they automatically assumed it wasn't his fault. Because, to all appearances, in PROMISCUOUS Grant was this charming prince who swept in and tried to rescue Tash, (even when she didn't think she needed to be rescued).
Grant was the "good guy," and Tash was the “damaged girl” who just needed to learn how to let someone love her. Right?
When I cast around for a fairy tale to use in writing Grant's story, I immediately thought of
Beauty and the Beast
, because it's always been one of my favorites. But much as I did with PROMISCUOUS, when I used the more grotesque and gritty version of
Aschenputtel
, instead of the fluffier
Cinderella
, I wanted to follow this story back to its source. Which is how I stumbled upon a very loose translation of the original French tale,
La Belle et La Bet
e by
Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve
. This version, even more so than the Disney-fied one with its cuddly-looking Beast and drool-worthy library, was
right
up my alley. It involved numerous plot twists, at least two back stories that were dark as fuck, and tons of feminist subtext and literary angst. And the best part was, the story wasn’t at all about how Belle needed to learn how to look past the Beast’s exterior and love him for who he truly was. It was all about how the Beast learned to transform himself, by finding out who he truly was.
Armed with this dark and badass tale, I began to tell the story of Grant Blue—mythical creature of high school perfection that he seemed—and his inevitable, psychological unraveling.
I promise, I didn't do this because I'm a douche bag who likes to plunge my readers into despair. In fact, the more I started to think about all the Grant types I've ever known, it's actually kind of a miracle it didn't happen sooner. Like Grant, I started to question…well, everything.
How can someone stand the pressure of all that perfection? What happens when you raise a kid to believe that he can do no wrong...until he starts to actually believe that he's not allowed to do wrong? Or make any mistakes at all? Or be a goddamn human being every once in a while? Sure, telling our girls they have to be pretty and skinny and smart and chaste and sexy at the same time...that's pretty fucked up. But isn't telling our boys that they have to be strong and funny and brave and wealthy and dependable and stoic almost as bad? Why isn't it okay for guys to freak out about their hair, or cry in front of others? Why is it “metro” to tell your friends you love them? Forget about the whole OCD thing for a second. How is a straight guy supposed to walk the line in these metrosexual times, and somehow discover the perfect medium between mango-scented hair gel and homophobia? Between talking about his feelings and getting called a whiny little bitch?
The point I’m making here is this: men are just as fucked-up, insecure, neurotic and emotional as we are, ladies. They’re just not usually as good at embracing their neuroses, or articulating their issues. And it’s not like we’re doing that great of a job of encouraging them to open up, as their sisters, their wives, their girlfriends—as a society. “Rub some dirt on it,” we say. “Be a man.”
But what is a man?
That’s why I wrote this book the way I did, with a shitload of internal exposition. (Sorry, English majors.) The truth is, Grant probably wouldn’t talk about his feelings this much in real life, or even think about them all that much. Because, fictional or not, he’s a
dude
.
Men are from Mars, and women are from Venus
…I call bullshit on that. We’re all living on this earth together, as earthlings. That makes us the same, on the most basic level of functionality. We all want to be loved, and feel safe. We just happen to rank those needs, and communicate them, a little bit differently.
So why not cut each other some fucking slack?
Nobody’s perfect. Not even
made up
people, who were originally
written
to be perfect. Life is a big old surprise party full of issues and secrets. I’m just saying.
Now then, let’s get back to our fictional love story.
“
Happy is the man who has broken the chains which hurt the mind, and has given up worrying once and for all.” – Ovid,
Metamorphoses
PART I: PERFECT
Tash likes to call me Mr. Perfect.
She thinks it’s funny, watching me blush when she says it. She has no idea I’m blushing because I’m embarrassed, because every time she calls me perfect, I count the letters. P-E-R-F-E-C-T. Seven letters. The number of days in the week. Seven is the first integer reciprocal with infinitely repeating sexagesimal representation. And then, because I’m a guy, I think of sex.
S-E-X. Three letters. Three is a prime number. If I step into an elevator with three people in it, something bad will happen. Like the elevator might malfunction and plummet to the bottom of the shaft. Three: the number of months Tash and I have been ‘together.’ But we still haven’t had sex.
And it’s not because Tash thinks she’s not good enough for me, or because she’s upset about her best friend Margot being shipped off to ‘Reverse Fat Camp’ this summer. It’s not even because she thinks my mom hates her ‘sassy, trailer trash guts.’
No, it’s because of me. It’s 100% my fault. Because every time she calls me Mr. Perfect, it’s a lie. I’m not perfect. I’m a walking malfunction. And more than anything, I’m scared. All the time. I’m scared to let Tash find out just how perfect I’m not, because then something bad will happen.
CHAPTER ONE
JUNE
I’ve always hated summer.
The irregular schedule and lack of structure makes me feel adrift, like that movie Tash made me watch last week about astronauts who get detached from their shuttle and float off into space.
Ninety-one minutes of terrified flailing in an airless abyss, and a brand new nightmare to keep me awake through the boredom. At least
Castaway
had that volleyball for comic relief. But then, nobody really watches
Castaway
to
watch
it, do they? I might not be a player like my friend Matt, but even I know what a ‘makeout movie’ is.
Now that I think about it, that might be why Tash wanted to watch the space movie in the first place. And I, total malfunction of a human being that I am, spent the entire movie wondering about space survival, instead of making out with the funniest, hottest and most down-to-earth girl
on earth
.
It’s no wonder I’m sitting in therapy right now, instead of getting a tan at the lake with friends I haven’t seen since graduation two weeks ago, or doing any other normal, summery teenage things.
Because I am abnormal. Dysfunctional, on a basic cellular level. Broken.
“Have you been keeping up with your journal?” Jeanne, my therapist, stares at me patiently over the thick rims of her bright blue glasses. I get the feeling she’s been doing that for a while, just staring at me and waiting for me to say something. As usual, I’ve been getting lost in my headspace, drifting off into gray matter, oblivious to my actual surroundings.
“Yeah,” I nod. “Not as much as I did during school, though.”
She smiles. “That’s right, I completely forgot! Wow, this year has flown by. How does it feel to be a graduate?”
How does it feel?
I clear my throat.
It feels like my space shuttle just blew up, and I’m drifting around, wondering when my oxygen supply is going to run out.
“Good,” I tell her. “It’s uh, it’s good to be done with high school.”