Chapter Thirty-Nine
Giles
The painting behind my therapist’s head has thirty-seven flowers. Which is very annoying. I’m on my third re-count to see if I counted one twice or maybe I missed two but it’s hard to concentrate on that while I also tell Lucille my life story.
“So then I moved to London and started working my way up the ladder in gentlemen’s tailors.
I opened my current business about eleven years ago, using the inheritance I got from after my father passed.
That was always my intention after he died but I knew I needed more experience, more expertise before I took on the task of running my own tailor’s. ”
Definitely thirty-seven. Fuck.
Feeling that itching sensation climb up the back of my neck and across my shoulders, I shift in my chair and quickly, and hopefully innocently enough, scan the room for any other pictures of flowers, or maybe a vase somewhere on her desk. There’s isn’t.
“As for relationships.” I sigh and rub my hands together, my palms clammy and warm.
“I’m queer. Pansexual. And that’s not an issue.
At all. I’m comfortable with that side of myself.
But I haven’t really had any long-term relationships.
Ever. Until now.” I also can’t stop the smile that grows on my face.
“I’ve met a great man. We were friends first. Training buddies. In the gym. But now… we’re more.”
Lucille nods. She’s a grey-haired woman who I suspect is in her fifties. She has a slim build, narrow features and wire-framed glasses that do little to soften her face, and yet her expression isn’t hard. Just very unreadable.
“So, just so I understand correctly.” She moves in her chair, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. “You lost both your parents by the time you were nineteen?”
“Yes,” I say and start to hear a low roaring in my ears.
“I’m very sorry to hear that. That must have been incredibly hard.”
“Yes,” I say again, but this time a little quieter.
Lucille lets silence fill the space between us for a few seconds and then when she talks again, her tone is very different. A lot more upbeat.
“So why have you come to see me today?”
The roar in my ears gets louder. “I have some problems.”
I don’t know why I can’t just say it. I said it easily enough at Marcello’s house two weeks ago. I told his mother like it was no big deal at all.
But that was completely different. Marcello was by my side when I told his mother.
And she is his mother, his mamma, she is by association, a safer person that this woman who has a wall full of certificates behind her desk and is wearing a pair of leather loafers that I know have a four-figure price tag.
“Tell me about those problems,” she says, unbothered.
I draw in a breath. “OCD. I have OCD.”
She blinks and I wait for her to make a note on the open notebook in her hand but she doesn’t. “Tell me about that.”
I do. I tell her about the cleaning. I tell her about the counting.
I tell her about the counting and the cleaning when both coincide.
I tell her how rationally, I don’t know why I do it.
When I look at it from a distance, I don’t actually believe something bad will happen if I don’t count or clean or both.
I explain how it’s greater than that. It’s like I’m possessed by some creature or force that insists on me carrying out these tasks, and if I don’t I feel the consequences immediately – a tight chest, a racing heartbeat, headaches and sweating, nausea and dizziness, oscillating extreme body temperature and dense, dense brain fog.
“Well, that’s why we call it ‘compulsive’,” she says, almost casually. “It’s an uncontrollable compulsion.”
I can’t help but snort. “So if that’s the case, how do I stop?”
“You don’t just stop,” she says and finally, possibly right when I need it, she smiles.
It opens up her face considerably and I relax a little into my chair.
“You treat the disorder and hopefully, if you find treatment that works, you’ll find the compulsions don’t impact your life as much as they do now.
I assume you’re here because they are impacting your life? ”
I could lie. I could tell her that they’re not. And it wouldn’t even be that big of a lie, because things have been good recently. Really good.
It’s been three weeks since Marcello and I confessed our feelings. Two weeks since I met his mother and spent the whole day with her and Marcello. Two weeks of training with Marcello in the gym, but now rather than sharing high fives or fist bumps after a set, we kiss or squeeze each other’s butts.
Last week, Marcello slept over three times and left some of his clothes – and two alarm clocks – at my place.
On one of those nights, we finished the Edinburgh puzzle and then messed it all up again when he bent me over and fucked me over it.
Tonight, I’m going back to his house for dinner and this weekend we’re going for drinks with Radia and Chloe, our first but I’m almost certain, not our last, double date all together.
Life is good.
But it feels like I’m running out of time. Like there’s an expiration date for how great this all feels. And it’s not because I think Marcello is going to leave me or change his mind.
It’s because of me. I’ve had good stretches like this before, if not as uniquely precious as these last few weeks have been. But they never last.
And I want this stretch to last. Or rather to not implode on me, and on Marcello too.
“Yes. My OCD has the very real potential to impact my life,” I admit before adding, “in a bad way.”
Despite feeling stupid for adding that completely unnecessarily, Lucille just nods and keeps looking at me impassively.
“Well, good for you for seeking help,” she says and it’s nothing. Not really. It’s a passing comment, an acknowledgement of the reason I’m here. But it makes my chest puff out and dulls the noise in my ears. “So shall we talk a bit about when your compulsions to clean and count started?”
I open my mouth to tell her the same story I told Marcello, but as I do, I feel a ball of something hot and liquid lodge itself in my throat. “I think it’s because I lost my parents at such a young age,” I say and I surprise myself by how little I care about my voice cracking.
“Go on.” Lucille nods again.
*****
Forty-five minutes later and I’ve finally stopped crying.
My face feels red and raw from the near constant flow of tears and by the end, I'd emptied Lucille’s box of tissues.
I apologised for that when I left after agreeing on our next appointment, but Lucille’s face softened again for only the second or third time and she squeezed my arm through my suit blazer.
“You have nothing to apologise for,” she told me and then her face hardened slightly again. “See you next week!”
And now I’m standing on the steps to her Belgravia office, feeling the late summer sun on my face and trying to determine how I feel, aside from exhausted.
Relieved, I think. Proud, possibly.
“How did it go?” A voice snaps my head to my left.
It’s Marcello.
My delighted surprise quickly fades to a feeling that is just as sweet and happy. Of course, Marcello is here.
“I thought you were working late today,” I say.
He shrugs and kicks off the wall he was leaning against to stand opposite me. “Chloe said she’d lock up for me. She owed me.”
“And you knew I’d be here because…”
He slides his arms around my waist. I’ve come to learn that it’s impossible to be in close proximity of Marcello and not have him touch me. I will never complain about this fact. “You think I don’t look at the calendar you share with me?”
“Hmm.” I place my hands on his chest, which is Marcello’s perfect combination of hard and soft under his plain white T-shirt that smells of coffee, fresh bread and butter. “That was to help you know my routine so you could figure out one for yourself.”
“I know but I pressed some buttons and somehow I now get reminders for all your appointments.” He shrugs and gives me that face-splitting smile that lights up his warm brown eyes. “And only you would put in the address, phone number and website for an appointment in your calendar.”
“I like to have all relevant information to hand.”
He pulls me against him. “I like having you in my hands,” he says into my hair. Then he leans back. “But seriously, are you okay? Your eyes are a little puffy.”
“I think you’re being generous.” I smile. “I sobbed my heart out.”
He looks taken aback for a second. “In a good way?”
“I think so.”
“Then bravo.” He pulls me into his body again. “Bravissimo.”
“I’ve never told you this,” I say into his shoulder. “But I love it when you speak Italian.”
“Then I will do it more often,” he says and releases his hold again. When he pulls back this time, he brings his hands to my face and rubs at my cheeks as if to wipe away any last trace of the tears I just cried. “Più bella cosa non c'è.”
“What does that mean?” I’ve heard him say that before, although I can’t remember exactly when.
“That there's nothing more beautiful than this. Than you.”
Air seems to fill my whole body in a rush, making me feel like I could just float away into the blue sky above us. But then Marcello’s arms move down to my waist and he pulls me against him again, groin to groin.
“So what do you want to do now? Back to yours and watch another 1990s movie with now very obvious bisexual undertones?”
I pull back slightly. “Huh?”
“Just me then.” He smiles, and it’s so goofy and devastating at the same time.
“Actually, I think I want to go to the gym.”
“The gym?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to do a big session. Just use my body. Sweat a bit. Feel the burn.”
“Baby, I can give you all of that, and more,” he says, grabbing handfuls of my backside.
“I know you can.” I smile. “But I also know you are the best gym training buddy I’ve ever had.”
“But I don’t have my gear,” Marcello says.
“I have extra clean clothes in my locker.” I look down at his feet. “And your Converse will be fine.”
“I really can’t convince you to have a workout with me at home?”
The hairs on the back of my neck elongate at hearing him call my flat home. One day. He said, one day.
“You can do that afterwards,” I say. “Or we can do a movie. Oh, and that puzzle I ordered arrived yesterday.”
“Best weekend ever!”
“After tomorrow’s run,” I say and he groans, loudly enough that it vibrates his chest against mine. “Hey, it’s your triathlon we’re training for.”
“I still don’t know why I signed up for it.”
“Well, I’m glad you did.” I hold him a little tighter.
“Me too.” He kisses my forehead. “Best mid-life crisis ever.”
I laugh heartily. So heartily I’m surprised such joy is possible after I spent the last hour feeling such crushing sadness.
Or maybe that’s exactly why I am feeling so much joy.
Because I’m finally letting myself feel.
When you actively decide to let yourself feel more pain, maybe you also let yourself feel more pleasure too.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says.
“I’m so proud of you too,” I say back.
He frowns. “What did I do? Other than mess up your calendar settings so it sends me reminders.”
“You helped me get to this point. And you’re doing so well with your training.
Out of nowhere a golden yellow leaf tumbles from the sky and hits me on the head. I catch it before it gets to the ground.
“The seasons are changing,” Marcello says, looking at the curled edges of the leaf.
“That means it’s almost time for your triathlon. Are you feeling ready?”
“Cazzu dialulu, no,” he laughs at himself, “I doubt I’ll ever feel ready. For that. But for everything else. For me and you.”
“You and me,” I interrupt to say.
“I’m ready for that.”
“Me too,” I agree. “I feel like I’ve been training for that my whole life.”