Chapter 29 #3
“You’re a night person,” I say as casually as I can to get back to the conversation.
“Annalise.” My heart drops a little at the way Max says my name. It tells me he’s not about to let this go.
“Tell me about your late nights,” I say, even as the obsession continues to whisper in my head.
“What was that?” he asks.
“What?”
He comes to another stop in front of me, his face a little harder, firmer than before. He doesn’t follow up with another question, but I know what he wants.
My shoulders slump.
“You swear I didn’t hurt your feelings or anything when I pulled that stunt?” I almost flinch from the question.
“No, my feelings weren’t hurt. Why would they be?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Never mind.” I start to walk again, but Max’s hold on my hand stops me.
“What’s going on?” He holds up his free hand. “Don’t say ‘nothing’ again.”
A lump in my throat prevents me from saying the words. I don’t want to bring it up, but the concern in his eyes tugs on the truth I don’t want to say.
“I just … I um … I have OCD,” I force the words out. I’m not embarrassed about it but it’s not something I willingly share with people I don’t know well for a variety of reasons.
A myriad of emotions cross his handsome face. Surprise, confusion, apprehension.
“Like, uh, you wash your hands a lot?”
From anyone else, the question might’ve pissed me off. From Max it’s not an insult but a true quest for understanding … in particular, what it has to do with what’s happening right now.
“Yes. I mean, no. Well, that was one of my compulsions years ago, but not for long.” I stop, knowing I’m not making any sense.
“My kind of OCD is more perfectionism and constant checking. Like checking and rechecking to make sure I haven’t made a mistake or,” I clear my throat, “hurt someone’s feelings.
It, uh, can lead to me asking the same question again and again, even after they’ve said repeatedly that they’re fine. ”
“You think you’ve hurt my feelings?”
I nod. “Because …” I let that one word hang in the air.
He takes in my pause, and I see the gears of his mind working. “You think a fake accident where you pretended to be hurt could hurt my feelings.” He says the words as if he’s a detective reviewing a case. “Because … of what happened to my father,” he accurately guesses.
“Yes,” I confirm. “I didn’t want to bring it up,” I add quickly. “But my brain makes all of these connections and is particularly adept at pulling out the most painful scenario and harping on it until it turns into obsessions that lead to compulsions.”
“What are your obsessions saying?”
I push out a breath. “That I’m a despicable person for playing hurt given what you witnessed as a child. That I hurt you by reenacting a painful memory to win a race that wasn’t even real. And that when you say your feelings weren’t hurt you were just lying.”
“That’s heavy.” The way he says it makes me crack a smile. “I thought OCD was extra handwashing and being ridiculously neat.”
I scoff. “Most people do. If a few extra hand washes were all it was …” I trail off, not wanting to go into the history and hours of my life I’ve lost due to the compulsions I felt forced to do in order to question the obsessions.
“What do you need from me?”
My body goes completely stiff. I turn the words over in my mind, making sure I heard them accurately.
What do I need from him?
“Yes,” he says, making me aware that I’d repeated the question out loud. “Is it reassurance that you haven’t offended me? That I delighted in seeing your competitive side come out? That I adored losing that race because I got to hear you laugh?”
My heart dissolves into a puddle. I dip my head because I’m not ready for him to see how I feel about him written all over my face.
Max crooks a finger under my chin, though, lifting my head to meet his face.
“What do you need from me, Annalise? To reassure you again?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say, my voice a little hoarse. “I need you to answer the question once. Truthfully. And then,” I push out a harsh breath, “don’t answer it again if I ask.”
I grit my teeth before continuing.
“The worst thing for my obsessions is to indulge them. It’s easier for me with the medication and years of therapy and treatment, but sometimes they slip through.
So, if you ever find me asking the same thing over and over again for reassurance, as difficult as it might be, the best thing you can do for me is to not answer me. Answer once, truthfully,” I emphasize.
An almost pained expression crosses Max’s face.
I know what that expression means because it’s the same one my parents and siblings gave me when I explained to them how my therapist told me to approach my treatment.
Because my family loves me, they always wanted to reassure me, to ease my anxieties and obsessions. It took more than a few conversations, with and without a trained therapist, to let them know that indulging my obsessions over and over only made things worse.
“Then I won’t answer again,” Max says before lowering his head to kiss me.