9. Dee
Chapter nine
Dee
“You’re being dramatic.”
I snap my head, watching Dylan smirk at the damn cutting board while he chops vegetables for the chicken salad he’s making. Having a roommate who enjoys cooking? Another win in my book.
My eyes narrow. “Of course, I’m being dramatic. Because the situation is dramatic.”
“So, bartending didn’t work out. It was meant to be temporary anyway, right?”
I groan at his lack of concern. “You realize you’re poking a bear, right?”
He pops a carrot into his mouth and winks at me. “I’d rather see you breathe fire than mope on that couch for the next three days.”
“I’m not moping.” I am moping. “I’m just wondering why they would vote out the person least likely to get the votes at the end? It’s like they’ve never watched the show before,” I yell, gesturing at the TV.
Dylan stops chopping, his grip firm on the edge of the counter as he leans forward, his shoulders bunching as he eyes me thoughtfully while still chewing that damn carrot.
“Is this your doom show?” he asks, nodding toward the TV.
I huff and roll my eyes, choosing to ignore him and return my attention to Survivor as the ending credits roll along the screen.
“Dee, don’t ignore the question.”
“Unless you plan to reenact the teaser for next week’s episode, I suggest you pipe down over there and let me watch my show in peace.”
He strides into the living room, situating his stupid, big, bulky, muscley body between me and the TV, blocking my view entirely.
“You don’t need to watch the preview. We both know you’re going to let the next episode play like you did the last three.
” He crouches down and locks eyes with me.
“Besides, I don’t need you to answer. I’ll go ahead and assume this is your doom show. ”
“I don’t know what the fuck that is.”
“You’re watching TV upside down with your head hanging off the couch.”
“It’s comfier this way,” I say, unwilling to pull back the bite from my tone.
“You haven’t taken a break between episodes to do anything other than use the bathroom and get more popcorn.”
“I’m unemployed; it’s not like I need to be somewhere. And there’s fiber in popcorn. It’s a health food. I’m working on my fitness right now, as we speak, at this very second.”
“It’s in your hair,” he adds, pulling a stray kernel from the messy strands.
“Hey, I was saving that,” I shout, slapping at his hand but missing before he tosses the kernel and it bops me on the nose then falls to the floor.
“Just tell me this”—he leans in closer—“have you seen this season already?”
I glare at him, which is difficult considering I’m still upside down with my head hanging over the edge of the couch. Damn, I need to move.
“Uh-huh. Thought so, how many times?” he asks, only encouraged by my silence.
“I might have seen this season once…or twice.”
“How many times, Dee?” He quirks an eyebrow, baiting me.
“Fine! Seven times. It’s the best one. Are you happy?”
“Very. It’s good to know what your roommate’s doom show is. That way I can flag the cry for help before we get too far into the pits.”
“Oh yeah?” I flip upright, sitting on the couch, grabbing my head as the blood rushes to the rest of my body.
“For your information, I’m doing research.
I apply to be on this show every year. I can feel it…
this is the year I’m going to get accepted and you cannot be too prepared.
I’ll win thanks to my superfan knowledge, and then you’ll be eating your words.
” Unmoved by my impassioned claim, he slowly nods.
“Fine. It’s my doom show.” I douse the word with a bucket of sarcasm and hit him with air quotes for good measure. “What’s yours, Mr. Perfect?”
“Antiques Roadshow.” I can’t stop the laugh that bursts free. After a minute, I roll and bite my lips in a weak attempt to stop. “Okay, I’ll keep an eye out for that.”
A small smile tugs at his lips. He’s still crouched low, only a foot from me. His brown irises flash hazel in the changing light as his eyes search mine. They’re so much lighter than I realized. Almost shifting color as quickly as his hair.
“There will be other signs too,” he admits softly, hesitantly.
“What do you mean?” I frown.
After a long pause and a sigh, he answers, albeit reluctantly.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you that you may notice I have certain…
habits.” He runs a hand through his hair, the strands almost as long as mine as they dance around his shoulders.
“Ones that get worse with stress. Some are harder to stop. So yeah, binging Antiques Roadshow would probably be the last sign that I’m hitting a wall.
” He says it like a joke, but he can’t hide the weight of his words.
The unspoken confession—the importance of what he’s sharing with me—it doesn’t go unnoticed.
“What would I notice first? Should I be looking for anything? As your roommate,” I add, hoping it’s clear I’m not trying to pry.
His eyes are guarded, but he answers anyway. “I have some OCD tendencies. Intrusive thoughts that trigger different behaviors.”
“So, the handwashing,” I say slowly, putting the pieces together.
I haven’t commented on the number of times he washes his hands when he works in the kitchen, or even just throughout the day, but I do notice.
It’s constant. He even put his own lotion next to the sink.
I’m assuming it takes a toll on his skin.
He nods, his shoulders softening, curling in on himself at the admission.
Guilt strikes my heart, and I realize maybe I shouldn’t have told him I’ve noticed anything.
“Handwashing, checking, counting. You’ll know if it gets worse.
Nothing you need to worry yourself over, but I thought you should know.
It’s not as big of a problem as it used to be; I’ve been managing it for years.
But you?” He tips his head my direction and then eyes the popcorn pieces that have fallen to the floor after I sat upright.
“Are clearly having a problem. Why is this really bothering you, Dee? You don’t give a shit about that job. ”
It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk more about himself, but I file away the information. I can’t align the Dylan I know—the carefree, easygoing, flirty Dylan—with the guy susceptible to thoughts so invasive he has to cope with them like that. I guess we still have a lot to learn about each other.
“Managed or not, I appreciate you telling me. You didn’t have to do that, but I’m glad you shared with me.”
He nods, clearly not wanting to discuss it any more than he already has. Feeling like I have no right to ask more questions—and grateful he felt like he could share as much as he did in the first place—I let him steer the conversation back to me.
“Two jobs in what…two months?” I ask. “Both telling me I’m useless? Yeah, that doesn’t feel good.”
Rejection always stings. As much as I want to pretend that it doesn’t bother me, I can’t. Not this time. Not when it’s one thing after another, piling on so high I just want to escape to an island. At least that island would come with a chance at big money if I made it on Survivor.
His expression sobers, all sense of humor dropping instantly. “Keller’s laying you off was a result of poor business management. It had nothing to do with you. They laid off over a hundred employees that day. Were they all useless?”
“Only the men,” I quip. That earns me an eye roll. “No, they weren’t,” I admit softly.
“Can you honestly say you’ll miss bartending?”
I grimace. “Not there. The staff I worked with were fun, but management was unsupportive and uptight. At the end of the day, it’s really on me.
I kept making mistakes. I didn’t make any effort to get better.
I was too distracted looking for another job.
” I swipe at my forehead, flyaway hairs brushing against my fingers.
It hits me then how much of a mess I am.
Getting fired last night was just another log on the fire.
God, what a shit month. What a shit year this is turning out to be.
Exhaustion bears down on me. Between scouring the internet, applying to any and every job I’m qualified for, battling imposter syndrome, and wrestling with disappointment in myself for ending up in this position…I just want to go to bed.
“Well, you must not have had enough training. Come on,” he says, grabbing my knee and giving it a squeeze as he stands before striding into the kitchen.
Even after everything I’ve told him…he’s not blaming me. He’s not searching for where I fell short, where I could have done better. Dylan isn’t looking at my circumstances and judging me. So why am I doing it to myself?
I drag myself off the couch, folding my arms over my chest and swallowing around the lump in my throat.
I join Dylan and lean against the counter as the theme song for the next episode of Survivor starts playing.
“What are you doing?” I ask, unable to keep the heavy dose of skepticism from bleeding into my voice.
“Getting you ready,” he says simply, eyes flashing up to meet mine with a fire that I know my defeated stare lacks. He starts cutting a lime and nods at the pantry. “What kind of liquor do you have? Grab whatever you’ve got.”
“Sweet. Is getting drunk at noon on a Saturday the answer to my problems?”
“We’ll see how well that sarcasm serves you during your first shift.” A huge grin takes over his face. “I need another bartender for show nights. Consider yourself hired. Training starts now. Let’s see what you’ve got, Deanna.”