Dylan
Chapter twenty-one
“Fuck,” I yell, throwing the roll of paper towels to the floor before gripping my hair.
Holy shit. When did she get home?
“In here,” I say, my voice sounding monotone. I’m so fucking tired of this, and it’s bleeding into every inch of me. All the fight I usually put into keeping the intrusive thoughts at bay has washed away and it’s hitting me hard as fuck right now.
I hear the soft padding of her feet as she makes her way down the hall and pauses at the entryway of the laundry room.
“I thought I heard something,” she says hesitantly.
Braving my fears, I turn my head to face her over my shoulder, unable to force my body to follow, already anticipating her reprimand.
But her face is soft with worry, eyes tracing up and down my body, looking for harm.
But the damage is completely undetectable on the outside, until it spills over like a pot of water boiling, steam filling every crevasse of the room around me.
“Just an off day.” Even I can hear the detached edge in my tone.
Dee hears it too, her back straightening and an eyebrow lifting as her hair brushes over her shoulder.
She trimmed it herself last night, the fresh cut giving new life to the strands.
She had me check the back to make sure it was even.
Focusing on that moment allows me a minute to think about anything other than my swirling thoughts, threatening to pull me under with no reprieve.
She steps inside the laundry room—more of a closet, really—only a few feet of space between us before she laces her hands behind her back and leans against the doorframe.
“Tell me about it then.” It’s not a demand, but an invitation. Her voice lacks her usual assertiveness. That sureness. She softened it for me.
No, she’s just taking pity on a guy obviously losing his shit.
“Today’s a bad day for…well, I mentioned before how my mental health always takes a dive when I’m stressed or worried or…”
“Overwhelmed?” she supplies.
I close my eyes as shame washes over me.
“Dylan, breathe.” Her hand lands on my chest, the solid pressure startling me at first but then grounding me. “I’m with you. Tell me what’s going on.”
“It doesn’t feel right.” I grimace at the admission. “It just doesn’t fucking feel right. So, I have to do it again, and again, and again…until it does.”
I wait for her to laugh, maybe make a snarky comment. But she studies me, expression curious, but not mocking.
“When did it start?”
“What part of it?” I huff in exasperation. “Today or the beginning?”
“Whichever part you want to talk about.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve always been an anxious person.
Even as a kid, I had these perfectionistic tendencies.
My parents weren’t sure what to think when I couldn’t seem to step away from my homework because it had to be perfect.
And when it wasn’t, I’d be devastated. It felt like failing.
I ended up creating these…rituals. They helped to… ”
“Cope,” she offers.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“But they’re not helping now.”
“It hasn’t felt this bad in a long time.
This week has been stressful at work, that on top of apartment hunting and trying to get ready for the wedding, and not letting the guys down, and then Ed came into the Bridge today with this asshole.
When I don’t have an outlet, it all just kind of piles up. ”
“How long have you been in here?” she asks, her palm still planted on my chest, her eyes lock onto her hand as she applies a bit more pressure, freeing me from any expectation of meeting her gaze.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I stopped by the store on my way home, then came in here to start some laundry. I started to put the paper towels away, but I keep having these…thoughts. These images. Of the laundry room getting…too hot. The paper towels catching…” I shake my head, hearing how unrealistic it all sounds.
But that’s never made a difference. My mind knows that most of my obsessive thoughts are circling around something unlikely to ever occur, but once the thought is there, it’s a bitch and a half to get out, if I even can.
My…work-arounds, compulsions as my therapist calls them, are sometimes the only thing that helps me move forward, no matter how weird they may seem.
Maybe my dad was right. It might be time to call Nick and start seeing him regularly again.
Thankfully Dee doesn’t ask me to explain further.
“I don’t know much about OCD besides what you’ve told me. Does it make it worse to talk about it? I want to help.”
It helps being with you, I want to say, but don’t.
“Sometimes talking helps. Sometimes it’s playing music or going to the gym.
I think that’s why my parents were so supportive when I started drumming.
The physicality of it…it felt like a release.
Allowed me to distance myself from the intrusive thought.
Broke me out of the cycle. It helped. Still does.
” My eyes travel to her palm, still resting firmly against my sternum. “That helped too,” I murmur.
She pulls it back, like she hadn’t realized she was still touching me. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep.”
I move closer toward her in the small space, feeling the heat of her just a breath away. “I meant it. It helped.” I brush her hair back, tucking it behind her ear. “I may not be the easiest person to live with. I’d understand if you wanted me to give you some space.”
“What part of living with me is easy, Dylan? I don’t think I’ve put the mail in your designated mail pile once.
” That brings a weak smile to my face, picturing all the times I’ve moved her new mail piles to the one she promised she’d use when I moved in.
“None of us has it figured out. This doesn’t make you any less.
I care about you, and this doesn’t change that.
When you have a bad day, you tell me,” she asserts, leaving no room for argument.
“I want to know so that I don’t make it worse. Maybe I can even help.”
“And how are you going to help me?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Sounds terrifying,” I deadpan.
The giggle that tumbles out of her makes my chest squeeze, the beating organ within finally slowing to a normal pace again.
“That thought alone should help you. Next time, just remember, I’m the scariest thing in this apartment.
You don’t have anything worse to fear.” She gives me a wink, and my echoing laughter surprises even me.
I look to the floor at the paper towels I threw in my earlier panic.
She notices, quickly picking it up, before her eyes meet mine, searching for something. “I was thinking these might be better kept in the kitchen pantry anyway.” She points a thumb over her shoulder. “Want to help me move them there instead?”
The weight that was bearing down on me suddenly feels a lot lighter, and I can’t tell if it has to do with the stupid fucking paper towels and getting past whatever mental block they created, or if it has to do with the force of nature in front of me.
I give her a small smile and nod, and follow her out of the laundry room, the bounce in her step returning, seemingly just for me.