Page 82 of Call You Mine
I do it again.Two.
And again.Three.
“Is your zipper broken?” Rumi whispers to me, and it breaks my attention from the zipper.
“Oh,” I let go of the zipper, despite the way my fingers seem to cramp. “Yeah, it got jammed,” I add.
There’s a pull to keep going, but I remember what Dr. Abbie said during our session yesterday, how delaying the counting might help me feel less “controlled” by it. I know it’s my OCD wanting me to keep checking the zipper—it’s not a necessity. Maybe next time I should take a picture or something.
The thought alone helps me get some distance from the urge, and the relief comes back, just a little but enough to notice.
When I was telling her about how much my daily life is affected by the need to stop what I’m doing and count,havingto get to seventeen, despite trying to bargain with myself, she gave me the visual of a wave—just like the urge, it has a rise and a peak, but it eventually falls on its own, not because I do my counting.
I’ll do the rest of the counting when the flight attendant finishes the safety presentation.
Nothing will happen between now and then.
I can wait.
Closing my eyes, I try to focus on what’s happening around me. The cool metal armrest beneath my palms, the air from the vent above me, the flight attendant's voice.
The more I let myself notice these things, the calmer I feel. My eyes begin to drift closed, exhaustion being stronger than any of the thoughts circling in my head, begging for my attention.
“So,” Emerson starts just as the plane levels out, and it makes me jump. The pilot comes on, announcing that we’ve reached cruising height.
I didn’t even realize I fell asleep.
Peeling one eye open, I find Emerson staring at me. I seeher gaze dart to Rumi, and I bring my hands up to my eyes, rubbing them in the hopes of being able to keep them open. I turn to see Rumi staring at me, too, a huge smile on her face.
When I look back at Emerson, she’s smirking at me like she has a secret.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” Emerson asks, lifting a brow.
“Like you’re about to pee your pants with excitement or something,” I deadpan.
“Do people actually do that?”
“Dogs do,” Rumi chimes in.
I let my head fall to the other side of my headrest, finding Rumi giving me the sweetest smile she can muster, and I know she’s in on whatever Emerson is about to say.
“Are you going to tell me whatever it is you two want to tell me, or can I go back to sleep?”
“You can sleep after we tell you our plan,” Rumi pretty much squeals. She’s too peppy for this early in the morning.
“I don’t know if I want to know about your plan.”
“But you love plans,” Rumi says, poking me in the shoulder.
“I lovemyplans. There are no surprises.”
“Surprises can be fun,” Rumi argues.
“Yeah, if you don’t mind going into cardiac arrest.”
“Anyway,” Emerson interrupts, drawing out the word. “We thought, as a way to celebrate your upcoming nuptials, that it would be super fun…” She pauses for dramatic effect, and I want to flick her in the nose, right on her septum piercing.
