Page 49 of Playing the Backbeat

“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 mindknowsthat 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,compulsionsas 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 pileonce.” 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 anyless. 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’mthe scariest thing in this apartment. You don’t have anythingworse 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.

Chapter twenty-two

Dee

“What are you doing up?” Dylan asks, his voice languid with sleep, his bare feet padding along the floor as he makes his way from his bedroom into the living room.

“Storm woke me. I don’t like to miss them. The view is better here than in my bedroom,” I explain.

Another strike of lightning casts from sky to earth, momentarily bathing the room with light so bright, I close my eyes without intending to. Thunder follows quickly behind, the storm raging close outside.

I’m seated in my favorite chair, the cozy green plush velvet cushion turned toward the wall of windows so I can watch the storm. I hear Dylan dragging the other chair alongside mine before he drops into the seat with a sigh.

“I love them too,” he says into the quiet. “Storms.”

“I don’t know what it is about them,” I answer. “Maybe I like the idea of Mother Earth getting to scream a little bit.”

He chuckles, resting his chin in one hand, his elbow leaning on the arm of the chair. “That’s one way to see it.”