Free OCD Love Story by Corey Ann Haydu

car to heat up. He twists the hanging gold and green Mardi Gras beads around his fingers.
    It’s quiet, the waiting. Or we’re quiet. But it’s nice, sharing the same air, and we are both bundled up in coats and scarvesand mittens and hats. My car’s small enough that it’s almost not awkward to share an armrest, which we do. Our big winter jackets touch but the sensation can’t get through all the layers to travel to my actual arm.
    â€œYour car fits you,” Beck says.
    â€œOh God, I hope not,” I say, but I look over to see if he’s smiling or smirking. Dimples. Cartoon spark in his super-human blue eyes. It’s a compliment.
    â€œNo, it’s cute. I like the way you are. I mean, your vibe. Your clothes and car and stuff,” Beck says. I try to remember what’s under all my winter layers: white leggings, short blue summer dress, thick white cardigan, fur vest to top it all off. “You’re all, you know, cool-seeming,” he concludes with an awkward, accidental squeak. I’m grinning like an idiot because there is nothing more charming than a boy tripping all over his words while trying to say something nice. I giggle, I mean literally giggle , and for maybe the first time ever feel lucky that it takes this long for my car to heat up in the winter.
    Beck shakes his head and blushes hard.
    â€œDon’t be embarrassed! That was nice,” I say. (Lisha’s voice in my head: People don’t like when you point out their every emotion . Lisha is the only person in the world who can give advice like that without it sounding mean.) “I mean, I like the way you are too.” Then we both just stare at the dashboard or out the window and I think I can hear, or maybe just feel the way his heartbeat is keeping pace with mine: loud and stubborn and fast as hell.
    He picks up the book of poems at his feet and flips through it. I try to forget that it was a gift from my ex, and that there are some notes about Kurt in there. In the margins. On the title page. On the back cover. The same kind of observations I sometimes write down about Austin and Sylvia. Nothing truly insane, but not the kind of thing I can explain quickly to Beck.
    â€œThat’s not really mine,” I say, a weird half lie that I can’t explain. He sort of throws it out of his hands like he’s done something wrong, and it could not be more awkward in here. Thank God he hasn’t seen the other notebooks in the backseat: scrapbooks of newspaper articles, the pink starred notebook, the miniature one I just wrote about him in.
    Then there’s another sound interrupting our heartbeats. The heat turning on at last—a loud thunking and wobbling noise, the clicking and rustling like my vents are full of pebbles. The sounds my car makes are always vaguely discomforting.
    â€œIs your car safe?” Beck says.
    â€œOh yeah. Just old.”
    â€œYou know, its no big deal, I can totally just walk home.” It’s funny how quickly a particular energy can change because of stuff like noises or temperature shifts or a silence extending one second too long.
    â€œIt’s a Volvo . It’s totally safe.” Beck nods. “Trust me. I’mpretty into safety. You’ll see.” It’s an effort, his agreement to stay in the car despite its rickety state and my possibly-crazy-person status and the encroaching sexual tension.
    Beck is sitting with such a straight back I wonder if he’s, like, a ballerina or something in his spare time, but then I realize no, he’s just in amazing shape and probably spends all his time on his body. He starts giving me directions, left here, right there. He is staring straight ahead but not holding on to the handle on the roof or anything. It’s more like he’s instructed his body to stay in place.
    â€œYou drive slow,” he says.
    â€œDidn’t you learn defensive driving?” I try to smile through