Free OCD Love Story by Corey Ann Haydu Page A

the sting of the observation.
    â€œNo, it’s good. You’re a good driver.” Beck still isn’t looking at me when he speaks, but I look at him. Take my eyes off the road to glance at the perfect profile of his face. My heart catches in my chest when I realize how dangerous that just was. I slow down two more miles per hour and Beck leans his head against the seat back, like he is relaxing for the first time in hours.
    When we do our final turn we’re pulling into a twenty-four-hour gym, not his own personal driveway.
    â€œOh,” I say. If there’s anything worse than enabling my own craziness, it’s enabling someone else’s.
    â€œI live near here. Told my parents group therapy was three hours, not one. They’re clueless.” I nod, but I can’t helpthe drop in my stomach. I thought we’d had a real moment , but maybe I’m just a way for him to go to the gym without getting in trouble. “Figured you’d understand . . . ,” Beck says. I nod again because he’s basically right. I’m already jumping five steps ahead of him to when I can do another drive-by of Austin’s place. So I’m certainly not any better than him and probably would do the same thing, given the opportunity.
    For instance, right now I’m considering bumming a cigarette from Sylvia in front of her building. You know, if she’s around.
    â€œOkay. I have to go in,” Beck says. “I’d hang out if I could, though. I just gotta get in there.”
    Before the disappointment has a chance to seep in, my mind clicks back to the half second that I let my mind and eyes wander to Beck’s face. We’re in a residential neighborhood and there was a car accident on one of these roads two months ago and focus is the number one most important thing to have when driving defensively.
    â€œDid you notice any kids earlier? When we were driving here?” I ask. But Beck’s already opening the car door and there’s an invisible, taut string between him and the gym. His fingers tap his thigh. “Sorry, sorry—go.”
    Beck’s finger taps a few times again. Pauses. More tapping. Pause.
    â€œHey,” I say, “I get it, okay?” Finally he looks my way. Theshape of his eyes changes, a little squint of recognition narrowing the corners.
    â€œYou know,” he says, giving me a sheepish grin before shutting the door, “we’re the normal ones in that group, right?” His face comes a little closer to mine, and I can smell Dove soap and mint and fresh sweat. For a full six seconds I’m not thinking about anything but his eyes. “I mean, the girl with the hair?” he continues. “The guy with the scabs on his face?”
    God, I hope so, I think. His eyes are their very own Crayola color. Does he know that?
    I wonder if hanging out with Beck will maybe only make me crazier.
    I wonder if these thoughts are, in and of themselves, driving me insane.
    I pinch the delicate inside of my wrist.
    â€œSure, look at us!” I say with a grin. “Nothing too weird about us.”
    â€œMost people think I’m really healthy, you know? I mean, didn’t cleaning up and staying in shape used to be good things?” This is the second time I’ve heard him make this exact argument. I catch sight of Beck’s hands again and see they are not only dry from all the washing but also scraped up from the weightlifting. Ouch.
    â€œYou’re kinda huge,” I say. The words are itching in my throat. If I don’t say what I’m thinking about I’ll explode. “Imean, in a good way. Not a fat way or whatever. Just—do you think your biceps are bigger than your head?” I’ve done pretty well, up until now, in terms of not saying every single thought that comes into my head. But I’m taking him in, all of him, and I’m terrified of what will happen if I don’t just say