Free OCD Love Story by Corey Ann Haydu Page B

what I see in front of me. “Sorry,” I say. And then: “Can I touch your arm?” Beck doesn’t answer, so I think that’s a no. Or, if I’m lucky, he thought I was kidding.
    â€œI’m really not that big,” Beck says. But he is and it’s even more awkward when he’s sitting there denying it. “There’s way bigger guys in there.”
    â€œHow many times a day do you work out?” I ask.
    â€œAt the gym?”
    â€œIs there somewhere else you work out?”
    â€œI mean, we have some weights at home. And I go running sometimes. Maybe three or four times a day total?”
    I nod and try not to say it but: “That’s a lot. A lot .” And whatever spell we’ve been under that’s kept him in my car falls apart. Was it really just a few minutes ago that we were giving in to little bursts of puppy love?
    â€œThanks for the lift,” Beck says. “Can you, like, not mention it to Dr. Pat?”
    I guess I knew he would say that. I could tell him how lying freaks me out, and that it seems unfair to lie about his weird habits when I don’t even really let myself lie about mine. But instead I shrug. Which isn’t a lie or a promise tolie, so it’s okay. It’s just a quick movement in my shoulders, almost like a shudder, like a quick chill of indecision. Beck nods and gets out of the car. He has a pocket-size notebook tucked into the back of his pants that I hadn’t noticed until this moment. I’m dying to know what he writes in there. I like that he has it, that he keeps some sort of record, that he too remains accountable for the things that happen around him.
    I smile and wave and he gives enough of a smile back that I think . . . maybe .
    And that’s it; he’s gone.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    I’ve got about a million missed calls from Lisha that I don’t see until Beck is all the way inside the crazy-big gym. He’s right about one thing: There are definitely guys much bigger than him strutting up to the doors, guys with arms so big they don’t swing at their sides but hover almost parallel to the ground.
    I don’t want Beck to end up looking that way. I like his body now: the slightly off proportions of muscles to height. Meanwhile, if Austin were here, he’d stand out against the tightly wound wide bodies. His legs are skinny, his waist smaller than mine, his hair too floppy for a proper workout. For a split second I think I see Austin, but it’s a soccer mom with a short haircut and no breasts.
    It’s a relief to drive away, back to the place on the road where I glanced at Beck. I pull over to take a quick look around, make sure nothing terrible happened while I wastrying to reimagine the feel of Beck’s lips on mine. No signs of catastrophe, so I take a moment to listen to my voice mail.
    â€œBea, it’s Lish. Where are you? Are we meeting up?”
    â€œBea, it’s Lish. What time is your group over? I’m thinking maybe we shouldn’t go to that guy’s house . . . ”
    I’m already regretting telling her I wanted to go to Austin’s place tonight, but she’d asked what I was thinking, and it felt like my throat was swelling up when I didn’t answer right away.
    â€œBea, it’s Lish. My parents are being freaks. Did you see the Beck guy? Was it awkward?”
    â€œBea. It’s Lish. Okay, we can go check out this guy’s apartment, but it’s on the record that I think it’s kiiiiinda a bad idea.”
    I laugh, an awkward sound when you’re alone on the side of the road.
    I almost call back to tell her about Beck, but I can’t figure out the right words to say. He used me to go to the gym. We’re not even friends. We barely spoke. We are co-patients, and I’m, like, a chauffeur and an enabler. But that’s it. There’s nothing romantic in any of that.
    Except, of course,