Food trucks are just so full of germs, my mind says.
I flinch at the sound of my own voice in my head, so sharp and cutting.
What if she gets sick eating that?
She’s not going to get sick. Hygiene at these things is regulated, isn’t it?
She’ll get sick, and then she’ll get worse and worse and worse. Slowly, painfully.
My steps speed up and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s as if my intrusive thoughts are completely in charge of my body now. My steps are determined and strong despite the crippling anxiety sitting in my bloodstream. My breaths are no longer my own, my body no longer under my control. Everything now belongs to my anxiety, my OCD.
When I make it over to Oakleigh, I take her by the waist and drag her out of the line.
“Whoa, Finn, what’s going on?”
“You can’t eat that,” I say firmly.
Her eyebrow raises and defiance settles around her like a wall. “Oh, Ican’t?”
“No. Wait until we get home.”
She looks at me with disbelief. I don’t blame her, and I want to stop, but right now that’s just not an option.
“Finn, I’m going to eat whatever the fuck I want.” She tries to move past me, but I stop her.
“Oakleigh, youcan’t.”
“The fuck I can’t.”
I see my mother join us in my peripheral, but my anxiety is like blinkers on either side of my eyes, it doesn’t care what’s there, it just knows what it needs to do.
“Finley?” Mom asks softly, her hand lightly resting on my shoulder.
A lady and her kid walk behind Oakleigh, and the little girl is holding a tray of the exact buns Oakleigh was going to buy.
Sick. Sick. Sick.
“Shut up!” I slap the side of my head and the throbbing it leaves behind silences my mind for a few seconds.
“Finley!” my mother gasps and grabs my hand, pulling it far away from my head. Oakleigh stays stuck in place, watching me with a look that I don’t have the capacity to decipher right now.
I look up into my mom’s brown eyes, which are swimming with unshed tears. It’s been years since she’s seen this side of my OCD. The therapy sessions with Dr. Madden were once upon a time so helpful that the compulsions were almost nonexistent thanks to his way of teaching me to overcome the urges. But those sessions haven’t occurred in months, and I am slowly declining back to my old ways. I’m just surprised it’s happening this fast.
I roll my lips together and bite the inside of my bottom lip until it hurts. Embarrassment and fear cloud my feelings and muddle my thoughts until I’m just a massive lump of regret. I did all of this with Oakleigh, partly to get her to see how good we can be together, but also to ease my mother’s anxiety about me being alone, and in the space of a single minute, I’ve pretty much fucked up my chances of both.
“Finley, don’t do that, my darling, please.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.” I pull my mother close and hug her tight. “I’m so sorry.”
I don’t dare look at Oakleigh. I’m not in the mood to torture myself with the look of embarrassment and shame that’s probably blending together in her eyes. I pull my card out of my wallet hastily, my movements clumsy and rushed. I hold it out to my girlfriend without looking at her.
“Finn,” she starts, her voice surprisingly soft.
I wave the card about, motioning for her to take it, but she doesn’t.
“Oakleigh, take it.” I don’t mean for it to come out as harshly as it does. I’m more desperate than anything and yet it sounds like anger is coating my words. I can tell that she’s hesitant as she plucks the card from between my fingers. “I just need a few minutes. Get yourselves something to eat while I’m gone. Use my card.” I’m about to walk away, but I stop to add, “Anythingyou want.”
* * *
