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Clay has all of his books from his nook laid out in piles on the floor with him sitting in the middle, sorting through them all.
His brows draw down as he stares at one book in his hand, his eyes flicking between two piles.
“Clay?” I ask tentatively, causing his head to swing up. “What are you doing?”
“I’m organizing,” he answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I walk farther inside, sitting on the edge of his bed. “I can see that, but why?”
He finally places the book on top of the pile to the left. “I want it to look like Leonie’s.”
I tilt my head to the side as I recall him telling me about the bookcases in his counsellor’s main office.
He continues to sort through his books while I stare at him, wondering if there’s more to it than wanting it to look like Leonie’s.
Clay’s always been particular in the way he wants things, but recently it’s become a little more than just being tidy. I feel like he’s bordering on obsessive. Had this been any other day I’d tell Tris when he comes home, but it isn’t any other day. Things in this house are getting worse, and I feel like I can’t talk to Tris about anything—not even the kids.
After this last weekend, I can see why Clay would want order and to control things he can influence.
Instead of continuing to psychoanalyze him, I drop down to the floor on the edge of his piles and give him a small smile when he looks back up at me.
“Do you need any help?”
He shakes his head then abruptly stops, thinking better of it. “You can help put these on the top shelf.” He stands up so I follow him, coming to a stop in front of the bookcase on the right. “Start left to right,” he orders, handing me a book. “Spines need to be the right way up.” He continues to pass me books, and when the shelf is full, we start on the next one down in the same order.
“So…” I put the next book on the shelf. “How have you organized them?”
“Genre, dates of publishing, and then alphabetical.” He pauses. “And of course by size and whether they’re paperback or hardback.”
I stare at the two top shelves when we’ve finished them, waiting for the next book to place on the third shelf down. To anyone else—like me—I can’t tell what kind of system this is by looking at them, but to Clay, it’s how he wants them and it makes sense to him.
If it’s going to help him work through whatever it is he’s going through right now, then that’s all that matters.
We continue to place the books on the shelves, and when we get to the last shelf, the front door bangs shut.
“Dad’s home,” Clay announces, his shoulders drawing up to his ears when he hears his footsteps on the stairs.
We both wait with baited breath as they come closer, first stopping in Izzie’s room before stepping inside Clay’s.
His gray eyes connect with mine and then Clay’s. “I’m home,” he says, his voice gruff. “I’ve got some work to finish up.” I nod when he looks back at me, knowing what he’s about to— “Can you give the kids their dinner?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be back at bedtime.”
He raps his knuckles on the door before disappearing again, his footsteps echoing as he walks away.
Clay spins around, finishing up the last shelf, acting like his dad being like that doesn’t affect him.
“I’ll go start dinner.”
“Okay,” Clay answers, his voice small.
I hesitate briefly before walking out and telling Izzie the same thing. She’s sitting at her little table, her eyes latched onto the painting, but she acknowledges me with a nod of her head and I head downstairs.
Pulling my cell out of my pocket when I get into the kitchen, I click open the message app, seeing a new message from Nate telling me he’s swamped at work with a new case so he won’t be able to call me tonight. I send off a quick reply before pulling up the contact information for Leonie’s office.
I haven’t been to her office, but we had a long phone call not long after Clay started seeing her. She wanted to get all perspectives, and she said I gave her some real insight into things; it helped being a relative outsider.
