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He was sitting on the edge of the bed, flipping through his phone. He looked normal, except for the faint bruise on his forearm.
I set his drink down and knelt on the floor before him. Taking his hand in mine and flipping it over. Our eyes met and I kissed the scratch just below his elbow.
The corner of his mouth turned up, but his eyes were sad.
“I’m okay, I’m not out of control,” he said evenly. “It just happens sometimes.”
I hesitated, worrying that he would think I was prying. But part of me didn’t care if he did.
“Do you have a name for whatever happened in the hallway?” I asked.
He jerked his chin. “Sit on the bed and have your ice cream.”
I obeyed, crossing my legs and cradling the bowl in my lap. He propped himself up against the window and took a sip of his whiskey. His eyes were reflective as he gazed up at the ceiling.
“Gretchen Hughes has been my therapist for a long time,” he said. “Growing up, Daphne and Ophelia could tell there was something going on, but it wasn’t until I met Gretchen that I got a proper diagnoses.”
He paused and I let him sort through his thoughts.
“I have adult ADHD, which is totally manageable for me. The kind I have isn’t that bad,” he said. “However…I also have OCD, which is harder for me to control. Sometimes it’s hard to figure out what is causing what. It was a problem for a while, but Gretchen worked with me intensively for years and I’ve been really good.”
Cold settled in my stomach.
“I triggered you, didn’t I?” I whispered.
“No,” he said swiftly. “I have a pretty good handle on it, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone. It’s just something I live with.”
I thought back over the almost six years I’d shared his home. He had his quirks, but I’d never translated that into an actual diagnosed issue. Feeling guilty for having missed so much, I reached out and put a hand on his leg, rubbing his thigh gently.
He glanced down and shifted the drink in his hand over his lap.
Oh. My. God.
“Do you have a boner?” I said.
He shook his head. “No.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I do not.”
“Merrick!”
He pulled his hand back. “Okay, fine. I do. I got distracted.”
I rolled my eyes and he adjusted himself. The mood slipped back into being sober.
“Can you tell me what you do that I might have missed?” I asked.
His jaw worked.
“There’s the obvious things. I like things clean, orderly. I have my things made custom because they have to be exactly right. My clothes have to be made with certain materials that won’t distract me. The locks…they have to be checked and fully secured.”
“Okay, those make sense,” I said carefully.
“I eat the same things every day because a lot of foods cause kind of a…revulsion,” he said. “I work out a lot because it calms my symptoms. I keep my space clear and clean, my food simple, my schedule rigid, because it frees up my brain so I can use my energy in other areas, where I need more mental focus.”
My chest hurt.
