Page 96 of Wanted

Room 6.

Across the hall is a bare patch of wall between rooms 5 and 7. I drop the pillow on the floor beside my boot and quietly sink back against the wall.

I train my stare on the wooden door in front of me. Around the keyhole, the wood sports gouges. I should let Jack know. We can spend some time fixing them up this summer. The neutral paint around the floorboard is peeling, revealing a toxic-looking orange that probably dates back to the late seventies.

I dig out my phone and scroll to her name. Living together, we’ve hardly needed to use our phones for contact. The text message thread is small. But reading words she typed out to me with her own thumbs somehow makes me feel closer to her.

Doubt lingers as I exit the thread and open the web browser. Frankie asked for space, and I’m doing my best to give it to her. Physically, I can only go so far without feeling like I need to crawl out of my skin. Mentally? I do what I can not to disturb her.

I type OCD into the search bar and hit enter. Results populate instantly, a myriad of options. I tap the bubble on the top of the list that says treatments.

Cocking my knees, I rest my wrists against them and read.

Self-care

Therapy

Medications

Exposure and Response Prevention

For hours, I scroll and read and tap, absorbing as much as I can about my affliction. At first, my skin prickles with anxiety, and the urge, no, my compulsion to count remains at the surface. The longer I read, the more distracted I become, and eventually, the compulsion fades into the background.

In my notes, I build a list. Websites I find helpful, treatment options, questions to ask a doctor. Anything I find useful in tackling this problem I’ve ignored for so long goes into the folder. I search until the world grows dark outside the window, and the phone falls from my hand, landing near the pillow forgotten beside my hip.

24

Frankie

The first thing I do when I wake up, after using the bathroom, is rush outside in search of Jack to give me a ride back to the Sanctuary.

Except when I open the door to my room, I find Jude sleeping across the hall.

The sound of my door opening startles him awake, and he rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

“Sleeping.” He swipes the back of his hand over the corner of his mouth and gazes up at me from the floor. His gray eyes glint with determination.

“I can see that. Why are you sleeping here?”

“Because I can’t stand the thought of not waking up where you are.”

“Jude—”

“I said you were mine, Frankie, and I said that meant I got to sleep next to you. Last night you needed space, so I gave you space, and if you need more, I’ll give you that too, but I’m going to do it beneath the same roof.”

“Couldn’t you have at least asked Jack for your own room?”

“And miss you sneaking out of here in the morning?” He gives me a lopsided grin, and even with a sleep-rumpled shirt and disheveled hair, he’s still so ruggedly beautiful.

“I wasn’t sneaking out.”

“Then where were you going?”

“Well, I was going to find you, but you found me first.”

“Damn right, and I always will.”

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