Page 47 of Business or Pleasure

This catches me off guard. I’d expected his reasons for the book to be tied with Hollywood somehow, maybe his relationship with his family. But I can’t say this doesn’t answer a few questions I haven’t asked yet.

He stares down at his hands, weaving his fingers together. “I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you, since I want this to be a focal point of the book, but maybe there isn’t a singular right time.” He cracks a half smile, one I can tell takes a tremendous amount of effort. “See? I’m stalling when what I want to do is just come right out and say it. Okay.” A deep breath, and then: “I have pretty severe OCD.”

“I thought it might be something like that,” I say, as gently as I can. The inspection of his dishes. The way he opts for a fork and knife instead of using his hands.

“It’s not always the easiest thing to discuss,” he says. “I’ve had it since I was a kid, and before I started medication, before I met my current therapist, I was a fucking mess.” He rubs at the back of his neck, eyes flicking around the room before landing back on me. “Most of my obsessions revolve around germs, contamination, mold, mostly food-related. If something’s even mildly unclean, I can’t be near it. Or at least, that’s how I used to be. I wouldn’t eat at restaurants because I could never be sure of how clean anything was and I’d worry about getting sick from it. I’d toss food. I’d throw clean sheets back in the washing machine if they smelled off in any way. It made me feel like shit because I was wasting all that water, which just ratcheted up my anxiety about it even more.

“I hid it from my parents for a long time,” he continues. “Mostly my dad. It took me years of therapy to realize how emotionally abusive he was. I assumed because he never laid a hand on us that everything was fine, but he had an opinion on everything, and if you didn’t have the same one, it would lead to a screaming match. He hated wasting food, so if something in the fridge was getting close to an expiration date or had the tiniest bit of discoloration that was most likely—fuck, I don’t know. Some preservative. I’d wait until he was out of the house and hide it deep in the garbage can, and then when he asked later where it was, I’d say I ate it. Sometimes I’d even take a bunch of things to the dumpster at the end of the street, just because I was terrified of my parents finding out.”

“Jesus,” I say softly, because I hate the idea of a young Finn so scared, so uncertain. His brain working against him. “That can’t have been easy. I’m so sorry.”

“I got good at it.” A rueful smile. “Of course, sometimes I’d have to wear gloves and shower immediately afterward. And of course, my parents eventually found out what I was doing. My dad was furious, and I think my mom was too scared of him to say anything otherwise. And he—he just told me to suck it up, that I was ‘acting fucking insane.’ And ‘don’t you dare let anyone see you doing that.’ ” Finn is breathing a little faster now, a fist clenching on top of the table. “So that’s what I did. My compulsions morphed, and most of my free time was dedicated to figuring out how to make myself feel safe and comfortable without anyone finding out. If there was a speck of something strange on a plate, I’d say I wasn’t hungry. I’d dispose of old sheets, old blankets at school and buy replacements with my Hanukkah money. I wanted to make my dad happy so badly, and that meant not being the fucked-up son he thought I was.”

“Finn. You are absolutely not,” I say firmly, wishing I could do more to reassure him.

He shakes his head. “It certainly felt that way, a lot of the time. I didn’t even have much of a relationship with my mom until after he left—and good riddance. The worst of it, though, was actually the last season of The Nocturnals, when we knew we weren’t getting renewed. I was so anxious about booking the next job because everyone else had things lined up and I didn’t. I was putting so much pressure on myself, and I’d just bought a house I didn’t know whether I’d be able to keep paying for, and the only thing it felt like I could control was how clean it was. I’d get stuck in these horrible cycles, scrubbing down the house, returning sets of dishes I’d just bought because I swore the box smelled weird when I opened it up, constantly running laundry because nothing ever seemed clean enough. And then my energy bill went way up and that only added to the stress. I knew I needed to do something, but I didn’t know where to start. It wasn’t until after the finale aired that I started getting help. Hallie was the one who suggested it, actually.”

“That’s great,” I say, meaning it. “I’ve been in therapy, too. For generalized anxiety disorder. I think I’ve probably had it most of my life, but I didn’t start seeing someone until my midtwenties. I haven’t gone in a few months—though maybe I should?—but I fucking love therapy.”

He nods. “So you get it.”

“Not all of it—but some of it.” Then something occurs to me. “What about sex? If that’s okay to ask—since there’s obviously, well, a lot of touching involved.”

“Worked on that a lot in therapy, too,” he says. “Oral sex was a bit of a hurdle at first, but I haven’t had any issues with it for years.”

“If you’re not comfortable, we definitely don’t have to—”

“No. I want to. Even if my skills are, uh, lacking at the moment... I love doing it.” His voice is so earnest. I swallow hard, wondering if there really is something inherently horny about a Hilton DoubleTree that I failed to take into account. I know plenty of men enjoy going down on a woman, but to hear him admit it so casually...

Fortunately, he changes the subject before I can linger on it. “This is why it didn’t work out with those other ghostwriters,” he says. “I didn’t feel entirely at ease with them—not to the point where I could open up about this. And I’m much better than I used to be. I can go to restaurants, though I never use my hands for anything—that’s something I’ve been working on in therapy lately. I try to avoid public bathrooms, if I can help it, but I’m not running out to buy new sheets every other month like I used to. It’s mostly low level, manageable, but sometimes high-anxiety situations... they exacerbate it.” Then he lets out a laugh. “And lucky you, you seem to be nearby during most of them. It’s not something I tell everyone,” he says. “What about you?”

“Sometimes. Depends on how close we are.” I regret the words immediately, worrying that by saying this, I’ve indicated we have some sort of closeness.

But he’s just nodding. “I don’t want it to be that way anymore. I’ve spent too much of my life hiding, lying, pretending. I want this book to be fun behind-the-scenes stories about The Nocturnals, sure. But more than that, I want to talk about OCD stigma and mental health in Hollywood.” His voice gains confidence, his eyes meeting mine with the full passion of what he’s saying. “I’m planning to put all proceeds of the book toward setting up a nonprofit to help actors with mental health challenges. Aspiring actors, established actors—anyone. I don’t want anyone to feel like money or stigma is standing in the way of them getting the help they need.”

I just stare at him. There’s a shyness on his face now, replacing the confidence from just a moment ago.

“What?” he says, brows creased with worry. “What’s that look? You think it’s a bad idea?”

“No. Not at all.” I reach for my laptop again, typing NONPROFIT in bold letters. “I... think that sounds incredible, Finn. Really.”

A blush tinges his cheeks. “I haven’t spoken about it much yet beyond with my team and some potential donors, but I could show you the business plan, if you want.”

“More Google Docs? Yes, please.”

A smirk, but I can tell he’s pleased. I can see it on his face: this is his baby.

“I don’t just want to be that guy from the werewolf show anymore,” he says defiantly. “I’ve done everything I can to change that, but I’ve started to realize that unless something big happens, I’m just... stuck.”

Stuck.

“I get the feeling,” I say quietly, because even if I haven’t experienced it, I understand what it’s like to be trapped. “Maybe this is the something big for both of us.”

By the time I wrap myself in a towel and meet Finn at the hotel pool, where he’s suggested we take a break, I’m no longer sure if I’m doing it begrudgingly. Somehow, I thought to bring a swimsuit at the last minute, a black two-piece I bought five years ago in that dreamy way people in the Pacific Northwest buy swimsuits and hope for sunshine.

Finn’s already there in deep blue swim trunks, stretching on the side as though he’s preparing for a 200-meter backstroke. I’ve never seen him shirtless in decent lighting. He’s not ripped, which I already knew. Though he was skinny in The Nocturnals, now he’s filled out a bit more. Freckles dot his shoulders, his spine, his hips, little swirls of color.

“Are you wearing socks?” he asks, incredulous.

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