Page 106 of Love Arranged
I shut her door with a grin and head to the trunk, whereI place her suitcase beside mine before checking all the tires once again.
I already did my usual routine back at my house because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, but my anxiety climbs when I see Lily in the passenger seat, depending on my driving to keep her safe.
Julian rolls down his window. “You all good?”
“Yup. Checking if I ran over a nail,” I lie.
He reverses out of the driveway and leaves while I confirm that all the tires are in mint condition. Once I’m done with that, I pop open the hood and look over the engine.
The compulsion to assess every nook and cranny is proof enough that I’m slipping, but instead of being concerned over my safety, I’m preoccupied with Lily’s. That much I can confirm as I assess the dipstick—despite having my oil changed last week—and the serpentine belt—looks brand new, because it is.
At some point, Lily climbs out of the SUV and leans against the side of it. “Want to talk about what’s bothering you?”
I slam the hood shut and walk over to her side of the car. “In you go.”
She steps onto the platform and climbs into the SUV. I reach behind her chair for the seat belt and clip it in place before tugging on the strap.
Before I move away, she reaches for my hand. “Lorenzo.”
“Don’t.”
“We’re not going anywhere until you talk to me.”
“Fine by me. It’s not like I wanted to spend the weekend with you and your overbearing family anyway.”
Her eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
I want to rip my own hair out by the roots because why does she always push me to talk at the worst times.
Don’t blame her for your lack of control.
Cazzo.
I can’t look at her when I apologize. “I’m sorry. Driving long distances… It’s a…”Fuck. I pause before losing the battle against my pride. “It’s atrigger.” I spit it out like poison.
“For what exactly?”
I stay quiet, hoping she gives up while knowing her well enough to predict she won’t.
“I’m asking because I want to better understand you. That’s all,” she says in that calming cadence of hers.
With the deepest breath that makes my diaphragm burn, I answer.
“My OCD.” There. I said it. It’s not like I have done the best job hiding it from her. Not like I do with others.
“I don’t know what it’s like to have that diagnosis, and I won’t act like I do, but regardless, being triggered doesn’t give you the right to lash out at me like that.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I hang my head in shame. It’s been twenty years since I was diagnosed, so I should’ve learned to manage it by now, but lately I feel completely out of control.
“You don’t want to end up upsetting the wrong person one day.”
“I agree.” I shut her door before getting behind the wheel. “Can we restart the weekend?”
She doesn’t answer right away, so I follow up with “Please.”
With a sigh, she nods. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” I say in earnest.
