Chapter 1
Reid
Song: Deep End by Holly Humberstone
Smellhasalwaysbeenmy most sensitive sensory issue.
So when I open the apartment door and a wave of disinfectant hits me, it instantly puts me on edge.But it isn’t just the sharp scent of citrus making me feel a little nauseated.It’s the fact that this is the third time in two weeks that I’ve been greeted by this smell after coming home from work.That smell means that Parker is cleaning—deep cleaning, based on how pungent it is.Which means something is wrong.
Something is very wrong.
I shut the door behind me and lock it before emptying my pockets into the bowl on the small floating shelf.I also hang my coat and slip off my Converse, overworn from constant wear, but I refuse to go through the anxiety-inducing process of getting and breaking in a new pair until these completely fall apart.I’m careful to wipe any dirt off the bottoms so I don’t mess up the newly-spotless entryway tile.
When I round the corner, I see Parker on his hands and knees on the kitchen floor.The copper curls on the top of his head flop into his eyes as he scrubs the grout with a toothbrush.But he has his headphones on, whatever music he’s listening to turned up so loudly that he didn’t hear me come in.Either that, or he’s so stuck in a loop that he’s tuned out the world.
“Hey, I’m home,” I say gently, not wanting to startle him.When I don’t get a response, I step further into the kitchen and try again, louder.“Parker?”
I stand for a moment and watch as he grabs another scoop of whatever paste he’s homemade in one of our metal mixing bowls and re-attacks the permanently discolored grout with renewed vigor.Okay.He’s definitely stuck in a loop.
I pad across the slightly-wet tile, cringing as the cleaning solution dampens my socks.The material sticks to my skin unevenly, which I hate, but I think walking on the tile without socks at all would be worse.I can attempt to ignore this sensory nightmare for a few minutes while I try to help my roommate shake himself out of whatever headspace he’s in.I take a steadying breath so I can put on as calm a front as possible, then crouch on the ground in front of him.Now that I’m on his level, I can see his brows are pinched, and he has the corner of his mouth trapped between his teeth—both signs that his anxiety level is high.I’ve learned to recognize the signs over the past year that I’ve known him.
I always change into inside clothes before settling in for the evening anyway, so I let my knees hit the damp tile.“Parker,” I repeat.This time he must hear me because his head snaps up.
Maybe this isn’t just anxiety.He looks almost afraid.His eyes are so wide that I can see little flecks of gold among the green, even behind his smudged and fogged glasses.I’m struck with a sudden urge to lift them off his face to clean them for him.But I don’t want to startle him more.
He takes a moment, but once he processes that it’s me, he seems to calm a little.“Reid?”
“Hey,” I say, offering a tentative smile.
Toothbrush still in hand, he shoves his headphones off his ears so they hang around his neck.I can hear the faint notes of Taylor Swift still playing through the speakers, but he doesn’t make a move for his phone to pause it.“What are you doing home so early?”
“I already finished my shift.Parker, how long have you been at this?”I ask.
“What time is it?”he asks.Although it doesn’t directly answer my question, it tells me enough.
“It’s 6 p.m.,” I reply, which makes him wince.“Why don’t we take a break?”I suggest, hoping my attempt at sounding gentle comes across.
His eyes widen with anxiety again, flicking between my face, the toothbrush, and the grout.He gives me a sharp shake of his head.
With my free hand, I slide the bowl of cleaning paste out of reach, then hold out my hand.“Give me that.”It comes out a little harsher than I meant for it to, but he complies immediately, so perhaps that’s what he needs right now instead.I drop the brush into the bowl.“Gloves too.”
With shaking hands, he removes his gloves and places them in my outstretched palm.
I deposit the gloves into the bowl and wipe my palms on my jeans.“Okay, time to get off the floor,” I instruct as I stand.When he doesn’t follow, I look down and find him staring up at me with an expression on his face I can only describe as a little lost.
Okay, he’s really stuck.I’ve seen him in a spiral before, but he’s usually pretty good at being able to stop his OCD cycles on his own.I’ve never seen one this bad—not once in the eight months he’s lived here after taking over his sister Amy’s half of our lease when she moved in with her boyfriend.Not even during finals the past few weeks when he was at his most stressed.
What could have triggered this?And what the hell do I do to help?
The past two times he went into a spiral, it made sense.He was dealing with final exams for his first semester back at school after five years.We had talked about what had happened when he’d needed to drop out the first time shortly after moving in together, although I knew a little about it from living with Amy.I still listened patiently while he told me how he’d always struggled with anxiety and intrusive thoughts, but the pre-med program he’d been in had made everything worse until he couldn’t cope anymore.It had led to his OCD diagnosis, and although he started therapy and decided to pursue a much less intensive physical therapy program instead of an M.D., he was worried there would be a repeat.
But finals ended a few days ago, and I thought he was relieved.We even celebrated by ordering takeout from his favorite restaurant and drinking the nicest bottle of wine I could reasonably afford on my librarian salary.
Even though several seconds have gone by, Parker is still staring up at me, frozen and lost.I may know exactly what is going on in his head right now, but I know what it’s like to be frozen in place.Shut down.If it were me, I would want to be left alone.I especially wouldn’t want to be touched.Parker is a tactile person, though.I see how he is with Amy when she comes over for our weekly dinner (a tradition we started to help me transition when she moved out).Physical touch grounds him.As a general rule, I don’t like physical contact, but I can usually tolerate it if I’m the one to initiate.
So, I hold my hand out to him.He looks at it blankly for a moment before tentatively reaching up to grasp it.I brace myself for the feeling of sweaty skin meeting mine, seeing as his hands have been in cleaning gloves for however many hours he’s been stuck in his cleaning spiral.It’s clammy, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it usually does.His hand is a little bigger than mine, but his grip is delicate—unlike most men I’ve shaken hands with, who practically crush my hand in a show of dominance I’ve never understood.His skin is also surprisingly soft.
I pull him to his feet and lead him over to the barstools at the island separating our kitchen and living area.“Sit,” I tell him.
