I met his eyes, noticing how one was not quite as wide as the other, giving his expression a sinister look as it pierced me.
Two things could be assumed about Marek: He expected to get everything he wanted, and he thought he just had.
Idiot.
The chilled pint glass was a welcome relief in my hand as I took a sip of the Abita Amber, the local favorite brew. It was mid-September, and the evenings still hadn’t cooled down enough to be pleasant. If not for the humidity, the city might feel more comfortable instead of like a stuffy, packed elevator with no room to move.
I fingered through the container on my table, counting all of the sugar packets as I sat at Port of Call, waiting for my brother to join me for dinner.
Seven Equals, six Sweet’N Lows, five regular sugars, and seven Splendas. What a mess.
I twisted around, grabbing another container off the table behind me, and picked out what I needed. The little packages crackled as I pulled them out and fit one more Equal, two more Sweet’N Lows, three regular sugars, and one more Splenda into the uneven container on my table.
Leaving the rest in the borrowed container, I replaced it on the table behind me and then recounted all of the packets. Eight, eight, eight, and eight.
Perfect.
I took a deep breath and set the container back along the edge of the table with the condiments and napkins, and…
And I stopped, looking up to catch my brother standing at the table with a drink in his hand, watching me.
Shit.
I rolled my eyes and waited for him to sit down.
We hadn’t seen each other in four days. I’d offered to help with student council after school this week, and he’d been buried in research and papers.
His white oxford was wrinkled and open at the collar, but he still drew women’s eyes as he approached the table. He leaned back in his chair, giving me the eye that said he was thinking and he had things he wasn’t sure he should say or how to say them.
“Out with it,” I relented, shaking my head and looking at the tabletop.
“I don’t know what to say.”
I shot my eyes up, tucking in my chair. “Then stop looking at me like I’m Howard Hughes,” I ordered. “It’s a nondestructive disorder that’s very common. It soothes me.”
“Nondestructive,” he repeated, taking a drink. “Was it five or six times that you went back into your apartment to make sure your stove was off today?”
I shifted, straightening my shoulders as the server came by, setting down waters on our table.
“Well, how am I supposed to remember if I shut it off after cooking the heroin?” I joked, and my brother broke out in a laugh.
I knew he thought my obsessive-compulsive bullshit was baggage that I needed help getting past, but the truth was, it was something I felt I needed.
Ever since I was sixteen anyway.
When someone you trusted steals your sense of security and holds your life in the palm of his hand for two whole years, your mind finds ways to compensate for the loss of control.
I felt safer when things were in order. When I had dominion over even the most trivial of matters.
My entire family – my parents and sister, now gone, and my brother – had paid a hefty price for letting someone we thought we could trust into our lives all those years ago.
In comparison, my little compulsive disorder was of no concern to me.
If I didn’t count the sugar packets or make sure the stove was off four times this morning or brush my teeth for a count of one hundred twenty seconds, something bad would happen. I didn’t know what, and I knew it was ridiculous, but I still felt safer carrying on with my day.
Normally, during work, when I was busy, it didn’t concern me as much, but when I was idle – like now – I tended to fiddle, arrange, and count.
It was a false sense of security, but it was something.
Control over anything, even if it couldn’t be everything, calmed me.
“So how’s school?” he asked.
I leaned my elbows on the table and took a sip of beer. “It’s pretty good. I like the kids.”
The kids were actually the easy part. Keeping their attention was hard and energy-consuming, but keeping up with all of the side duties was more frustrating and a huge time suck.
“You look tired,” he commented.
“So do you,” I shot back, smiling. “Don’t worry. I’m fine, Jack. I’m on my feet all day, and by end time I’ve hit the wall, but it’s a good kind of exhausted.”
“Like tennis?”
I paused, thinking about that one.
“Kind of,” I answered. “Only better, I guess. I used to feel like I went out there on the court and gave my all. I used every muscle and every ounce of perseverance to fight through the struggle.”
“And now?” he pressed.
“And now I do the same thing, but I know why,” I answered. “There’s a reason for all of it.”
He watched me, a thoughtful look crossing his face. He seemed to buy what I told him, and why shouldn’t he? It was true.
Tennis had been my life. It was fun at times and nearly unbearable at others, and while I hadn’t known what the purpose of working and competing were, I went to bed with the satisfaction that I’d pushed my body to the limit and fought hard.
But I also never felt compelled to do it.
“Avery would be proud,” Jack said in a low voice, giving me a small smile.
I looked away, sadness twisting my stomach.
Would she? Would my sister be proud that I was living her dream?