Page 21 of Playing the Backbeat

Dylan stops chopping, his grip firm on the edge of the counter as he leans forward, his shoulders bunching as he eyes me thoughtfully while still chewing that damn carrot.

“Is this your doom show?” he asks, nodding toward the TV.

I huff and roll my eyes, choosing to ignore him and return my attention toSurvivoras the ending credits roll along the screen.

“Dee, don’t ignore the question.”

“Unless you plan to reenact the teaser for next week’s episode, I suggest you pipe down over there and let me watch my show in peace.”

He strides into the living room, situating his stupid, big, bulky, muscley body between me and the TV, blocking my view entirely. “You don’t need to watch the preview. We both know you’re going to let the next episode play like you did the last three.” He crouches down and locks eyes with me. “Besides, I don’t need you to answer. I’ll go ahead and assume this is your doom show.”

“I don’t know what the fuck that is.”

“You’re watching TV upside down with your head hanging off the couch.”

“It’s comfier this way,” I say, unwilling to pull back the bite from my tone.

“You haven’t taken a break between episodes to do anything other than use the bathroom and get more popcorn.”

“I’m unemployed; it’s not like I need to be somewhere. And there’s fiber in popcorn. It’s a health food. I’m working on my fitness right now, as we speak, at thisverysecond.”

“It’s in your hair,” he adds, pulling a stray kernel from the messy strands.

“Hey, I was saving that,” I shout, slapping at his hand but missing before he tosses the kernel and it bops me on the nose then falls to the floor.

“Just tell me this”—he leans in closer—“have you seen this season already?”

I glare at him, which is difficult considering I’m still upside down with my head hanging over the edge of the couch.Damn, I need to move.

“Uh-huh. Thought so, how many times?” he asks, only encouraged by my silence.

“I might have seen this season once…or twice.”

“How many times, Dee?” He quirks an eyebrow, baiting me.

“Fine! Seven times. It’s the best one. Are you happy?”

“Very. It’s good to know what your roommate’s doom show is. That way I can flag the cry for help before we get too far into the pits.”

“Oh yeah?” I flip upright, sitting on the couch, grabbing my head as the blood rushes to the rest of my body. “For your information, I’m doing research. I apply to be on this show every year. I can feel it…this is the year I’m going to get accepted and you cannot be too prepared. I’ll win thanks to my superfan knowledge, and then you’ll be eating your words.” Unmoved by my impassioned claim, he slowly nods. “Fine. It’s mydoom show.” I douse the word with a bucket of sarcasm and hit him with air quotes for good measure. “What’s yours, Mr. Perfect?”

“Antiques Roadshow.” I can’t stop the laugh that bursts free. After a minute, I roll and bite my lips in a weak attempt to stop. “Okay, I’ll keep an eye out for that.”

A small smile tugs at his lips. He’s still crouched low, only a foot from me. His brown irises flash hazel in the changing light as his eyes search mine. They’re so much lighter than I realized. Almost shifting color as quickly as his hair.

“There will be other signs too,” he admits softly, hesitantly.

“What do you mean?” I frown.

After a long pause and a sigh, he answers, albeit reluctantly. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that you may notice I havecertain…habits.” He runs a hand through his hair, the strands almost as long as mine as they dance around his shoulders. “Ones that get worse with stress. Some are harder to stop. So yeah, bingingAntiques Roadshowwould probably be the last sign that I’m hitting a wall.” He says it like a joke, but he can’t hide the weight of his words. The unspoken confession—the importance of what he’s sharing with me—it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“What would I notice first? Should I be looking for anything? As your roommate,” I add, hoping it’s clear I’m not trying to pry.

His eyes are guarded, but he answers anyway. “I have some OCD tendencies. Intrusive thoughts that trigger different behaviors.”

“So, the handwashing,” I say slowly, putting the pieces together. I haven’t commented on the number of times he washes his hands when he works in the kitchen, or even just throughout the day, but I do notice. It’s constant. He even put his own lotion next to the sink. I’m assuming it takes a toll on his skin.

He nods, his shoulders softening, curling in on himself at the admission. Guilt strikes my heart, and I realize maybe I shouldn’t have told him I’ve noticed anything. “Handwashing, checking, counting. You’ll know if it gets worse. Nothing you need to worry yourself over, but I thought you should know. It’s not as big of a problem as it used to be; I’ve been managing it for years. But you?” He tips his head my direction and then eyes the popcorn pieces that have fallen to the floor after I sat upright. “Are clearly having a problem. Why is this really bothering you, Dee? You don’t give a shit about that job.”