Page 14 of Ruined Vows

I slam the bottle on the bedside table after finishing it, though, and put it on the floor because I don’t want him to see I’ve actually listened to him. I glare at the bathroom door as I hear the shower turn on.

It hits me that he’s probably just taken off all his clothes and is naked on the other side of the door. My dumb cheeks go all hot, and I walk over to my suitcase, unzipping it and throwing it open.

He’s just a door away. My traitorous mind recalls how he talked about Moira.A man’s got needs.He didn’t lock the door. I was listening for it.

What would he do if I stepped in the shower with him? Maybe Moira’s not the only one who could be an enthusiastic fuck.

I squeeze my eyes, horrified as always at my intrusive thoughts.

I storm over to my purse and yank out the sanitizer. I squirt the clear gel into my hands, then scrub my hands and up my wrists and arms furiously.

This is what happens when you’re raised Baptist by an overbearing narcissist mother and a standoffish deacon-in-the-church father.

Moira told me Isaak’s hung like a horse, and without meaning to, I think of the porn I’ve curiously looked at. Is he as big as that Owen Gray porn star guy? Would it even feel good to be fucked by a cock that big? I mean, yeah, I like big vibrators, but?—

I squeeze my eyes shut, but that doesn’t help because now I’m just visualizing?—

I open them again and yank a pair of pajama pants and a shirt out of my suitcase.

Understanding why I am the way I am doesn’t make the thoughts stop. Which is a real bag of dicks, because when you grow up religious, there’ssomuch you’renotsupposed to think about.

Tell somebodynotto think about an elephant and see how long they can go without obsessing about an elephant. Life for someone with OCD is that obsession on crack. Intrusive thoughts, spiraling thought loops that never end, occasional cleanliness spikes, and, of course, the unrelenting obsessive drive for perfection…

I all but start to hyperventilate when I see how messy everything in the suitcase is, and I sit down to fold everything in neat, clean lines.

If only I’d been given something as benign as an elephant to not obsess about. Instead, the church said don’t think about sex. Then, helpfully, they talked about it non-stop.

I thought I was going to hell for sure for the first eighteen years of my life until I stumbled across some Instagram and YouTubers talking about mental health.

Deciding to switch my major from business to psychology was the first rebellious thing I ever did in my little well-behaved, perfectionist life. You would’ve thought I’d committed highway robbery for the stir it caused in my family. Secular therapy is akin to witchcraft to the hardcore church folk. Carol all but threatened to kick me out, which was rich. She wouldn’t know what to do with herself without me to obsess over after Matthew moved halfway across the country to get away from her. But Dad was definitely serious when he threatened to disinherit me. He couldn’t see how I’d make anyrealmoney with such a foolish degree—which, let’s be real, was the real sin to him.

It was only by agreeing to certainverystrict conditions that they agreed to continue paying my tuition. Live where they wanted me to live—at home during undergrad, and when I finally lobbied to get out of their mausoleum of a house for my combined grad school/Ph.D., it was only to the gated community of their choosing. Downstairs from that narc, Laura Sue. Even then, they only allowed it because I’d gotten engaged to Drew, their best friend’s son, who they always planned for me to marry.

I stay in their good graces as long as I sayin the box.

In general, I don’t mind boxes. Boxes have sheltering walls. You can lean against them when you get panicky or need a corner to curl up in. One, two, three, four. Follow the lines of the square and you’re safe. You can breathe again. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

Besides, the layout inside the box is clear. Go to college. Get engaged to my high school friend. Get married. Start my career. Conquer the world in said career. Maybe adopt a cat at some point. Get a cute little house somewhere, white picket fence optional. Go to church at Easter and Christmas and maybe a few other times a year to make Carol and Dad happy.

And that works for me. I’m a single-minded person who likes it inside the cozy box because I’ve learned over the years that routines help me not freak out with crippling anxiety. I’m much better when I know where I’m going and what my goals are and how I’m going to achieve them.

But that’s not to say that sometime my parents’ particular inside-the-box plans for me haven’t chaffed like a straight-jacket. I finally feel strong enough to chart my own path. And if my path doesn’t deviate much fromtheirplans—at least if you’re just looking at it from the outside—well that’s just how I manage my family. How I stay in it but notofit at the same time.

But right when there’s a light at the end of the tunnel—I’m graduating with my Ph.D. next year and marrying Drew in two months at the end of the semester to secure the transfer of my inheritance—I manage to catch a goddamned stalker.

It’s not freaking fair. I’ve been working toward my freedom for so long. Not to mention how mortifying it is that I only get my inheritance once I get married. It’s medieval.

Thank god Drew’s so chill about everything. Or, well, thank the universe since I don’t believe in god anymore. Not that I dare drop that bombshell on my parents. Not until my inheritance is nice and secure in my bank account and they can’t hold me hostage with it anymore, thank you very much.

The loud shower spray in the bathroom shuts off. Shit. I yank my dress off over my head and swap it with a shirt from the suitcase, then wriggle out of my tights.

I’ve barely gotten my pajama pants on when Isaak pushes the door open. He’s shirtless, in just his boxers, scrubbing his wet hair with a towel. God, he’s hairy everywhere. His chest looks like a blond fur mat.

I’m about to snap at him for not giving me a warning, but then I catch sight of his rock-hard abs, cut like they’re carved from marble. And the trail of hair that starts around his belly button, leading down to?—

“Shut your mouth, Red, you’ll catch a fly.”

My eyes shoot up to his face, where he’s smirking at me, very self-satisfied. He came out like this, all but naked, on purpose. To rile me up. Or because he’s got an ego the size of Texas and is the kind of gym rat who keeps abs like that because he likes it when women look.

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