LoveLines by S. Walden Page B

child, but as soon as it was evident that I had a closer bond with my father, Mom decided she wanted another kid. I was diagnosed with OCD at six years old. Nicki came along a year later. I always joke that she’s the redo. Well, I joke to myself, not to my parents.
    I squatted beside the cooler and fingered the lures.
    “She’ll want you to take a shower,” I said.
    Dad grunted. “Didn’t catch anything.”
    “You still smell like the lake,” I pointed out.
    Dad grunted again.
    “Dinner’s in a few minutes,” I went on.
    “They’re having cocktails or something. And I can’t drink, so what’s the point?”
    I laughed. “Oh, I don’t know, Dad. To hang out with family, perhaps?”
    “I was waiting for you,” he said. He reeled in his line slowly. There was nothing on the end of it. That was evident by the stillness of the water. He was just stalling.
    “Dad? It’s not us against them, you know,” I said softly.
    “Your mother won’t let me have any alcohol anymore on account of my liver. My liver is just fine, thank you very much,” he huffed.
    “Well, Nicki thinks I live a pathetic life when my life’s just fine , thank you very much, so we can both sulk,” I replied. “Inside.”
    He cracked a smile. “You gonna stay over tonight? I could use some help on my model boat.” He looked at me expectantly.
    “Dad . . .”
    “Just think about it,” he said. “Just think about it.”
    I knew Dad was rather lonely. And fearful. He’d just recently retired from a management position at an engineering plant and had only my mother for companionship. And there was no security in a relationship with my mom. Considering she’d wanted to leave Dad at least twenty times during the course of their marriage, I could understand his trepidation. So he spent most of his time alone, fishing. I think it was a way for him to get accustomed to being by himself in the event that my mother actually acted on one of her threats of separation or divorce.
    I helped him pack his tackle box then carried his chai r up the hill to a shed near the sunroom. The petunias and bee balm surrounding the little structure were still holding out, though the seasons were starting to change. Fall was coming. Sticky, heavy summer air still blanketed the seaside town, but you could feel autumn from afar. Like a whisper. I’m coming , it breathed on the ocean breeze. A promise of change.
    I broke out in goose bumps. I wasn’t willing to be so hopeful yet. But as Reece’s face flashed in my brain, I couldn’t suppress it. That’s the great thing about hope—no matter your past, no matter your mistakes, hope is the constant force in your heart driving you forward. You fall down. You cry about it for a little while. And then you stand up again. You push forward. You never g ive up because you believe something good will come. I’m lonely now, but something good will come.
    Hope is my one healthy compulsion.
    “Dad?” I said suddenly.
    “Hmm?” He hung up his fishing rod and turned to me.
    “There may be someone.”
    He smiled.
    “I don’t know if it’ll pan out. I mean, none of them have so far, but this guy seems different,” I said.
    “Where did you meet him?”
    I wanted to lie, but I’ve never lied to my dad. Ever. “At work.”
    He drew in a sharp breath. “You think that’s smart?”
    “No.”
    “So then tell me why,” he said.
    “Because he’s different.”
    “Does he know about your . . .” Even after all these years, all my tests, all the therapy, all the coping mechanisms my father and I were supposed to practice together, he still couldn’t say it out loud.
    “My OCD, Dad?” I helped him out.
    He nodded.
    “Doesn’t know yet. But I’m gonna tell him. I promise I will. It’s only fair. Like telling someone up front if you have a kid. Some people don’t wanna deal with that, you know?”
    He chuckled. “I like how you compare OCD to having a child.”
    “You know what I mean,” I said