I snort. “Smooth.”
Connor gestures to me. “See, she’s fine.”
Rose sets her hands on her hips and looks to me for a final verdict. If I said no, she’d toss out Connor. And Connor is kind of right, as much as I hate to admit that. I shouldn’t be scared of the opposite sex being so close. Even if I have been a bit jumpy after New Year’s.
“He can stay,” I tell her.
Her eyes narrow at me like I chose the wrong answer.
I mouth, what?
She makes a small motion with her head to Connor. Did she not want him over here anymore? But then I see Connor and he’s—no lie—grinning from ear to ear, as though he won the Academic Bowl Tournament against Princeton, Rose’s college （and now mine）。
She lost that tiff, I see.
“I’ll help you with your porn,” Connor says. He goes into the kitchen to find a trash bag while I try to wipe that line clean from memory. I set the bin on the floor and wait for Rose to explode. Her face scrunches like she’s ready to give birth.
When Connor disappears into the pantry, Rose lets loose. “I can’t stand him,” she says. “Honestly, he drives me nuts, Lily.”
I try really hard not to laugh. Rose and Connor broke up five times in December. I’m suspecting that number to double in January. They both call it quits and then they’ll reunite in a couple days. It’s as cute as it is exhausting.
“I think you drive him crazy too,” I tell her. “And I mean this in the Britney Spearian sense.” I hum the nineties tune and sing the chorus. Her face darkens, not amused. I can’t help but laugh. That’s Rose for you.
Her shoulders relax as she takes in the DVDs again. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, not wanting to think too much about the giant leap. I’d rather race towards the finish line than slow crawl right now. Which is why I nervously tap my foot, waiting for Connor to hurry back with the bag that’ll seal my fate. Hopefully I’ll trample the urge to buy new films in the future or click into dirty sites on the internet. I think I can do it. I hope. That’s all I really have at the moment.
“So…” I say, nervously twiddling my fingers. “…you think I have OCD?” It would make sense, sort of. I do relate my sexual needs to compulsions. The need to obtain that natural high. Kind of like an obsessive compulsive’s need to follow their systematic routine. I just never related the two.
“Some psychologists believe that addictions correlate with OCD, but I can’t diagnose you,” Rose says truthfully. “You really need to visit the therapist—”
“I know,” I cut her off. “I know, I just…I haven’t decided which one I want to go to.” Who knew there were so many sex addiction therapists in the area? And I already searched for a Sex Addicts Anonymous group and came up completely blank. Since most groups consist of men trying to thwart their sexual cravings, they have a strict no-female policy. It makes sense, but it has also made it nearly impossible to find an SAA that accepts women. I’ve given up the hunt for now and plan to do one-on-one therapy.
There are also in-treatment facilities for sex addiction. Rehab, like Lo. But Rose squashed those as an option pretty quickly. She really wouldn’t give me a definite answer, and after beating around the bush, she blurted out that I have social anxiety. That I shouldn’t be in large groups trying to fix my problem.
Yesterday, I rebutted, “I don’t have social anxiety.” And in the same instance, I was nervously pacing my room.
She tilted her head with raised eyebrows. “When’s the last time you were in a group setting?”
“Lots of times,” I told her. “I go to clubs, Rose. People are everywhere.”
“But are you forced to talk to them? Do you talk to anyone other than Lo? Really, Lily, think about it. Do you even bring up a conversation with your one-night stands or do you just give them a look and screw them?”
She was right. Maybe I do have social anxiety. And according to Rose, I should concentrate on one thing at a time. I also think she’d rather look after me than send me away. She’d go crazy not knowing what exactly the rehab’s program would be or what they would do. So right now, therapy is the best solution.
“I’m working on that for you,” Rose tells me. “I have a meeting with two tomorrow.” Literally, she has been setting up appointments just to quiz the therapists. I love her more than she knows. “The last guy was a complete idiot. I asked him about cognitive behavioral therapy and he gave me a blank stare. I’m not lying.”