“Your family is wonderful,” Skylar said later as I drove her home.

“They loved you.” I tried to sound relaxed, but I was horribly tense behind the wheel. Lately I’d been obsessing over her getting into a car accident. She’d purchased her own car last week, a little Mini Cooper, and I was terrified that it wouldn’t protect her. It was so small. Even in the truck, I was nervous about a crash. Then I felt awful for even having those thoughts because my brain convinced me I might cause the accident just by thinking about it.

“I love you.” She reached over and rubbed my leg. “Are you sure you’re OK? You seem distracted lately.”

“I’m fine. Just tired.” Inside my head were multiple voices screaming at me. One warned me that by shutting her out, I was avoiding the issue of relapse and contributing to the relationship’s demise, if not my own. Another cackled with I-told-you-so glee, finding delight in watching me fuck this up just as predicted. Another begged me to keep doing what I was doing because it was the only way to reassure myself that no harm would come to her.

“Seems like you’re more than tired.” Her tone was wary. “I—I’ve noticed a couple things in the last couple weeks, and I’m concerned.”

“Oh? Like what?”

She took a breath. “Like the checking the locks thing.”

I bristled a little. “I’ve always done that.”

“And the outlets?”

“I live in a cabin. I worry about fire.”

“And putting the knives back above the fridge?”

I’d been hoping she wouldn’t notice that. “I just did it to clear the clutter off the counter. I hate clutter.”

She didn’t say anything until we pulled up at her parents’ place. Right after Labor Day, she’d moved back into the guest house she’d lived in last May, and I’d spent a couple nights there, although I felt much more comfortable at the cabin. Being in my bed with her was the one place I felt completely at ease in my body—and in hers.

“Want to come in? I have to work early tomorrow, but I’d love for you to stay the night.” She took one of my hands in both of hers. “If you’re tired, we can go right to sleep, I promise.”

I smiled, with effort. “That rarely happens with us.”

“I know.” She gave me a wicked grin. “But I like it.”

“Why don’t you grab your stuff and come to the cabin with me?”

She considered. “I’ll need my car in the morning, though.”

“I’ll drive you to work and pick you up,” I said quickly. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. I’m not working.”

“No, that’s silly. I’ll get my work clothes and meet you back at the cabin.” She leaned over and kissed me quickly, and before she could get out of the car I grabbed her and kissed her again.

She caught on and grinned. “I know, I know. Two is better than one.”

“Busted.” I laughed a little, but inside I was dead serious.

Nothing could be done in odd numbers. Nothing.

As autumn progressed, I fell more in love with Skylar every day, and knew if I could fucking let myself be sure of something, it would be that she and I belonged together. But the sense of impending doom, and the irrational fear that I would be the cause of it, tormented me.

I did my best to hide my anxiety from Skylar, but not all of my compulsive behaviors were easy to conceal. She knew something was up with me, but when she’d ask if I was OK, I’d lie and say I was stressed about work, or tired, or hadn’t been eating right. She either believed me or pretended to, probably in order to give me space to work this out on my own, which made me feel even guiltier. I was lying to the woman I loved and she deserved better. Don’t believe me, I wanted to tell her. Don’t let me shut you out. Don’t take my silences for answers. Don’t let me ruin this with fear.

On my bad days, it felt like every step I took could trip the wire, every drastic thought I had would come to fruition, and every minute was sixty seconds closer to losing her. Of course you’ll lose her, the voice taunted. When have you ever been able to hold on to something good?

But there were good days too.

When Mia Fournier had her baby in mid-October, Skylar was given a promotion, a raise, and a box of Abelard Vineyards business cards that said Skylar Nixon, Brand Representative on them. I sent her two dozen pink roses at work the next day and told her how proud I was of her that night. She asked if she could have a reward, and I said of course.

The wicked little thing asked if we could take a shower together, during which she begged me to jerk off in front of her and come on her chest.

Which I did.

Later on I blindfolded her and tortured her endlessly with my tongue for being such a naughty girl, her hands tied, her body stretched out on the bedroom floor.

On those kinds of days, I felt like a god. I could do anything as long as I had her. One chilly fall evening we dragged my sleeping bag out on the dock and spent the entire night out there, whispering and kissing and making love until the sun came up, when we finally went into the cabin and slept for hours in my bed. I came so close that night to asking her to move in with me, but I was too scared—if she was there constantly, it would be much harder to hide my rituals from her.

But God, how I loved her. Madly. Passionately. I wanted her with me all the time. I craved her with every fiber of my being. That night on the dock, I knew without a doubt I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

Finally, some fucking conviction.

In November, I started fantasizing about proposing. This was how you were supposed to feel when you asked someone to be your wife—wildly in love, every vein in your body running hot with blood when you’re together, every beat of your heart an explosion. But the more I thought about it, the closer I came to asking her if she wanted to stay with me forever, the more fragile she seemed in my eyes, the more obsessive thoughts pummeled my brain, and the less I felt I was good for her. She wouldn’t be happy with me, would she? She couldn’t be. I was a liar. I was a coward. I was despicable, tying her up and fucking her just to make her feel defenseless and vulnerable the way I did.

But I couldn’t stop.

Fear, guilt, and shame tortured me, and the more I fought it, the worse I felt in my skin. My life became a charade. I hid my relapse from Ken by canceling sessions for four weeks straight. I was able to hide it at work because my father let me keep my own hours—it never mattered if I was late. I stopped writing in my journal in the effort to hide it from myself, and I tried desperately to hide it from Skylar—but eventually it became impossible.

“What is with you?” she asked one cold, rainy November night after I’d driven back to the cabin for the second time to check the outlets and appliances. We were on our way to meet the Fourniers for dinner and were late already, but I’d made soup on the stove that afternoon, and it was an odd day, and even though I remembered turning the burner off, I didn’t trust myself. What if that memory was from a different day and the gas was still on? I’d made up some story about forgetting my wallet and then needing one of my meds, but those were flimsy excuses and she knew it. “And if you say ‘nothing,’ I’m getting out of this car. I’ve put up with this behavior for too long.”

I pressed my lips together, remaining silent. When I pulled up in front of the cabin, I told her to wait in the truck. Running through the driving rain, I went inside and began checking the appliances, and when I turned around she was standing there, arms crossed.

“Sebastian. Stop it.”

“I fucking can’t,” I blurted, gripping the edge of the counter. You didn’t check the toaster.