Page 79 of Desserts for Stressed People

Shit. When we’re like this—us—I feel so comfortable I forget normal people find my obsessions weird. That they’re off-putting, and I need to rein the crazy in. “Yeah—sorry.”

“Sorry?” His left brow quirks. “For cleaning?”

Moving back to the bowl, I wait for him to continue sifting. When he starts, flour falls all over the place again, but I stand still, unmoving, observing the little white dots covering the wooden surface as if it’s not a big deal.

“Do you want to clean up?” he asks once he’s done.

I shrug, feigning disinterest. Of course I want to clean up. It’s so annoying—I don’t get messy people, I really don’t. Whenever something’s not in the right spot, there’s an itch in my brain I can’t get rid of.

“Heaven?” Shane calls as he closes the small fridge. “Why did you apologize?” At my guilty look, he squints. “Come on. Speak up.”

“Fine. I apologized because...” I lick my dry lips and throw another look at the little white pile all around the bowl. “Because people hate it when I...”

“When you clean?”

“I can be a little obsessive about it.”

He comes to stand beside me and tilts his head down, his face close to mine. “So you’re a neat-freak. Nothing to apologize about. If people don’t like it, then they’re not your people.”

I think back to all the times Alex complained when I asked him not to leave his clothes on the bathroom floor, or when I begged him to hang the towels properly, and not chuck them on the holder in a ball. I see all the times he called me OCD, a control freak, a psycho, when I nagged him over using shoes inside the apartment or lowering the damn toilet seat.

But Shane doesn’tknowhow deep my obsession goes. “You say that because you don’t live with me. If you had to see it every day, you’d hate it. You’d beg me to keep myself in check,” I say with a chuckle as he adds some more stuff to the dry ingredients.

When he turns to me, the previous joviality in his face is gone. Instead, his expression is blank. “First, I’d never ask you to control yourself over anything. You are who you are, Heaven.” He pauses, scanning every inch of my face. “And besides, I could never hate anything about you. Not one single thing.”

Only once I nod does he turn his focus to the bowl of eggs and whisk.

One tentative step after the other, I walk to the sink, grab the sponge, and clean. It feels great. To see all the dirt disappear, the surface beneath it clean, shiny, spotless. Perfection is just so satisfying—I wish I could be perfect too, not the mess I am.

“I keep all my mugs in the same position,” I whisper, venturing a look at him.

He nods. “So? How’s that hate-worthy?”

I sigh. “No, Shane, you don’t get it. I have a set of twelve mugs. They’re identical. White with black stripes. And I put them all in the same position over the sink, with the handle forty-five degrees to the right.” When he stops whisking to look at me, I swallow. “When one broke, I bought a new set on eBay, because they don’t sell them individually. And I keep the eleven new ones in the basement, because in my kitchen, I want exactly twelve cups, six on each side of the tap, in the same identical position.”

He stares at me for a few seconds, then nods. “Must be visually pleasant.”

With a tilt of my head, I continue, “I fold the last ply of toilet paper in a triangle.”

“Never have issues finding it again. You should do that with scotch tape, it can get very annoying.”

“I order my books by color.”

He waves me off. “Lots of people do that.”

“And my clothes, pens, food. Even my cleaning products.”

His chin jerks back. “You order the food in your fridge by color?” When I give him a nod, he grimaces. “Like, red meat next to tomatoes and corn next to cheese?”

“Exactly like that.”

“Well, that’s just wrong. Inourfridge,” he says as he waves a finger between me and himself, “we’ll order food by group type. It goes dairy on top, ready-to-eat food in the middle, then meat. And vegetables and fruit, those go in the drawers. Regardless of colors.” He shoots me a side-look, then scrunches his nose. “Or...we could pretend I said something normal.”

Am I just supposed to ignore the fact that he mentionedourfridge? Because to share a fridge, we’d have to share lots more. Like a home, with a bed. A life. A relationship.

“So...” I decide to focus on the original message. “You’re suggesting we replace my obsession with yours?”

“It’s just good food storage practice, not an obsession.” He resumes whisking. “And I wouldn’t replace your obsession with anything. I don’t mind—no, actually, I like your obsession. All of them, if you have more than one.”