Dirty Laundry: A Tucker Springs Novel #3

who’d entered the room. “Don’t say anything. Don’t start anything. Just. Don’t.”
    Brad went to his lab station without comment, but he did indulge in a withering glare.
    After a wary minute of watching to be sure Brad truly would leave him alone, Adam went back to his obsessive cleaning.
    Brad didn’t say anything to him, no. But the rest of the Bug Boys were another story. They came in shortly after Adam had finally convinced himself Brad would leave him alone—Mick, Ollie, Kim, and Andrew.
    “Hey, Adam,” Ollie called, but his smile was a little dim. “What’s up?”
    Adam slid the toothbrush out of sight as subtly as he could. “Nothing much. What about you?”
    “Kim wanted to check on some lab work.” This came from Mick, a southern Idaho native with a blond buzz-cut and gosh-I’m-a-good-boy permanently tattooed on his face. “We’re here to make sure he gets out sometime before next Tuesday.” He waggled his eyebrows at Adam. “We were thinking of going bowling later. Do you want to come?”
    “Are you kidding?” Brad answered before Adam could. “Bowling is too full of germs for Adam.” His tone was sharper than normal. Almost hurt.
    Had Adam hurt him?
    “Lay off, Stanton,” Mick warned. He turned back to Adam, tucking his hands in his pockets. “What do you say?”
    It was a challenge to bowl, yes, but Adam had done it. He appreciated being included, too, he really did. Part of him felt he should try to mend the fence a little with Brad. More than a little part of him wanted to skip the outing, however, especially since Denver hadn’t texted him back yet. “Sorry, I have plans. Otherwise I would.”
    Across the room, Brad stiffened, but Mick answered before Brad could explode again. “Well, next time then. Even if you just hang with us. We miss you.”
    Adam smiled, and he meant it. “Thank you.”
    Ollie nodded at him. “Yeah, well, don’t be a stranger.”
    They all left then, even Brad, who cast Adam one last brooding look over his shoulder before he hurried after the others. Adam stared after them for a while, imagining what it would be like to still be living with them, knowing it was wrong for him but unable to stop thinking what if? Even though he knew he was better off on his own, he couldn’t help wondering if he should have gone with them.
    That was the crux of obsessive-compulsive disorder. It refused to allow the sufferer to deal with the fact that the world was crowded with uncertainty. No decision could ever be the right one because there was no such thing. No person could be the right person because there wasn’t anyone who fit that bill, not really, not with a guarantee. Life had none, except that at some point everyone living would die. As far as Adam was concerned, that horrible yaw that remained was maddening, often beyond his ability to cope with. And thus the toothbrush. Why that made things better, he couldn’t say. He was only grateful that it did.
    Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to be normal. He wondered what a normal relationship would feel like, if he’d never have to explain to someone he cared very much about why he couldn’t enter their home without a panic attack.
    Surely it was easier. Surely it felt wonderful to be that free, to not be beholden to panic and paranoia. Surely it was better. Surely normal people never had to confess stupid things that probably would make their boyfriends break up with them.
    His mind circled the drain of doubt, spinning on self-recrimination, and thus he whiled away the hours, scrubbing down every visible surface of the lab until, at last, his phone chimed to alert him he had a new text.
    If you was an ax murder, I’d still want to meet you for dinner , Denver wrote. Text all you want, and I look forward to hearing whatever it is you have to tell me.
    He was just being nice, Adam knew that. But an afternoon of intense cleaning and three near-panic attacks later, he couldn’t help it. He cried.

    Denver was wiping down a weight bench, trying not to panic over what he feared Adam was going to tell him at dinner, when Tiny came up behind him and slapped a friendly hand against his back.
    “Hey, big guy. Tell me some good news about how you’re going to come work for me.”
    Denver gave an eye-roll to cover his discomfort. “How about I tell you how I saw pigs flying this morning?”
    Tiny grunted as he sat down on the other end of Denver’s weight bench. “I heard a rumor,” he said,