Driving Me Mad Page 2

  “I have time, Brittany,” he says with a smile. “Tell me what’s been going on. Last we really talked, you were doing fine and you were excited about your last year.”

  I sink further into the chair. Here I am, back in a therapist’s office, about to spill my guts. My heart sinks. Even worse, Trace no longer feels like my therapist. I don’t like the idea of him resuming his role.

  “What’s wrong?” Trace asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Can we grab a coffee or lunch? I’m using my break to see you and I’m hungry.” Maybe if I get him away from here, then I can pretend for a while longer.

  Trace hesitates. “Sessions don’t work that way.”

  He might as well have stabbed me in the heart. We’ve been talking ever since I stopped seeing him. At first, it was an email here and there before I told him emails sucked and gave him my number for us to text. Sessions don’t happen like that either. He’s not even my freaking therapist anymore! I squeeze my wrist and don’t miss that Trace notices the action. Frustrated, I hold up my cell phone. “But texting and phone calls are okay? C’mon, Trace. This is me we’re talking about. I wouldn’t have asked if I had gotten another person. I got you, though, and I’d rather do lunch.” Swallowing hard, I glance down at my lap and whisper, “I don’t want a session with you.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry; it was an automatic response. I was about to take my lunch anyway.” He stands. “Let’s go.”

  We leave his office and he informs the receptionist that he’s going on his lunch break. We walk to the cafeteria in comfortable silence. Once we have our food, we sit down at a table in the far back corner. It hits me that while Trace isn’t my therapist and hasn’t been in a long time, he is an employee of the university and I’m a student.

  “You won’t get in trouble for this, will you?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I informed them of our relationship during the interview because I knew they would need to be aware of it.”

  I raise a brow at him. “Relationship?”

  “Oh. Well, I, um, you know.” I’ve never seen Trace stammer with his words before. He shakes his head when I grin and laugh. “You know what I mean.” After taking a sip from his drink, he dampens the mood. “Tell me what’s been going on, Brittany.”

  “You first. Why didn’t you tell me you were moving here? I could’ve helped you unpack or showed you around or something.”

  “I was going to tell you when I called. Besides, I haven’t exactly been in the best of shapes either.”

  It’s then I notice the slightly dark skin under his eyes and the tiredness in his face. Trace is amazing in what he does because he gets it. He doesn’t talk about it often, though. If I had to guess, Trace is struggling as much as I am.

  With a deep breath, I begin. “Things were fine to start with, you know this, but then things just started falling apart. Over the summer, my attacks started coming back. They’ve taken control of my life.” The words start to flow faster as I stare at my food, dropping my fork to start squeezing my wrist. “I vomit every morning. I only sleep a few hours a night. I have at least three attacks a day. I’m making C’s, Trace. I’m failing and I don’t know how to make it stop. All of my techniques no longer work.

  “My parents aren’t helping either, even though I know they mean well. I think I overloaded myself this semester, too. I don’t want to drop any of my courses, though. I redo my assignments like ten times before I finally turn them in to make sure it’s the best I can do and that I’ll earn an A, but it’s not always happening. I just want my normal life back.”

  “Okay, I can help you,” Trace reassures in his calm, controlled, soothing voice. “Keep eating.” He waits until I take another bite before he continues. “Who’s your support system here? Rebecca still? Anyone else?”

  “Just Rebecca. She doesn’t really understand, but she’s supportive. She’s the one who urged me to come see a counselor. I wasn’t going to, but then I hadn’t been able to talk to you yet, so I decided to go.”

  “Good. I’m glad you have someone. How many classes are you taking?”

  “Six, because I slacked off one semester.”

  “No wonder you feel overloaded. You are.” He shakes his head at me. “How long have you been squeezing your wrist?”

  I glare at him. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it does. You and your wrist is just like someone bouncing their legs or shifting their weight when they’re standing. It’s a nervous habit and I want to know when yours returned.”

  “You know, I’m not so sure I like you anymore, Trace,” I joke. “Your tactics seem more aggressive.”

  “That’s because you’re reluctant to talk to me.” He lowers his voice and leans forward. “C’mon, Brittany. We’ve known each other for years and we’re supposed to be honest and forthcoming with each other. What’s changed?”

  Now he’s made me feel guilty. Before I can respond, he does.

  “You haven’t failed, Brittany.”

  I push my plate away, a wave of nausea hitting me, making me clutch my stomach and close my eyes for a second. Everything’s different, but it’s the same. I didn’t used to make it to the point where I’d vomit, I only had nausea. I didn’t used to squeeze my wrist all the time, only during attacks. How have I not failed?

  “Long deep breath,” I hear Trace whisper.

  Slowly, I inhale and exhale. “Thanks.” My voice is strained, but I open my eyes, feeling only slightly better. “I didn’t know it could be worse. I wasn’t expecting that it would ever be worse than before.”

  “I know, but we can get you back to where you were. I need to get back to the office for an appointment. Are you busy tonight?” I shake my head even though I do have homework to do. “Meet me back here around five and we’ll grab dinner, okay?”

  “Thanks, Trace.”

  He smiles, a real smile where it reaches his eyes and he flashes me his pearly whites. I had forgotten just how handsome his smile could be. I mentally shake my head to rid myself of those thoughts.

  ***

  Brittany is standing outside the building, her fingers wrapped firmly around her wrist. My heart aches at seeing her in turmoil. I almost think it’s harder because she thought she had experienced the very worst her anxiety and depression could do to her. She turns her head toward me at the sound of the door closing with a thud. Without overthinking it, I pull her cold fingers away from her wrist and let them intertwine with mine.

  “Nervous about dinner with me?” My breath is visible in frigid winter air. A smile, which has been a hard task for my lips to perform lately, easily lifts into place when she laughs.

  “No,” she answers as I lead her to the parking lot. “It could merely be a habit, you know. It could have nothing to do with my anxiety.”

  I release her hand as I reach into the side of my briefcase for my keys. “Could, but we both know that’s not the case.”

  “You always have to ruin the fun,” she jokes, sliding into the passenger seat.

  I shake my head at her while closing the door and then walking around to my side. All day I’ve been wondering what to do about dinner. I want to be able to talk to her without interruptions, make sure she’s comfortable, and the best solution is my new home. Brittany usually doesn’t have problems out in public and around other people, but for some reason, her anxiety always comes out a little more when she has to eat in public. It makes her self-conscious. I always made her go out two or three times a month, just so her body could readjust and catch up to her feeling fine about it as she conquered her anxiety.

  So, she would probably be fine. However, with her anxiety acting up, I can’t be sure. I turn the key in the ignition and decide to ask Brittany what she wants to do.

  “We can find a restaurant or we can…” My voice trails off, now unsure if offering is such a good idea.

  “We can what?” she asks.

  “I can cook us dinner,” I manage to say nonchalantly, trying to rem
ind my heart and body that Brittany is the one with anxiety, not me. But she…she makes me nervous. I don’t know how or when it happened, but the line of professionalism between us became blurred until I wasn’t sure it existed at all. She went from being my client, to a former client, to Brittany, to Britt. When any and all lines disappear, when I only see the beautiful person I care for, that’s when she becomes Britt. It’s when things feel dangerous for the sake of our livelihood.

  “That sounds nice,” she replies softly. Her hand moves to her wrist. “I still have trouble in restaurants sometimes. I don’t want to deal with it today.”

  That I can understand. We head out of the parking lot and toward my house. It’s about twenty miles away from campus in a nice little housing development in a neighboring suburb. Thankfully, I’m completely unpacked and settled in. Neither of us will be able to relax and have a clear head in a messy, chaotic house.

  I park my car in the driveway. Brittany meets me at the front door, standing behind me quietly as I unlock it and push it open.

  “Chicken sound good?” I ask as I set my briefcase on the kitchen counter.

  “Yeah. Can I look around?”

  “Sure.”

  She wanders off while I go about getting dinner started. I’ll bake some chicken breasts and pair it with rice, gravy, and some vegetable. I glance over my shoulder at the sound of footsteps to see Brittany reentering the kitchen.

  “Nice place,” she comments.

  “Thanks.”

  “I feel bad that I couldn’t help you unpack, though,” she says as she comes to stand next to me at the stove. She’s close enough that I feel the heat from her body. I expected that being around her again would throw me for a loop because things aren’t the same between us as the last time I saw her. Hell, back then, she would never have been invited to my house, never have had a meal with me, and never have my cell phone number. On top of that, I care about her. I did before, of course, but now, I care.

  “I didn’t want to bother you so soon into the semester starting and all. I’m glad I didn’t, since you haven’t been doing well.”

  “Neither have you, and you still got to do it,” she retorts, causing me to laugh. Her lips quirk up. “I like hearing you laugh, Trace.” She intends to bump her elbow against mine, but due to our height difference, her elbow hits my hip as she adds, “I’ve missed talking to you.”

  And that causes my heartbeat to falter. I told her I hadn’t been texting her because things have been busy. Which is true, but it’s not the entire truth. The move has fucked me up in ways I wasn’t expecting and it’s taken all my energy and willpower to get myself settled in and begin at my new job. Solitude seemed to be the only thing I wanted and could handle. I hoped Brittany was doing well enough that my absence wouldn’t affect her.

  “You can talk to me like I talk to you, Trace.” Her quiet voice kills me and spurs me to look at her. She looks hopeful. She’s paying more attention to me than I thought she would, or else I’m not doing a good job of masking my emotions. Brittany reaches up to cup my face, the pad of her thumb brushing underneath my eye. “How long has it been since you’ve had a good night’s sleep?”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” I tell her. I don’t want to add to what she’s dealing with already.

  “Yes, I do, because if I don’t, who will? I’m going to worry either way, so get used to it and answer my question.”

  I sigh and she drops her hand. My eyes shift to the pots on the stove. “Over a month, but it’s not too bad. Not being able to sleep is one reason I was able to get completely unpacked and settled. Get the plates and some drinks, will ya?” I nod in the direction of the cabinets she’ll need.

  Thankfully, Brittany lets it go. She grabs the plates, sets them down on the table, fixes us drinks, and then finds the silverware. Her phone rings and she steps into the living room to answer. By the time she finishes her conversation, dinner is ready and on the table.

  “Sorry. It was my mom. She still calls every few days to check in,” Brittany says as we take a seat.

  “Have you told her how you’re really doing?”

  “No, but I think she can tell. She seems to ask me more specific questions every time I talk to her. I tell her the truth mostly.” She pauses to take a bite of food, which makes me happy considering the weight she’s lost. “If we’re supposed to be completely honest with each other, how come you’ve been holding back on me?” Her eyes widen a bit. “Or am I overstepping by wanting to talk to you so often?” She drops her gaze down to her plate. “I don’t want to bother you, so I can stop texting and calling so much if you want. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Britt.” Her gaze snaps to mine, those brown eyes boring into me. I can’t quite make out the way she’s looking at me. It’s a bit bothersome, considering I’ve always been able to read her so easily. Maybe it’s because I said it a bit too loud in order to gain her attention. “I’m sorry.”

  The corners of her mouth fall in a frown as her brows pinch together. “For what?”

  “For holding back. You haven’t been doing anything wrong, or anything I haven’t wanted you to do.” I want her to talk to me as often as she wants. We discuss more than what’s wrong with us and I enjoy it probably more than I should. Obviously, considering I felt like whatever it is we are is something important enough to mention during my job interview so I wouldn’t break any employee/student policies in the future.

  She smiles, but it’s not completely genuine. “Then it’s officially a two-way street with us now?”

  “Yeah,” I say, despite the fact that it’s going to be a difficult task for me. My job is to listen to people, help them through their problems, and help carry the weight of the burden. It’s not for me to unleash my problems onto them. It’s different with Brittany, I know, but the things I do for my job have transferred over into my life. I’d rather listen than talk. I’d rather be helpful than complain. It’s why I’m about to shift the conversation again. “Can I ask you something without you getting defensive?”

  Her eyes narrow automatically. “Sure,” she answers with caution.

  “Have you been taking your meds like you should? You aren’t skipping doses or going cold turkey?” She always hated taking medication, but she did it anyway because it helped. Every now and then, though, she’d either stop or skip doses because she was tired of taking them.

  Brittany sighs, but she nods. “It’s been hard for me, but I’ve been diligent about it. I’ve only missed one dose since I’ve been in college.”

  “Good.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about something else. How are you enjoying it here so far? Is counseling college students better or worse than your old job?”

  I’m all for taking a step away from our issues for a while. “Yeah, I like the town and my new position. It’s different, but in a way, it’s the same too. I haven’t had much interaction with students yet because I’m still settling in, so I’m excited about that.”

  “How did you choose this as your career anyway?”

  “I chose it by accident while being stubborn,” I laugh. “I was in college, lost and not doing so well up here,” I tap my temple, “and I didn’t want to get help. I didn’t want anyone to know what I was going through. I figured if I could learn everything a professional knew, then I could help myself. I really enjoyed the classes. I couldn’t help myself, as it turned out, but I could help others.”

  Brittany laughs. “So because you didn’t want to accept help, you got a degree that allows you to be the very person you didn’t want help from? That’s funny.” She chuckles for a moment longer before asking, “Was it hard to leave and come here?”

  I shake my head. “I wasn’t leaving anything behind.” And I wasn’t. My family lives in Texas, so I was only leaving an ex-wife. This move was just what I needed, even if it’s been hard as hell so far. Brittany lifts her hand to her mouth to cover a yawn. “Am I boring you?” I laugh.

  She giggles and
shakes her head. “No. It’s been a long day, though. Thank you for dinner.”

  “You’re welcome. Do you want to talk about your long day?”

  “Not really.” She gives me a sad smile, and I nod.

  Our plates are empty, so I guess our night is over. But I don’t want her to leave yet.

  “Do you want me to help clean up?” Brittany offers.

  “Sure.” Any reason to keep her with me longer. We work together to put dirty dishes in the dishwasher, put away leftovers, and wash the few things that don’t go in the dishwasher. “How much sleep are you getting?” I ask.

  “Depends. Sometimes, I barely sleep two hours. Other times, I do sleep, but it’s so restless I might as well have been awake all night. What about you?”

  Ah, right. Two-way street. “Two to three hours at the most.” We’re standing in my kitchen once we’ve finished. “Are you ready to head back?” I reluctantly force myself to ask.

  “Not really. It’s nice and peaceful here. I think that’s what I hate the most about college. I don’t feel like I ever get any quiet time.”

  “That’s all I ever have,” I laugh. And it’s not always a good thing. “Let’s watch TV.” I take her hand and lead her into the living room. I hand her the remote after turning the TV on. I don’t care what we watch, so she can have control over it.

  She sits down next to me, tucking her legs to the side. She hesitates before leaning against me and resting her head on my shoulder. “I’ve really missed you, Trace,” she whispers. “I think I rely on you more than I thought.”

  “So, you’re not upset that I moved here and then waited so long to tell you?”

  She sits upright to look at me. “Are you kidding? No! I’m really happy you’re here. I honestly never expected to see you again. I figured a phone call here and there with some texting was all. Not that I was unhappy with that or anything. It just would’ve been nice to see you, so I’m happy I can now.” Absentmindedly, she reaches for her wrist and simply grips it tightly. “You know,” she continues, “I thought it might be weird.”