Driving Me Mad Read online

“But it’s not?”

  “No,” she says with a shake of her head. “It’s not weird to be with you.” Brittany glances to the TV where whatever show she picked is playing. She releases a little sigh. “It’s so peaceful here.”

  To me, it’s too peaceful. Too quiet and serene. One would think that would be good, but for me, it’s not. Not when I’m struggling. It makes it easier to wallow and get sucked into the hell I experience. However, I’m glad Brittany enjoys it. She rests her head on my shoulder again. It’s odd to be so comfortable around one another so far, and not just because she has issues with anxiety. All those texts and phone calls seems to have made it seamless for us now that we’re here in person.

  After about an hour and countless yawns later, Brittany sits upright. “My body wants to crash and I really want to let it. You should probably take me back before I fall asleep.”

  I nod, stand, and take her hand to lead the way. For one crazy moment, I think about asking her to stay. My gut reaction is to claim it’s for her sake since she finds my place so relaxing, but I know it has more to do with not wanting to return to this house without her tonight. It’s making me anxious because I can already feel the claws of my depression tightening around my throat.

  I’m supposed to be the calm, in control person. Well, as much as I can be with depression resting on my shoulders. Even then, I can usually gather some resolve to keep my wits about me. Britt though, she undoes me.

  That’s one hell of a scary realization.

  ***

  Trace is quiet as we drive back to campus. The closer we get, the higher my anxiety rises. The sleepiness I felt at his house has left me. Trace parks his car outside of my dorm.

  “You okay?”

  I turn to face him and nod. “Thanks for inviting me over.” And letting me get cozy with you on your couch, I silently add. With everything going on, it’s somewhat surprising that sitting in such a way with him actually felt normal, which is odd because it shouldn’t.

  “Any time.”

  Not expecting anything else to come of this, I smile and angle toward the door as I tug on the handle.

  “Britt.”

  My eyes squeeze closed for a moment, relishing the sound of his voice. How can only half of my name send a shiver through me? I pop my eyes open and glance at him over my shoulder. Trace leans across the console. Holy mother of pearl, is he about to kiss me? My heart kicks into high gear as he cups my cheeks, causing me to turn back toward him. I watch him assessing me as inches are lost between us and then, his gaze drops to my mouth before his lips land softly on mine. My mouth is slack against his, the surprise too much for me as I stare at his closed eyelids.

  Trace is kissing me.

  Trace is kissing me.

  My eyes close, spurring my lips to move finally. This kiss is the opposite of us. It’s slow, carefree, and so relaxed. Trace’s tongue doesn’t have time to skirt over my lips before I open my mouth, so he can deepen the kiss. This is better than I could’ve ever imagined. I might not have expected anything to ever come from my relationship with Trace, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t hope. It doesn’t mean I didn’t wonder what it would be like to kiss him.

  And now that I know, I don’t want to ever lose it.

  Just when my hands are about to lift and dive into his hair, Trace pulls away.

  Before I can shut myself up, I whisper, “For a long time, I’ve wondered what it would be like to do that.”

  He flashes me a soft grin. “Me too. Go on and get some sleep. I’ll see you soon.”

  No words come to mind, so I nod, get out, and walk to my dorm room in a daze. Am I dreaming already? Did he really kiss me? I swipe my tongue over my lower lip. Yes, yes, he did.

  “Just where have you been, missy?” Rebecca asks, lowering her book as I enter the room.

  I flop onto my bed. “I went out with my former therapist.”

  “What?” she shrieks, sitting upright. “I thought he lived hours away? How the hell did you go on a date with your therapist? Isn’t that like illegal, or unethical? You need to give me all the details right now.”

  Sighing, I roll onto my side to face her. “Ever since I moved to college, we’ve sort of been talking. It was only an email here and there at first, him checking in on me, or me freaking out about something and needing sound advice. Then, I got tired of emailing and gave him my number. We started texting here and there, but a lot more often in combination with phone calls this past year. He got a job opportunity here and he took it.

  “He was going to tell me yesterday, but someone,” I glare at her, “dragged me to a club, so I couldn’t talk to him. I found out when I unknowingly walked into his new office today. We had lunch and then he invited me to dinner, which ended up being at his house. Then he kissed me before I got out of the car. You’re all caught up.” Two thoughts hit me and I add, “Oh, and he’s my former therapist, and he won’t get in trouble because he told the college of our ‘relationship’ during his interview.” I even do the air quotes around relationship.

  Rebecca’s eyes nearly bug out of her head. “Relationship? Wow. And he told them this before you even knew he was coming?” I nod. “Girl, he has it bad for you. At the very least, based on what you’ve said, you’re close friends. However, he cares for you a lot if he told the college about you, knowing they could’ve not hired him because of it.”

  I hadn’t thought about it like that, and I say as much.

  “Do you think your relationship,” she does air quotes, “will become a relationship?” she finishes as she wags her eyebrows.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” I yawn and stand to change my clothes, hoping Rebecca takes the hint that I’m tired of talking. It’s been a long, stressful day, even if it ended well.

  The moment my head hits the pillow it’s like a switch has been flipped and I’m wide awake. The last thing I want right now is to have a restless night. For a while, I keep my eyes closed, hoping that’ll help. It’s useless, though. I can’t sleep. I wonder if Trace is awake too. Should I text him? Part of me says yes because it’ll help me pass the time, but part of me says no because he might be sleeping.

  Screw it.

  I grab my phone and decide to call him.

  “Hello?” he answers on the second ring.

  “Did I wake you?” I whisper, so I don’t wake Rebecca.

  “No. Everything okay?”

  “I can’t sleep. Don’t you want to talk to me until I get sleepy?”

  His laugh is low and husky. “You want me to bore you to sleep?”

  “Well, that’s one way to put it. Just talk to me, please.”

  “Yeah, Britt, I can do that,” he says softly. “Anything you want to know in particular?”

  The darkness and the wee hours give me confidence. “What happened with your ex-wife?”

  Trace is quiet for a moment. “She cheated.” I gasp, but he keeps talking. “She says it was because our relationship moved too fast and she realized she didn’t want what she had agreed to, which was a life with me. The cheating was just the final straw. It took a while, but I got over it.”

  “And you’re okay now?”

  “I’m more than okay,” he replies with surety. My body warms with his words. “I want to talk to you about your issues for a second and then we can talk about whatever you want.”

  Well, crap. “Okay,” I whisper.

  “You should still see a counselor.” My mouth opens to object, but he says, “Hear me out, Brittany. You aren’t my client anymore. I’m here for you, of course, but I’d feel better if you were seeing someone. You came into my office today, needing to talk to a counselor. I think it’ll be good for you to see someone. There may be things you don’t want to tell me as,” he falters, struggling with what he wants to say. “As who I am to you now. Think about it, okay? It’ll make me feel better for you and for us.”

  He makes a good point. I do need to see someone, even if I’m reluctant. It would be unfair to unload completely o
n Trace and to expect him to not see me as part-client, to have him not treat me as if he’s my therapist.

  “Okay,” I agree.

  “That was too easy,” he chuckles, and I laugh. “There’s one more thing, though.” He takes a moment for that to sink in before he goes for the kill. “You should ask the psychiatrist about something to help you sleep.”

  “You should do that, too.”

  Trace laughs. “I will if you will. A good night’s sleep will help you manage things better, Brittany.”

  “I’ll call tomorrow. I was trying to push it off for as long as possible,” I confess.

  “I know. You don’t like to tackle a problem until it’s too much of a problem that you have no other choice because you don’t like to admit that there is a problem.”

  What he says rubs me the wrong way and I don’t respond.

  “Brittany?”

  “I hate when you’re right,” I finally say.

  “Sorry.” The sincerity in his tone makes me smile.

  “Tell me about your family in Texas.”

  Trace begins with his childhood and all his fond memories involving his family. My eyelids begin to get heavy around his teenage years and soon, it’s lights out for me with my phone resting against my face.

  “Ah, fuck,” a male’s voice groans in my ear. Sleep feels so damn good that I refuse to awaken yet. “Britt? You still there?”

  “I’m sleeping,” I mumble, becoming aware of the phone on my face.

  He sounds amused as he says, “You talk in your sleep?”

  “Mhm,” I hum, causing him to laugh.

  “You fell asleep on me.”

  Last night rushes back into my head. “Thanks for talking to me until I did.”

  “You’re welcome. We should probably hang up now. It’s seven in the morning, in case you need to get up, too.”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “Who are you talking to this early in the freaking morning?” Rebecca half-shouts, half-grumbles from behind me.

  “Your roommate sounds friendly.”

  I can’t help my laugh. “She’s the best. I’ll talk to you later?”

  “Yep. Have a good day, Brittany.”

  “You too, Trace.” I hang up, thankful my phone was plugged in because it would probably have died otherwise.

  “Ooh, Trace,” Rebecca says as I roll over to face her. “When do I get to meet him?”

  “Why do you need to meet him?”

  She tilts her head and raises an eyebrow at me. “Seriously? It should be obvious.”

  It is. It’s probably because of his age and how we came to be. And because she’s my best friend and she wants to evaluate him. “How about I spend more time with Trace before you meet him?”

  “Fine,” she groans.

  The morning passes uneventfully for a change. My body is still wound tight, my hand still grasping my wrist more often than not, nausea still my most prominent feeling, but I haven’t thrown up. Therefore, today is already a success. After my first class, I fulfill one promise to Trace. I call my psychiatrist, Dr. Gunner. I just saw him in December when I went home for Christmas break. I didn’t mention any problems. Now, I’m having to spill my guts. Luckily, Dr. Gunner is almost as awesome as Trace. I don’t know many who will use breaks between appointments to basically have a phone appointment with me.

  After my third and final class of the day, I go pick up my prescriptions, one for the sleeping pills, and the other my anxiety meds. Once I came clean, Dr. Gunner decided to up my dosage. Hopefully, both of these changes will help. I have another phone appointment next month to give him an update.

  It’s so freaking cold today, my hoodie is no match against the temperature, and my teeth chatter. Instead of going to my dorm to work on homework, I head toward the library. If I ever want to die from heat, the library is the place I’ll go. No matter the temperature outside, the library has the heat on, it seems. It comes in handy today; it’s toasty and cozy. I work for a few hours before my phone vibrates in the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie.

  “Hello?” I whisper.

  “Hey,” Trace responds in the same tone. “Why are we whispering?”

  “I’m in the library. What’s up?” I hold the phone between my ear and my shoulder and pack up my things.

  “Would you like to go on a date with me tonight?”

  I stand up straight, causing my phone to fall from its place. A date? I scramble to pick my phone up off the floor and answer his question. “Yes. What time?”

  “Can you be ready in an hour and a half? I have some errands to run first.”

  “Okay. You’ll pick me up?”

  “Of course,” he laughs as if my question was absurd. “I’ll text you and meet you outside of your dorm.”

  “I’ll see you soon then.”

  We hang up and I rush back to my dorm. I don’t necessarily need to, but I’m taking my second shower of the day. I decide on jeans, a cute pair of flats even though my feet are going to freeze, and a cute sweater with a camisole underneath. Perfect for whatever we do.

  When Trace texts me, I’m ready. The moment I step outside, not immediately seeing him, it hits me like a billion tons of bricks.

  I’m going on a date with Trace.

  A surprising surge of panic grips me and holds me hostage. I stumble to a nearby bench and take a seat, hoping I can gather my wits before Trace sees me. My fingernails dig into the underside of my wrist, my grip not tight enough. Despite the low temperature, I’m hot. My neck and face feel like they’re on fire. I can feel sweat beginning to form on my temple.

  It’s just Trace, damn it! Why am I so nervous?

  It doesn’t matter because this shit isn’t logical half the time anyway. I double over to rest my head on my knees in a poor attempt to ground myself. The urge to vomit causes me to squeeze my eyes closed. My heart rate is erratic, and the feel of my pulse seems to be all over my body, making me dizzy.

  “Britt?”

  The sound of Trace’s concerned voice nearly pushes me over the edge.

  ***

  “Sit up,” I quietly demand as I sit next to her. She surprises me when she does. Sometimes, people can hide the physical effects of an anxiety attack, or they try to. But there’s no way Brittany can cover up her pale cheeks, the sweat dampening the hair around her face, or her heavy breathing. She can’t hide the panic in her wide eyes, the deathlike grip she has on her wrist, or her trembling hands.

  I’ve felt helpless plenty of times before, but this is torture. How am I supposed to help her? She needs to calm down and think about something other than whatever is giving her the panic attack. I pull her toward me so her forehead is resting on my chest as I glide my hands up and down her back. “Mimic my breathing and try to focus on that.” She nods against my chest. I inhale for six seconds, pause for one, exhale for six, and pause for one more before repeating all over again.

  “Not working,” she squeaks after the fourth time. It is, though. Some of the tension has left her body already.

  “Try counting or rationalizing whatever it is,” I suggest, since she’s probably still thinking too much. “Let go of your wrist, too.”

  “There’s no rationalizing it! I was fine and then I was panicking for no reason!”

  “Hey.” I squeeze her shoulders. “Don’t get worked up about it. That won’t help. Count and keep breathing with me.”

  Five minutes pass.

  My body starts to numb before she lifts her head. Tears are streaking her cheeks. When did she start to cry? I wipe them away. “Better?”

  “Yes. Can we go somewhere warm now?”

  I laugh. “C’mon.” I lead her to my car. “Do you want to eat first?”

  “Sure.” She gives me a weak smile, which tells me she’d rather not.

  “Do you trust me to take care of you?”

  “Yes,” Brittany answers immediately.

  “Then you have nothing to worry about.”

  She nods. With how th
e weather is today, I had planned on taking her to a place I pass on the way to campus. According to my coworkers, the restaurant is known for its soups. What is better on a cold day than a hot bowl of soup?

  “Do you want to tell me what triggered it?” I ask.

  “Sounds like a therapist-y question, Trace,” she quips, causing me to laugh. “And I’d rather not say.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Once we get to the restaurant, I take her hand and we walk inside.

  “Table for two?”

  “Yes, and can we have a table away from everyone, if possible?”

  “Sure,” the hostess agrees. “Just give me a second.” She looks over her tablet and Brittany squeezes my hand in thanks. A moment later, we’re being led to the back corner of the restaurant where the nearest person is four tables over.

  I take the seat facing the room and let Brittany take the one facing the wall. Her anxiety might not be so bad if she can’t look around the room. We look over the menu in silence and it’s not until we’ve ordered drinks that Brittany speaks.

  “I called the psychiatrist.”

  “Good. What happened? Are you still seeing Dr. Gunner?”

  “Yeah. He gave me the sleeping pills and upped my dosage of my regular medication. Did you call your psychiatrist today?”

  “Yep.” Nights are always the worst time for me. I have no problem waking up, getting out of bed, and going to work in the morning. I can always manage to push myself to do that much. But then, at some point in the afternoon, it’s like a switch flips. It’s why I can’t sleep. It’s why I start shutting down and have trouble managing to do what needs to get done during that time. What worries me is how I’m going to keep up appearances around Brittany. This is when I’ll spend most of my time with her.

  Her troubles are the worst in the morning, usually. She has so much on her plate as it is and I don’t want to add to that. But we’re a two-way street now, at her request, so I don’t have much choice. It should be worth it anyway.

  The waitress returns and we order our soups.

  “Are we doing anything after this?” Brittany asks when she walks away.

  My depressed mind says no, but my heart says yes. “Anything in particular that you want to do?”