Driving Me Mad (Sanity Book 1) Read online

  “I don’t need your help,” I chuckle. “I was only wondering. I have something planned.”

  “Better. We don’t want you to be lazy and uncreative.” A slow smile rises on her face and I laugh.

  Her first semester her junior year, she went on a date. She texted me afterward and said she couldn’t decide if it went well or not, which was telling in and of itself. When she told me what happened on the date, what they did, I told her she could do better than someone who was obviously lazy and uncreative.

  “No, we don’t,” I agree. “What are your plans after graduation?”

  “Rebecca and I were thinking about getting an apartment together.” Her mouth opens and then closes.

  “But?” I prompt.

  Her shoulders sag. “I’m barely getting by with school some days. How am I supposed to sustain a job? That’s the main reason my parents decided to keep paying for my tuition after my sophomore year. They don’t think I can handle a job and school.”

  I reach over and take her hand. “Hey, you’re forgetting something pretty important.” She stares and waits for me to continue. “It’s not always going to be like this.” It’s what I keep telling myself, too. Before I can keep talking, she interrupts.

  “It’s not always going to be good either, Trace. How am I supposed to handle the bad days? I doubt an employer will be understanding.”

  “One day at a time.”

  The waitress comes with our soups. The moment she steps away, Brittany says, “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Particularly because you look like you want to give me a lecture, which means you’re in therapist mode, and we don’t want to go there. So.” She takes a deep breath. “Bec and I are planning to do that, and hopefully, it’ll work out. My parents have offered to help me out until I land a job. Sometimes, I wonder how I managed to get so lucky in the parent department. Is your dad supportive too?”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. How am I supposed to tell her? To buy time, I eat another spoonful of soup. It seems I’ll just have to say it because I don’t know how else to do it. Clearing my throat, I say, “He probably would be if he knew.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “Why?” She looks perplexed. I can’t blame her.

  “My problems started while in college. I didn’t have to tell him and I never did.”

  Her eyes are full of sadness. “Trace,” she whispers.

  “Don’t,” I interrupt, my voice firm. I know that tone. That’s the exact same tone I use when I say Britt.

  “But he should know.”

  “Why? It’s not like I’m dying; I have trouble living sometimes, Brittany. I know how to take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for quite some time. I don’t want to tell him and I don’t have to, so I won’t.”

  “Then who is your support system?” she pushes.

  I sigh. “Leave it alone.” There’s more to the story than me not wanting to tell my father because I don’t want to worry him and because I don’t like talking about my problems. That is not something I want to get into today with her, though.

  Brittany nods, but I know she isn’t happy about it. Now, more than before, I’m ready to go home and crash. We finish our soups and I pay our bill. When we walk outside, snowflakes are steadily falling. Brittany tilts her head back, her eyes closed as the fat, fluffy flakes fall onto her face.

  “I didn’t know it was going to snow,” she says.

  “Me either.” We’re downtown, and thanks to not really wanting to do what I originally had planned, I decide to come up with a new plan. “Let’s walk.”

  She wraps her arms around my arm, leans her head against it, and we begin to walk. “Is this what you had planned? Walking around town in the snow? Sounds lazy and uncreative,” she teases.

  “We’ll do what I had planned another day,” I promise.

  We walk silently, the coldness slowly seeping back into my bones as the snow sways to the ground. Every so often, we’ll stop as Brittany does a little window shopping. The ground quickly gains a layer of snow.

  “We should go before the roads get bad,” Brittany suggests, turning us around to walk back toward the restaurant. For North Carolina, the roads are already bad. They were considered bad with the first snowflake in the sky. “Are you okay, Trace?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ready to get home, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.” This time, I sigh. “But I’m still enjoying being with you.” We stop on the passenger side of my car and Brittany faces me, tilting her head back to look at me. Her eyes betray her worries while her cheeks, nose, and lips are red from the cold. I wrap my arms around her and tug her against me to help warm her up. “Stop whatever you’re thinking.”

  A wry smile stretches her lips. “What makes you think I was thinking?”

  I laugh. “Because I know you better than you think I do.”

  Her lips purse, drawing my attention. “Then what am I thinking now?”

  The same thing I’m thinking. Without a word, I lean down to press my mouth to hers. Our cold skin is oddly a bit of a turn-on, especially when the longer I kiss her and the deeper the kiss goes, the warmer we get. I’ve been thinking about this girl for a long time. I’ve wanted her and didn’t have her for far too long. Brittany lifts onto her tiptoes, her arms snaking around my neck, but it’s the way her body brushes against mine that causes me to groan.

  A strong, frigid gust of wind causes me to pull away from her.

  “Let’s get you back to campus.”

  “One more,” she whispers.

  I grin before kissing her again.

  My mind seems to check out after that. I take her back to campus, kiss her one last time, and then head home. I shower before crawling into bed, taking one of my sleeping pills. I can’t help but think about my mom. She’s the reason why I refuse to tell my dad about my depression. After all these years, her death still haunts us. Him more so than me.

  If I were to tell him, he’d start having flashbacks and comparing me to my mother. It took him a while to remarry, to be happy again, and I’m not going to be the one to take that away from him. And I would if I told him because he’d be too busy calling me daily and worrying about me. He’d probably want me to move back to Texas. There’s no way I can do that.

  All I can do now is hope that Brittany lets it go. This whole two-way street thing is kind of hard. I’m used to not sharing my troubles with anyone else. That could be one reason why my marriage failed. Faith didn’t know what she was getting herself into. We did move rather fast. My lack of wanting to talk and her not knowing what the hell was going on with me could be what started our problems, which eventually led her to cheat.

  I close my eyes and try to stop thinking so much about everything. Or to at least think about Brittany instead. Either way, I hope the sleeping pill pulls me under fast and keeps me there until morning.

  “So, how old is your boyfriend anyway?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” A date and a kiss or three doesn’t make him my boyfriend, right? Not that I’d object to the idea…

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” Rebecca says, digging her spoon into her bowl of ice cream. We’re at lunch and I have no idea how she’s able to eat ice cream in January.

  “He’s thirty-one.” Not too much older than I am. Only by nine years.

  But Rebecca’s jaw drops as if he’s eighty. “He’s robbin’ the cradle!”

  I laugh. “He is not.”

  “Fine. Is he hot?”

  “He’s gorgeous,” I confirm.

  “What does he look like?”

  “Dirty blond hair, hazel eyes, probably 6’5”, and—”

  “Oh, I bet he’s, you know, proportional.” Bec wiggles her eyebrows. “I definitely want those details once you sleep with him.”

  I begin ignoring her. I’ve been on one date with the guy and suddenly, he’s my boyfriend and I’ll be sleeping with him soon? Rebecca is ge
tting ahead of herself. Not to mention I don’t want to think about those things yet. We’re able to enjoy the rest of our lunch without talking any more about Trace.

  The day started promising. My anxiety was relatively normal this morning compared to how it has been, so not only was I grateful, but I thought that meant today would be good. Great, even. My classes went kind of smoothly, too.

  And then, I head over to the counseling building. To fulfill my end of the bargain, I made an appointment this morning with one of the counselors, Mrs. Rumley. It almost seems pointless to go because I have no clue what to talk about.

  My anxiety is the obvious answer, I know. For example, my anxiety is through the roof at the thought of seeing a therapist who isn’t Trace. He’s the only one I’ve ever seen. What if Mrs. Rumley isn’t as easy to talk to? What if she judges me? What if she sucks? What if I don’t feel comfortable with her? Am I going to have to rehash all of my time in therapy to catch her up? Or will she want a brief update? Am I allowed to tell her about Trace? You know, if I happen to bring him up.

  My hand begins to ache with its grip on my wrist repeatedly tightening and loosening. The secretary gives me a small smile and tells me to have a seat to wait because Mrs. Rumley hasn’t returned from her lunch break yet. What’s the freaking point of an appointment if she isn’t here? Nausea rolls in my stomach and up my throat. The woman has two minutes before I leave.

  Is it possible to feel your pulse throughout your body? God, how high do they have the heater in this place? The urge to double over is strong, the pounding in my head becoming louder. The nausea is impossible to ignore. Oh, my God. All my progress from the last three and a half years is going down the drain with this appointment. I’m a fucking mess.

  I stand so suddenly it startles the secretary. Before I can speak, an elderly woman and Trace walk into the door laughing over something.

  “Mrs. Rumley, your next appointment is already here,” the secretary says.

  “Actually, I need to cancel. Sorry.” I push by Trace since he’s the one who is mostly in my way and race out of the building. A surge of anger rushes through me. She was late because apparently the old lady was having lunch with my boyfriend!

  I’m halfway across campus when my phone vibrates. I pull it out to see a text.

  Trace: Everything okay?

  I so do not want to deal with him right now. The only thing that sounds great is my bed and sleep. Thankfully, Rebecca is currently in class, so I don’t have to worry about her. I change into my pajamas, crawl into my bed, and try to fall asleep.

  Life never works out the way I want it to, though. After half an hour with two more texts from Trace, I impulsively grab my bottle of sleeping pills and dry-swallow one. I lie down, getting comfortable, and soon, I’m knocked out.

  I’m groggy and too warm when I wake up. I almost feel like I’m being held down. The thought pulls my eyelids open. My body jolts when I see a broad chest in front of me.

  “You owe me,” Trace’s gravely voice murmurs from above my head.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, tilting my head back to look at him. There is just enough room for me in this bed. There is definitely not enough room for me and a man of Trace’s stature. I try not to think about how his arms are around me and how his body is pressed against mine. It’s nice, really really nice.

  “Rebecca helped me sneak in after she answered one of my many calls to you because we were both worried. Me because you never texted me back. Her because she couldn’t wake you and she says you wake easily. That was when she noticed your sleeping pills on the nightstand, so she answered since I kept calling.” He kisses my forehead. “I’m not supposed to be here, Britt. Any relationship of ours is supposed to stay off campus, which means I definitely should not be in your dorm.”

  “Then why are you here?” My voice comes out a little snappier than I intended, but it doesn’t faze Trace.

  “Because I was worried. Are you up for sneaking me out of here and coming back to my place? I want to talk to you, but if I have to spend another second in this bed, my body is going to hate me worse tomorrow than it’s already planning to.”

  Guilt for worrying him and for being the reason he’s in this cramped bed with me causes me to nod.

  “Thank God.” He releases his hold on me to get out of bed. Rebecca is asleep in her bed. “Once I counted your sleeping pills and figured out you probably only took one, she was satisfied enough that you would be fine. Still had to convince her to go to sleep,” Trace says.

  The alarm clock says it’s three A.M. Without thinking about the implications of what it means, I grab my coat, put on my shoes, and pack a change of clothes, my toothbrush, and my neglected phone. Trace stands anxiously by the door, shifting his weight and glancing between me and it. I hope that we can get out of here without any trouble. I’d hate to put his job on the line because I caused him to worry about me.

  I open the door and peer out. The hallway is quiet and empty. Trace takes my hand and I lead us out of the building and into the safety of the outdoors.

  “Sweet fuck,” Trace curses as the cold assaults us. Even worse, we have to walk across campus to where his car is parked. I try to walk faster on the sidewalk, but Trace tugs on my hand to slow me down. “Careful; I don’t want you to slip on a patch of ice.”

  As soon as he says it, I feel my foot slip a little. We make it to his car without incident, though. That’s when Trace decides to start talking. Maybe because my only escape would be to jump out of a moving car.

  “So, you took a sleeping pill? Just one like I thought?” Somehow, he manages to ask the question gently, without accusation or judgment.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I say, shrugging it off.

  “It was only four in the afternoon when Rebecca texted me.” My body tenses as I wait for him to continue his lecture. “I’m assuming you had a panic attack and just wanted to make it all stop for a while, and I get that, but that’s not the way to do it, Brittany.”

  I wince a little at hearing him call me by my full name. “I won’t do it again,” I promise. I mean it, too. I don’t want to make it a habit of misusing my medications. That’s exactly what I did. “Sorry. Must be a little hard not to go full therapist on me right now.”

  “It’s harder for me to hold back and not tell you how stupid it was because I care about you, not because I’m an uninvolved third party. The last thing you need to add on top of the anxiety attacks is drug abuse, because that’s what it is. I just…it scares me to think you’d even do it once. If you’ll do it once, you’ll be tempted to do it again.”

  “Doesn’t mean I will do it again. I know it was dumb, and I don’t want to make it a habit, so I won’t.”

  He nods as he parks in his driveway. “I believe you.”

  We walk inside, Trace turning on lights as we do. He walks into the kitchen, offering something to drink. I decline, but he grabs a Sun Drop for himself. That’s when I really notice his eyes. The guilt sits a little heavier in my stomach.

  “Have you slept at all?”

  “No. I haven’t been tired; it’s fine.”

  I fold my arms over my chest. “It is not fine. You need sleep. Now. We can talk in the morning.” When he opens his mouth to object, I take the soda, set it on the counter, and then take his hand. He seems so stunned that his mouth closes. I turn off the lights and go to his bedroom. I’m not sure if I’ll sleep in here or his guest room or on his couch. I kind of want him to decide. I place Trace in front of his dresser. “Get your pajamas and go change.”

  That seems to snap him out of it. He chuckles. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I watch as he opens his drawers and retrieves his clothes. I glance around the room. His bed is a huge California King, which makes sense; he’s so tall. It looks really comfy.

  Trace clears his throat once the pjs are in his hands, bringing my attention back to him. “You can sleep in here. I can sleep wherever you’d rather I be.”

  “I’ve
already shared a bed with you once tonight. Might as well do it again,” I say. Surprisingly, I’m actually tired. I might be more nervous had I not woken with Trace and if I thought I wouldn’t fall right to sleep.

  Trace nods with a smile and then disappears into his bathroom. I leave for the guest bathroom, brushing my teeth while I’m in there, and still manage to make it back and into his bed before he walks out. He falters for a moment when he sees me lying in his bed. I opted for the side opposite of the nightstand. When he gets in after turning off the light, there’s plenty of space between us. I’m in the center of the right side, not too far away and not too close in case he wishes for some distance.

  There’s silence for only a second before I feel his warm hand on my hip as he says, “I’ve already held you once tonight. Might as well do it again.”

  A smile pops onto my face. I scoot closer until my head is resting on Trace’s arm, his other is draped over my waist, and only an inch or two between us. “I panicked over seeing a new therapist,” I blurt out. “I know I need to see someone, but you’re the only one I’ve had and you were really good. I couldn’t stop thinking about what if she sucks or I don’t like her, things like that. Her being late didn’t help.”

  “Sorry; she forgot she had an appointment. Are you going to reschedule it? I think you’ll like Mrs. Rumley. She’s sweet, and everyone in the department highly respects her.”

  “I’ll reschedule.” I pause, it hitting me that he’s met Rebecca. “So, how’d it go with Rebecca?”

  Trace laughs. “She’s funny. She cares and worries about you a lot.” A beat of silence. “We both do, Britt.” Then he sighs, which confuses me a little. “Let’s sleep. I’m exhausted.”

  I close my eyes, the corners of my lips tipping up when he tugs me closer. They lift higher when he presses a sweet, gentle kiss to my forehead.

  “Trace. Trace. Trace.” A hard pinch to my side causes my eyes to fly open. “Do you always have a death-grip on things in your sleep?” Brittany asks. My arms are indeed locked around her. “I’ve been trying to escape for an hour.”