Driving Me Mad Read online

  “Sorry.” I let her go, and she rolls away from me, getting up and heading toward the bathroom. Turning, I sprawl on my stomach and try to sleep some more. I don’t know what time it is and I don’t care. It’s Saturday and I have no plans. Unfortunately, sleep isn’t going to come again. I roll over just in time to see her walk out of the bathroom. She looks as if she’s run her fingers through her hair. What throws me off kilter is the smile on her face. “You’re smiling.”

  “You have a crazy case of bedhead. It’s cute.” She shrugs.

  “Want some breakfast?”

  Her smile falters. “Not really hungry.”

  “Want to lie in bed a bit longer?”

  She nods, coming over to get back in. She lies next to me on her back with her head turned toward me. “So, am I hanging out with you today?”

  “If you want to.”

  “Okay.” Brittany looks up at the ceiling, closing her eyes tightly.

  I notice her hands moving under the covers to rest on her stomach, and I suspect she’s squeezing her wrist. Her eyes pop open when I reach across, uncurl her fingers from around her wrist, and interlock them with mine, resting them on my stomach. “Normal stuff or something specific?”

  “Normal. It’s not too bad, though it’s going up a little since you’re taking away my comfort.” She squeezes my hand to make her point.

  “I’ll be your comfort.” I squeeze her hand back.

  She smiles, but remains silent. We lie there for about ten minutes before I realize we need to get up. If we don’t, we’ll be here for most of the day. It’s already noon.

  “C’mon, Britt,” I say softly. “Come watch me cook. I’m thinking we go with pizza instead of breakfast food?”

  She laughs. “What am I going to do? Watch you watch the pizza cook in the oven? And since when is pizza not breakfast food?”

  I grin. “You may just be the perfect girl.”

  Her morning anxiety seems to fade as the pizza cooks, but she’s still kind of quiet once we start eating.

  “Want to know a secret?” I ask.

  “Sure.”

  “When I was younger, I wanted to be a comedian.” Brittany bursts out laughing, and it’s tough to hold back a smile. “What?”

  “You tell horrible jokes, Trace! Do you remember when you tried to cheer me up that one time? The best joke you could come up with was the knock-knock joke about the banana and orange! And it took you like two minutes to think of that one to tell me!” She holds her side as she laughs. “There’s no way you could ever be a comedian.” She picks up her slice of pizza and takes a bite, still giggling under her breath.

  I smile, really happy to see her laughing and eating. “Okay, so maybe it was a far-fetched dream. Your turn to tell me a secret,” I tell her before taking a bite of my own.

  “Hmm,” she ponders. Brittany smiles as she lays a hand on my thigh and leans towards me. “That knock-knock joke actually made me feel better.”

  Chuckling, mostly to distract myself from the heat of her hand, I say, “Your secret can’t piggy-back off of mine. Tell me another.”

  She removes her hand and eats more while she thinks. Brittany has done a ton of growing up since she left for college. There’s a confidence, intelligence, and maturity to her beauty. Her black hair is wavy and hangs to mid-back. Her dark brown eyes complement her pink lips that widen into such a beautiful smile. She could kill with a smile like that.

  Brittany catches me watching her and giggles. “You probably know almost all of my secrets.”

  She could be onto something there. “Then tell me a normal, everyday type of thing about you that I wouldn’t know.”

  She thinks for a bit and settles on, “I love fried pickles. Like, they should be an entrée, not an appetizer because that’s how much I love them.”

  “They are good,” I agree. “What else?” Maybe she’ll eat more if she’s doing more talking and less thinking.

  “Well,” she moves her feet from under the table, drawing my attention to the one red sock and one black one. “My socks are always mismatched because it’s a waste of time and energy to match them. My preferred drink is Sun Drop, but if I’m forced to pick something else, I’ll go with sweet tea. I can re-watch episodes or movies a million times and never get tired of them. My favorite Christmas movie is How the Grinch Stole Christmas. And even though cold and snow suck, winter is my favorite season.” She takes a deep breath. “Your turn.”

  I figured this was coming, so I already have mine ready. “Most people think that because I’m so tall and fit that I was an athlete. I couldn’t play any sport if my life depended on it. I’m just bad at it. I love old country music. Even when I was little, I loved listening to it with my grandpa. I got a black lab for Christmas when I turned ten and his name was Johnny Cash. I can’t dance unless it’s a slow dance. Dateline is my favorite TV show. I can always predict what happened or who done it, but I like watching it all unfold. If I had to choose one food to eat for the rest of my life, it would be pizza. I have it for dinner once or twice a week.” I pause and finish with, “I can’t think of anything else off the top of my head.”

  She looks surprised. “You really aren’t athletic at all?”

  I laugh. “Not even a little. My dad signed me up for every sport available and I failed miserably at them all. He was disappointed at first, but he got over it.”

  “Wow. I never would have thought that, or how you’re a country music fan either. Although, I can believe the dancing one for some reason.” She giggles, causing me to smile. She’s managed to eat three slices of pizza, so I feel really proud of myself. “Mind if I use your shower?”

  “Sure.”

  I show her where to find what she’ll need and then return to the kitchen to clean up the last two days’ worth of dishes while trying not to think about how she’s naked and wet in my house. Is she going to want to go somewhere? Or hang here all day? If it’s the former, where will we go? She knows this town better than I do. Honestly, I’m hoping we can stay here and be lazy.

  My phone rings, and my shoulders slump when I see it’s my father. Not telling him about my depression has certain disadvantages and they are always prevalent in our conversations. I go ahead and get the sigh out now before I answer.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “I’m surprised you answered,” he says dryly. “You’ve been ignoring my calls for a month now.”

  “Things have been busy.” That’s true, but I’ve been ignoring his calls because I haven’t had the energy to talk to him. “I just am settled in here now.”

  “It’s not like I wanted to yap with you for an hour; it was a simple checking-in call that wouldn’t have taken ten minutes. Anyway, how are things there?”

  “Good. Job is going well so far and I like it here.”

  “Great. When are you planning to visit us since you were too busy over Christmas?”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. “I was moving,” I point out.

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Dad only remarried three years ago and ever since, he’s been hounding me to go to Texas and visit more often than I do. There’s a reason I don’t visit. Hell, there are a lot of reasons. I pretend to bang my head against the fridge, trying to think of an answer.

  “Trace?” I hear my dad and a soft, clearly feminine voice say.

  I turn to see Brittany with her wet hair up in a messy bun. She’s squeezing her wrist and looks worried. It pisses me off that I’ve worried her. “Dad, I need to go.”

  “What? Why? I’m trying to have a conversation with you and you can’t take a few minutes to talk to me?”

  “No, I have company. I’ll talk to you later. Love you, bye.” I hang up without waiting for him to respond.

  “Are you okay?” Brittany asks.

  “Yeah. I’m going to shower.” I walk past her and am down the hallway when she stops me.

  “Trace.”

  I turn to face her
. She wants to say more; I can tell because her lips are parted. When she doesn’t say anything after a beat, I continue on my way to the shower. This day was going so well. I need to recoup while I’m in the shower because I know if I don’t, Brittany won’t be able to hold off asking me about it.

  Then again, I feel guilty because I’m supposed to be talking to her about these kinds of things and here I am trying to make sure she doesn’t make me. My shower isn’t helping clear my thoughts at all, so I make it a quick one.

  Brittany is sitting in the middle of the couch, watching TV when I walk in. I sit next to her and decide to just go for it. “You know how I didn’t really talk to you my first month here?” She nods. “Well, I didn’t talk to my dad at all either. He’s pissed I didn’t come home for Christmas and wants to know when I’ll visit. I don’t like to visit because I’m not always in the best of shapes and I have to hide it from him.” Her mouth opens. “Don’t tell me that I could just tell him. Topic is off limits for a while. So,” I get us back on track, “it stresses me out to have to talk to him.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her frown deepens. “You spent Christmas alone?”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  She nods, but I can’t tell if she believes me or not. “What are we going to do?”

  “Well, since I was at someone’s dorm room last night, I missed the new Dateline, but I had it recorded. Want to watch that with me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you want some popcorn? I usually have a bowl to munch on while I watch.”

  Brittany tilts her head. “Really? Popcorn with Dateline? It’s not a movie. It’s a show where it’s always obvious who did it. Why do you need popcorn?”

  “Because I’m an old man set in my ways and I eat popcorn when I watch the show. Want a Sun Drop?”

  “Yes, please.” I stand and head toward the kitchen. “And you’re not old!” she calls after me.

  Her comment makes me smile. I come back to the living room, two cans of drink in one hand and a bowl of freshly popped popcorn in the other. This is a decent way to spend the afternoon.

  ***

  Trace is so completely invested in Dateline; it’s cute. It may also be the first time, aside from when he’s sleeping, that he looks relaxed. Trace being relaxed causes me to do the same. For the first time in months, my anxiety seems to take a break. I rest my head on Trace’s shoulder, very much enjoying being here with him.

  While he fast-forwards on a commercial, I ask, “You’re from Texas, right? How did you end up in North Carolina?”

  “We took a vacation here one year and I fell in love with the state. I came here for college and never left.”

  “What do you love about North Carolina?” I’ve never lived anywhere else, so it will be interesting to hear about it from someone who wasn’t born and raised here.

  Trace pauses the show, so he doesn’t miss what comes next while he answers me. “I love that it has both the mountains and the beach. I love that you get all four seasons. I love that Sun Drop exists here. Whenever I do take trips home, I have to pack some to take with me. And I love that I’ve yet to visit a place I didn’t like.”

  “How often do you go back to Texas?”

  “Every year or so.” Most likely as a method of preventing me from asking more questions, he asks, “Do you think you’ll ever move out of the state?”

  “Probably not. I love it here. Plus, I haven’t really traveled enough to know where I’d want to go. I would like to do some traveling, though.”

  “Me too.”

  I stay quiet so he can finish watching his show. I laugh to myself at the thought of how it’s sort of like his soap opera. Trace raises an eyebrow at my chuckling, but I shake my head. As it comes to an end, an antsy feeling takes over. It’s like I’m suddenly on high alert and can’t stop thinking about all I need to do. “I should get back,” I reluctantly start. “Homework and all.”

  Trace slouches a little more into the couch, stretching his legs out underneath the coffee table, as if he’s getting comfortable and not as if he’s about to get up and take me to campus. He turns his head against the back cushion to look at me. “Have a lot to do?”

  “More like I have a lot to go over and perfect.”

  He reaches over to take my hand in his, practically swallowing it whole. “I think you could use a day off.”

  “I had a day off yesterday,” I remind him.

  “That doesn’t count. You slept for most of it.” When I frown, he smiles slightly and leans over to place a firm, short kiss against my lips. My first thought is about how I guess we’re joking about the error of my ways, but it all fades away with the touch of his mouth until he speaks and snaps me out of it quickly. “I can’t stop thinking about fried pickles and I want you to go eat some with me. After that, if you want to go back to campus, I’ll take you.”

  If I want to go back to campus? Is that an invitation to stay here again? No, I’m sure he simply misspoke or meant something else. “Okay,” I say.

  “Great. Let’s go.” He stands and I do too. Trace tries to lead me to the door, but I make sure I grab my things first. He is dropping me off afterward. I need to go over my homework and I can’t do that if I stay here with him again.

  I tell him where to go for the best fried pickles in town, and he drives there. A to-do list begins to form in my head once we’re in the restaurant and sitting at the bar. There’s so much to do and not enough time to do it in. There probably would be if I didn’t have to have panic attack-induced breaks. Trace’s fingers intertwine with mine on the bar top, causing me to glance over at him.

  “I can hear you thinking from over here,” he says with a wry smile.

  “You’re not that far away,” I point out, making him laugh. His laugh steals my breath away. For the briefest of moments, all is right in our worlds.

  “Tell me where in the world is your top place to visit.”

  I smile. He’s trying to distract me from whatever I’m thinking. “Las Vegas.”

  Trace’s eyebrows might as well be taking a trip to outer space. “Seriously?”

  “I know, right? Seems like it would be the anxiety epicenter of the world, and I think that’s part of why I want to go. It’s crowded and crazy. If I could survive a trip there, I could survive going anywhere else in the world. Where would you want to go?”

  “Italy. My foreign language classes were Italian. We learned about the culture some, and I’d love to go there.”

  “You speak Italian?” Wow. I didn’t know that.

  Trace chuckles. “I spoke Italian. It’s been so long since then that I only remember a few of the basics.”

  The waitress drops off our fried pickles. I push them toward Trace, so he can have one first. These are seriously the best fried pickles I’ve ever had. He pops one into his mouth. His eyes close and a low groan comes from his throat.

  “Told ya,” I say before eating one myself after dipping it in ranch.

  “These are amazing.”

  “It’s all in the breading, I think. It definitely makes a difference.” My phone begins to vibrate in my purse, and I pull it out to see a call from my mother. “I better answer; she worries when I don’t. I’m going to step outside.” Trace nods and I hop off the bar stool. “Hey, Mom,” I answer.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Fine. I can’t talk too long, though.” It’s way too cold out here, especially when I have a hot guy inside waiting for me.

  “Oh, sorry, Brittany,” she says. “Are you busy?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of? What are you doing?”

  “I’m out…with a friend.”

  “A friend?” Oops. Being vague is not the way to go with my mother, it seems. I can just picture my mom sitting up straighter and waving over my father. “What kind of friend?” Yep. Totally on speaker phone. Her voice always sounds a little different.

  “A guy friend.”

  “Please tell me it isn’t what’s
his name from last year,” Dad says. He only knows about what’s his name because I told Mom about him. It barely lasted a month.

  “No, Dad,” I sigh. “You’d actually like this guy.” Well, he liked him when he was my therapist.

  “Ooh. Do tell,” Mom says with excitement.

  “You’re making me be a bad date, Mom. I only answered so you wouldn’t worry. Call me tomorrow, okay?”

  “Oh, all right. Enjoy your date!”

  “Thanks,” I laugh. “Bye, love y’all.” I’m finally able to rush back into the warmth. Trace is smiling when I sit next to him. “What’s with the smile?” I ask as I rub my hands together to heat them up.

  Trace takes them between his. God, his hands are like a furnace compared to mine. “You’re cute when your nose and cheeks are red.”

  I roll my eyes. “Because it’s a freaking freezer out there. Mom wanted to learn about the friend,” I give him a pointed look, “I’m hanging out with and who is the reason I can’t talk to her right now.”

  His body tenses. I swear, he even stops breathing for a moment. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, releasing my hands and leaving them to fall limply into my lap. “You told them?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “But am I not supposed to?”

  “I just.” He grips the back of his neck and squeezes. His eyes tightly shut before staring at the basket of pickles. “I didn’t consider them when I was trying to think of all my bases that might need covering. They won’t be happy about it. About us.” Those hazel eyes return to me.

  “Why?” I don’t understand his reaction. My parents know Trace. They met him when he was my therapist, and they loved him as much as I did. My body now has no problem getting warm. My hands begin to turn clammy, my neck heats up, and I start squeezing my wrist. I mean, I don’t even know what us means. Nausea rolls through me. The last thing a person wants to smell when they feel like vomiting is the aroma of fried pickles. I push them away as Trace answers.

  “Think about it. I was your therapist. I coincidentally moved to the same town as you. What if they question my professionalism when you were my client? What if they don’t believe how this,” he motions between us, “started? Not to mention, I’m nearly a decade older than you.” Okay, now putting it that way makes him sound so much older. “After I was asked for an interview, I thought about what it could mean for me to move here. I knew I would have to tell them, but they didn’t know you were a former client. What they needed to know is that you’re a current student. Your parents finding out will be a completely different beast.”