Driving Me Mad Page 6

  Trace squeezes his neck harder and it hits me as I realize what’s happening. He has a tell. I squeeze my wrist; he squeezes the back of his neck. Then it really hits me. Trace is having a panic attack. Oh, my god. While I know that anxiety and depression can go hand-in-hand, Trace has never, not once, mentioned he also dealt with anxiety. Only depression.

  “If they don’t believe it, they could ruin my career.” Now, he’s talking more to himself than me. It’s like he’s checked out, even though he’s looking at me. I reach over, pull his hand away, and squeeze it. “Why in the hell didn’t I consider that?” he continues. “I swore I thought of everything, and of course, I didn’t.”

  “Trace,” I interrupt sternly. He blinks twice. “Stop it. My parents are open-minded people. If they weren’t, I never would’ve seen a therapist in the first place. I’m not telling them any time soon, but when I do, they’ll understand as long as I explain it right.”

  “As long as you explain it right? Great,” he huffs.

  I drop his hand. Did he seriously just say that to me? Obviously, I’m incompetent to explain us to my parents, right? Before my anger gets out of hand, I remind myself that he’s probably still panicking and his words are a reflection of that—not of what he actually thinks of me. I take a deep breath and calmly say, “My parents won’t find out in the foreseeable future, Trace.” Considering that I try not to think too far ahead, it’s totally plausible. “If a time comes when I’ll need to tell them, then I will. If you’re worried about it, you can be there or be the one who tells them instead of me.” To hopefully end this, I finish by throwing his own words back at him. “One day at a time.”

  He nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. My career is extremely important to me, and I don’t want to do something that could jeopardize it. Or have someone think I did do something.”

  “I get it.” And I do.

  We sit in silence for a moment. The waitress checks on us and Trace asks for the bill; it seems we’ve both lost our appetites. The fried pickles go to waste. What disturbs me even more is Trace. He’s quiet, lost in his own head, and most likely, he’s still worrying. So far, with this thing we have going on, he’s never really pulled away from me. Although, the opportunity hasn’t been there before either. That scares the hell out of me. He’s my rock, always has been. How am I supposed to stay steady and strong with him cracking?

  When we walk outside and he goes to open the passenger door for me, I stop him. “Trace,” I start, but no other words come.

  He sighs. The cold air is making his breath visible. “I know, Britt. I know.” He pulls me against him and wraps his arms around me. I’m glad he knows because I sure don’t. My head rests on his chest, my arms firmly around him, and I relish in the feel of his big, strong, sturdy body. We stand there in silence for about a minute. “It’s going to be hard, you know.”

  “Why?” Why does it have to be hard? Why does everything have to be so damn hard all the damn time?

  “Because we’re both not quite sane,” he says with a half-sigh and half-serious tone.

  I can’t help it; I laugh. I turn my face inward to press my forehead against his jacket, and I can’t stop freaking giggling. We’re not crazy; but he’s right. We’re not quite sane either. With a large smile, I tilt my head back to see Trace with one of his own.

  His head dips down and I lean up on my tiptoes to at least try to meet him halfway. A flutter of disappointment hits me when he only rests his forehead against mine.

  “In a way, it’s a good thing,” he adds.

  “It is?”

  “Yep. All the good stuff never comes easy.”

  “But we will get to the good stuff, right?”

  “We will,” he confirms.

  “Can we go ahead and get some of the good stuff now? Like, say, a kiss, for example?” I grin.

  Trace grins, too, but he doesn’t kiss me yet. “You could take a kiss,” he tells me.

  “Yeah, but I want you to give it to me.” It hits me then just how much I want him to give me. I want him to give me peace, comfort, his time, friendship, and something more than friendship. I don’t want to take it. It’s so much sweeter when he wants to give it to me. I take enough from him during my moments of panic and depression.

  He studies me for a moment. Then, he presses those lips to mine. It’s slow, reassuring almost. There’s strength in the movements of his mouth and tongue. It’s a leisurely kind of kiss that could go on for days while nursing the growing and scorching fire between us. I lift higher on my toes, my arms going around his neck as I try to meld him against me and deepen the kiss, nipping on his lower lip. He groans low into my mouth. Maybe I can take from him after all.

  Or not.

  Trace’s hold tightens, and he places open-mouthed kisses along my jaw and down my neck. It’s such a stark contrast between the cold air and then his hot mouth. Making out in the winter has more perks than I realized. I don’t know if I’m freezing or too warm.

  “Trace,” I breathe, thankful for his hold because my entire body feels so light and overwhelmed.

  “One more,” he mumbles before taking my mouth again. I can barely breathe for how consuming and demanding he is. When he pulls away, it takes everything I have not to gasp for air with my already labored breathing. “Sure you want to go back to campus?” I open my mouth to say no. Wait, yes. Yes, I need to go back to campus. I have homework. Trace doesn’t give me the chance to argue that point. “You can do it at my house and spend tomorrow with me.”

  It’s tempting. Damn it all to hell, it’s tempting. Trace, in and of himself, is a comfort. I can relax just a little more when he’s around. I don’t have to think so much if he’s there to distract me. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to stay again. I can definitely do my homework there just as well as I can on campus.

  “Okay,” I give in, causing Trace to steal my breath away with his grin.

  It’s not until after the pitstop at campus for my things that I wonder if it’s good to use Trace as a distraction.

  It’s not until we get to his house that I wonder if he’s using me as well.

  ***

  I’m lying on the couch while Brittany is sitting in the recliner, obsessing over her homework. My stomach is starting to grumble from where we never finished eating thanks to my own panic attack. I’ve been watching her for two hours. She’s squeezed her wrist over a hundred times because yes, I started counting.

  “Brittany.” She lifts her head. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, I’m fine.” She returns her attention to her laptop and textbook.

  I stand and head to the kitchen to fix us dinner. I feel bad, like I’m the reason for her anxiety and in turn, her loss of appetite. Maybe I can get her to eat something anyway. Cheeseburgers and French fries are on the Lexington Menu tonight. Who can resist that? I can feel myself shutting down and if a person’s mind can dig its heels in to resist, I’m sure doing it. The night has been a bit rough as it is and I don’t need to dampen it even more by wanting to crawl into bed and leave Brittany to her own anxiety with her homework.

  “Hey,” I poke my head into the living room. “Come eat.”

  Brittany doesn’t even lift her head. She’s seems to be busy rewriting what I’m sure was a perfectly well-written paper because her fingers are flying across the keyboard at a rapid pace, stopping occasionally only to slam down on the backspace key repeatedly. “Not hungry,” she mumbles. I walk into the room, carefully pick up her laptop, and hold it behind my back as she reaches for it. “Give it back.”

  “Come eat with me.” It’s a simple request that she should have no problem accepting.

  “I’m not hungry, Trace. Give me back my laptop,” she demands in a low tone with a glare.

  “No. I’ve seen everything you’ve eaten today, and you have to be hungry. I am.”

  “That’s because you’re a fucking giant! Give it back!” Her outburst surprises me as she st
ands and reaches for the device again. “I didn’t save it and it could crash at any time. I was right in the middle of a sentence, too! I’ll eat when I get hungry.”

  “Which won’t be until tomorrow. What was it you told me the first day you saw me in my office? Something about you looking like crap? That’s because you’ve lost too much weight. You should eat something, even if it’s only a little bit. Your body needs it.”

  Her arms fall to her sides, only to be propped on her hips. “You know, Trace, that’s just what every girl wants to hear. Thank you for telling me. It definitely makes me want to go stuff my face with food that makes me nauseated already!” she shouts. She takes a deep breath. It’s as if all her fight leaves with her exhale. “I call the grinch,” she whispers, plopping back into the recliner, which causes her textbook that was balancing on the arm to fall onto the floor.

  “What?” What the hell does that mean?

  “It’s something Rebecca and I came up with. It means I need twenty-four hours completely to myself to deal.” Her fingers wrap around her wrist. “I thought I’d be okay tonight, but I don’t know. I’m snapping and yelling at you, and,” she shakes her head, “I think I need the grinch.”

  The last thing she needs, the last thing I need, is for either of us to be lost in our own heads. I think that’s why I asked her to come back. To keep me in the here and now and not in the dark, murky places of my mind. I place her laptop on the coffee table and get on my knees in front of her, reaching for her hands.

  My mouth opens and closes a few times as I struggle with what to say. Me, a therapist, has no fucking clue what to tell her. Nothing seems appropriate or right because half of it is a slew of things I could say to soothe her while the other half would allow me to keep my end of the bargain of making us a two-way street. I’d much rather soothe her and keep the mess about me to myself. I sigh, rubbing my thumbs over her knuckles.

  “I love how easily you can talk to me, but it’s not easy for me to do the same. So, bear with me, okay?” She nods. “I’m sorry for pushing you; I know it’s not easy when your body rebels against you. I want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself, though. And if it makes you feel any better, I kinda feel like calling the grinch, too.” Turns out, that’s all I’m able to force myself to say. So much for opening up.

  Her eyebrows rise. “Really?” She sounds awfully surprised. I nod, and she adds with a frown, “With me, you can obviously tell. I can’t tell with you.”

  “You’ll eventually be able to tell,” I reassure her and it seems to satisfy her. It seems like such an odd thing to be reassuring her on, but it’s true. I knew how to read her long before now. She’s never had the opportunity before to be able to read me and see my signs. “How are ya feeling?”

  One corner of her mouth lifts. “Like maybe I can at least sit at the table with you.” When I stand, she quickly says, “As soon as I save my paper.” She finishes her sentence and then saves it, following me into the kitchen.

  I decide to leave the fries on the plate they’re on, instead of putting some on my own plate. This way, maybe Brittany will pluck some off while she’s sitting with me. She giggles to herself as she taps the screen of her phone, probably texting someone.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask as I sit down.

  A blush reddens her cheeks. “Oh, nothing. Just some nonsense from Rebecca.” She eyes the fries between us, but makes no move for one.

  “You don’t want to share?” I take a bite of my burger, which is obviously delicious since I made it.

  “Nope.” She takes a swallow of her Sun Drop. “So, what exactly did you mean when you said you knew what moving here could mean for us? Like, what does us mean?” She reaches for a fry and dips it in my ketchup as she adds, “I don’t know what we are or how we came to be this way or that we ever had the same thoughts. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

  I deserve a medal for sneaky effectiveness since she’s eating. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. Now, I think about how I’m going to answer her. I place my burger on my plate and grab my glass for a sip of my drink.

  Her eyes widen as she grabs another fry. “I’m making you nervous?”

  My eyebrows bunch together. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, when you had the panic attack at the restaurant, you grabbed the back of your neck. It’s your tell, and you’re doing it right now.”

  Suddenly, I realize that I am doing just that and immediately drop my hand. Clearing my throat, I decide to ignore the tidbit about my apparent tell. “I meant that I felt like things would move beyond texts and phone calls, and that we would probably explore things. Which is what we’re doing now.”

  She’s been studying me while stealing a few more fries. “Exploring things?” I can’t quite read her tone, but I nod. “Does that mean if someone asks me out on a date, I’m available to say yes?”

  I immediately frown. Is there someone else trying to steal my girl from me before I truly have her? What the hell? That’s for damn sure not happening. “You are not available to say yes,” I answer gruffly before taking a bite of my burger.

  A wry smile lifts her lips. “Good to know.”

  We eat in silence long enough for me to finish my burger. The idea she’s planted in my head that someone may be trying to get her to go out with him is annoying the hell out of me. Is it true or was she testing me? I finish off the last of my drink. “That was a hypothetical question, right?” I finally ask, unable to help myself.

  Brittany laughs. “Yeah, it was.” She’s eaten about half the fries. “Well, I guess I better get back to my homework. Or do you need help cleaning up?”

  I shake my head. “I’ll get it.”

  She nods and leaves the kitchen. I finish off the fries before cleaning up. It’s good to be home because I definitely don’t want to be anywhere else. However, it’s good and bad that Brittany is here. I’m ready to lie down and do nothing. With her here, I can stay in the present and not get lost in my head. Hopefully, anyway.

  Brittany is still working on her assignment when I walk into the living room. She’s moved to the couch, though, so I sit in the recliner. I pop the foot up and recline back, staring at the ceiling. Part of me feels like I’ve lied to her. What I should’ve told her is that I knew if I got the job, I would want more from her. That I would ask for more and would do whatever it took to get the chance. I glance over at her. As she’s reading over what she wrote, she’s squeezing her wrist. If I could do anything for her, I’d take away the anxiety and depression. She’s too beautiful, too bright, and too great of a person to be dragged down by something that can be so debilitating and destructive.

  She’s been reading for the last few minutes, so I assume she’s doing a read-through. She sighs.

  “Let me see it,” I say before she can delete what she’s written. “Maybe you need a second opinion.” Or someone to put a stop to the endless edits. I sit upright and hold out my hand for the laptop.

  Brittany surprises me when she stands and takes a seat in my lap. She sits the laptop so I can read her paper and then she starts squeezing her wrist. I stop the habit by holding one of her hands. “Be honest,” she orders.

  I nod and begin to read after she explains the topic to me. A few minutes later, I determine there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the paper. It’s well-written and explains the topic well.

  “It’s terrible, right?” Brittany asks the second I finish.

  I reach around her to save it. Then I close the laptop and place it on the floor next to the chair, ignoring her questions and objections. I wrap my arms around her and recline us. “Which draft is that?”

  “Only the second,” she answers, resting her head on my shoulder to get comfortable.

  “Do you want to know why your papers keep getting less than an A?”

  “Because they suck,” she grumbles with a subtle duh tone.

  “Because you keep redoing them until they do. That is a great paper, but
if you keep rewriting everything and second-guessing it, it’s going to suck. Your first and second draft are good. You need to stop with all the rewriting.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. That’s my honest opinion. Was there something else you were going to work on?”

  “No,” she sighs.

  “Good. You can lie here with me then.” I’m exhausted. Not because I’ve done anything to wear me out either. Brittany turns onto her side and wedges herself between me and the arm of the chair. I absentmindedly start rubbing her back. It would be perfect if I could just sit here with her forever. I’m ready for bed, but I want to stay up since it’s not too late yet. “Tell me something I don’t know about you yet.”

  She thinks about it for a few moments. Her voice is soft when she speaks. “I think that maybe I depend on you too much.” Brittany has said something like this before, but I didn’t really pay attention to it.

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugs.

  “Complete honesty, Britt,” I remind her.

  “Isn’t it self-explanatory?”

  “No.”

  Once again, I’m making her sigh. There are much better ways to cause that, but that’s a thought for another day.

  “When you were moving here and getting settled and didn’t talk to me, I kept wishing you would because I could really use it. It’s crazy to think about how relieved I was to have you back and to know you live here now. I can be at my worst, and I always know you’re there with me to help me out of it. I’ve started wondering what if you weren’t there and it scares me so much that it’ll push me toward an attack. And, on the other hand, I wish you would depend on me too much, too, instead of not enough. It worries me.”