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Authors: Lindsay Paige

Tags: #romance, #depression, #mental illness, #contemporary, #mental health, #social issues, #anxiety, #new adult

Driving Me Mad (9 page)

BOOK: Driving Me Mad
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“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.”

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
stands 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.

BOOK: Driving Me Mad
12Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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