Driving Me Mad (28 page)

“What happened to five
minutes?” She glares at me, but I don’t think she’s actually mad.
“I’m guessing he wasn’t asleep.”

“No, he was.” She grins and
holds out her hand for the money I owe her. I roll my eyes and slap
her hand away. “He fell asleep in the shower. I woke him up and got
him back into bed. He wanted me to stay until he fell back asleep.
I don’t think he’s doing well at all, Bec.”

“At least he’s resting
now.”

I told her earlier that he
didn’t get much sleep last night. Rebecca gets distracted by
spotting a waitress and ordering another strawberry daiquiri.
“That’s your last one. You’re a lightweight and I’m not taking a
drunk Rebecca to the show,” I tell her as I feed money to the
machine in front of me.

She only rolls her eyes at
me. It may not be a big glass, but it’s loaded with alcohol. We
play for a bit before walking upstairs where the show is. I’m a
little nervous because I’m not sure what to expect. I’m considering
this normal anxiety—the kind where you’re expected to be nervous
about whatever it is because it’s a natural and normal
reaction.

From the moment the show
starts, I can’t stop giggling. Yeah, the men are hot, but they are
funny too, and it’s just ridiculous to watch them. All the thrusts
and dirty moves, sitting in the lap of an elderly lady, and hearing
the catcalls from the other girls is hilarious. It feels good to
laugh and not think for a while, on top of spending time with
Rebecca. There’s a nagging in the back of my mind that I should be
with Trace, but it’s good to know he’s sleeping right now. After
the show, Rebecca and I get our pictures taken with all of the guys
as a keepsake.

Trace is knocked out, lying
on his stomach, when we return to the room. I change and crawl in
next to him, smiling a little when he wakes up just enough to pull
me closer.

There have been numerous
times in my life when I’ve felt helpless. Usually at the hand of my
own anxiety. You can’t make it stop just because you want it to.
You can’t force yourself to feel better. There’s only a handful of
things you can do. The sometimes lack of effectiveness of what you
can do can easily make you feel helpless.

But the current weight of
helplessness I feel is beyond overwhelming. If I thought I felt
helpless because I can’t help myself, I feel ten times worse about
not being able to do anything for Trace. Being here and doing what
he needs me to do isn’t enough. It’s like putting a Band-Aid on a
large cut gushing blood. Or maybe a better example would be like
taking a pill and it only being a little effective and only two
percent of the time.

I care for him so much and
he’s so good for me. I just want to make him better. What sucks the
most is that neither of us have the full capabilities to make that
happen.

“I think I’m going to stay
here today.”

“What?” I turn to look at
Trace, who is still in bed. Rebecca is in the bathroom, finishing
getting ready for our day.

He looks sad and a little
guilty. “I can’t do it. I do want to go to Fremont Street tonight,
but I definitely can’t do both. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay; I understand. Do
you want me to bring you breakfast before we leave or is there
anything you want me to do for you?”

He shakes his head. Rebecca
steps out of the bathroom. I grab my phone, money, and room
key.

“Let’s go,” I tell her. She
glances at Trace, but walks to the door without saying
anything.

I’m distracted all day
because Trace is occupying my mind. I wonder if he’s eaten, if he’s
sleeping, if he’s feeling okay, and the wonders go on and on. It’s
a tough task to pay attention to both what we’re seeing, doing, and
what Rebecca is saying.

Eventually, she gets fed
up.

“Either go back to the hotel,
or liven up, Brittany,” she snaps. “Trace is a grown man who can
take care of himself. If he’s having a bad day, then okay. But
you
can still have fun!”

“Sorry. I’ll do better,
promise.”

The day still blurs by. Once
we’re back at the hotel for dinner before we leave for Fremont
Street, I text Trace to meet us. Waiting for him is torture. It
feels like a lifetime passes before I see my tall, blond man
walking toward me. His smile is a barely there small one, which is
both a good and bad sign. Good because it’s a smile. Bad because
he’s still not doing well.

He wraps an arm around my
waist and kisses the top of my head. “Y’all have fun today?”

“Yeah,” I answer, though I
doubt I could honestly give him specifics. Rebecca leads the way
upstairs to where all the food is located. “Did you end up doing
anything?” I ask quietly.

Trace simply shakes his head.
Dinner is awfully quiet, and even a little awkward. Afterward, we
catch a cab. I’m so ready to go home. Maybe that’ll help Trace too.
Or not. It hits me that going home also means going back to school
and my parents visiting to meet Trace as my boyfriend. Maybe it
wouldn’t hurt to stay in Vegas longer.

“Quit worrying,” Trace says
in a low voice.

“I’m not worrying.”

He looks pointedly at my hand
clutching my wrist. I force them apart and sit on my hands, causing
him to chuckle. I want to comment that telling me not to worry is
like telling me to not breathe. I can’t do it. It’s part of living
for me. He already knows that, though.

The taxi driver drops us off
in front of one of the hotels. The place is crawling with people
and my chest tightens at the sight once we actually reach the midst
of Fremont Street. The first thing I see is a man walking around
with a cowboy hat and a thong. I look away before he can catch me
looking. But that leads to a woman wearing a thong with angel wings
on her back and those pasty flowers on her nipples.

Good lord.

I can’t do this.

Scenery overload!

There are clusters of people
everywhere, and I step closer to Trace. It’s not like I think they
are dangerous or anything, but how are they even able to walk
around practically naked in public? I’m then distracted by a
shriek, which causes me to jump. It’s only someone overhead on the
zip line. Trace pulls me closer to him and rubs my back. Doubt that
will soothe me.

We walk in and out of the
souvenir shops, buying something to take home here and there. A
little further down there’s a DJ playing music and people are
dancing. There’s a bearded man in plain clothing wearing jeans and
a T-shirt. He’s sweating and seems to be staring at something, but
I’m not sure what. Suddenly, he moves as if he’s a pitcher throwing
to a batter, and then he’s hitting an imaginary ball. He stalks out
of the group, stops in an empty area, and begins nodding his head.
He starts talking, having a conversation with no one.

That guy makes me a little
nervous. He doesn’t seem like he’s here in the present, or in the
same reality as the rest of us. Nonetheless, we watch the people
dance for a few more minutes before walking some more. There’s
another DJ at the end of the road. Waitresses in skimpy outfits are
on the bar dancing. There’s too much going on here. It’s
insane!

Rebecca wants to zip line,
but we don’t. She goes to stand in line, and we wait for her at the
other end. Trace wraps his arms around me, and I rest my head on
his chest.

“How are you doing?” he
asks.

“Ready to go home, even if it
means flying.”

Trace laughs, but it sounds
forced. I jump as I hear, “Hey, you!” A glance over my shoulder
shows me the same man from earlier. He’s pointing a finger, but
it’s like he sees something we don’t because there’s no one in that
direction. He stalks off.

“How are
you
doing?” I
tilt my head back to look at him.

“Ready to be home.”

“This time tomorrow, you’ll
be there.” I glance up in time to see Rebecca flying toward us. She
waves with a big grin. I could maybe do it if I were in an upright
position, not this face-down position she had to do. A few minutes
later, she joins us and tells us how exciting it was.

“Let’s find a place to watch
the light show,” Trace says.

We walk down toward the
intersection and stop there. This way we’re close to the road we’ll
need to walk along to get a taxi back to our hotel. We only have to
wait ten minutes. The light show is pretty cool, but not nearly as
impressive as the fountain show. Sure, they are two different
things, but I almost wish we went back to watch the fountain show
again instead.

Rebecca seems bored too; she
says she’s ready to head back.

“I think I’m going to play
some more slots,” she says in the taxi ride back.

“How much have you lost?” I
ask.

Rebecca laughs. “None! I have
two hundred dollars right now, and that’s off my first twenty!”

I playfully glare at her.
“That’s not right. I’ve lost a hundred dollars.” And boy, did it go
fast! Losing money isn’t fun at all.

“I’ll play the slots with
you,” Trace says, which surprises me. “I haven’t really played
much. Might as well do it tonight.”

Now I’ll look like a loser if
I go up to our room. I definitely don’t want to gamble away any
more money, but I’m not sure if I want to stick around and hang out
with them. I’m tired, and I’m feeling antsy. I wait until we’re
back at the hotel with Trace and Rebecca sitting side-by-side at a
pair of slot machines to mention going back to the room.

“You want me to come with
you?” Trace asks.

“No, stay and play. I’ll be
fine. You have a room key, right?”

He nods. I give him a quick
kiss and make my escape. Dread quickly fills my body. Something
ominous and terrible is coming. I can’t quite put my finger on what
it’ll be, but my gut doesn’t have good feelings about what’s to
come once we return home.

What a way to end a trip.

My chest labors with great
effort as I try to breathe in more air. My eyes water as I lurch
over the toilet to puke again. We’ve been back for two weeks. My
schoolwork seems to be mounting higher every day, my anxiety
doubling right along with it. Trace has yet to tell me about his
mom, and my parents are coming today.

I can’t stop thinking about
everything possible. When is he going to tell me? Why hasn’t he
told me yet? How bad can it be? I’m going to fail this semester and
have to push off graduating. That would be so embarrassing. Rebecca
and I have already found and put a deposit down on an apartment.
Moving is going to be so stressful. Why can’t I breathe?

Taking in large gulps of air,
sounding like I’m gasping, my chest tightens even more. God, how
could it be worse? The attacks are stronger than ever. I sway and
reach out to grab the countertop, feeling lightheaded as black dots
cloud my vision.

“Britt, breathe.”

I vomit and faintly wonder
when Trace walked into the bathroom. Throwing up hasn’t made
breathing any easier. I inhale, nearly choking on my own spit.
Wouldn’t that be a way to die.

“Breathe strong and
steady.”

“I,” another labored breath,
“can’t.” My stomach convulses as I dry heave, nothing left in my
body to force its way out. I stand up and lean my hips against the
sink. I don’t even know what the hell I’m panicking about. I woke
up, sweating like it’s fucking July and a hundred degrees. The
overwhelming urge to vomit flung me from Trace’s bed and into the
bathroom. Tears begin to fall freely. I can’t keep doing this. I
can’t keep waking up, either in my bed at the dorms or here at
Trace’s, and already be in the midst of a panic attack. I’m back to
obsessing over my homework and life and my relationship and Trace
and every other thing I could possibly obsess about.

Therapy has been more
annoying than helpful. I can’t even focus well enough in there. My
last session, which was yesterday, was me sitting in the chair,
staring at the wall, and my mouth opening and closing. I didn’t
know where to start. Mrs. Potter, my therapist, started asking
questions and my responses were short and lacked any real
information. I’m even failing at therapy now!