Driving Me Mad (5 page)

“I’ll call tomorrow. I was
trying to push it off for as long as possible,” I confess.

“I know. You don’t like to
tackle a problem until it’s too much of a problem that you have no
other choice because you don’t like to admit that there
is
a
problem.”

What he says rubs me the
wrong way and I don’t respond.

“Brittany?”

“I hate when you’re right,” I
finally say.

“Sorry.” The sincerity in his
tone makes me smile.

“Tell me about your family in
Texas.”

Trace begins with his
childhood and all his fond memories involving his family. My
eyelids begin to get heavy around his teenage years and soon, it’s
lights out for me with my phone resting against my face.

“Ah, fuck,” a male’s voice
groans in my ear. Sleep feels so damn good that I refuse to awaken
yet. “Britt? You still there?”

“I’m sleeping,” I mumble,
becoming aware of the phone on my face.

He sounds amused as he says,
“You talk in your sleep?”

“Mhm,” I hum, causing him to
laugh.

“You fell asleep on me.”

Last night rushes back into
my head. “Thanks for talking to me until I did.”

“You’re welcome. We should
probably hang up now. It’s seven in the morning, in case you need
to get up, too.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Who are you talking to this
early in the freaking morning?” Rebecca half-shouts, half-grumbles
from behind me.

“Your roommate sounds
friendly.”

I can’t help my laugh. “She’s
the best. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yep. Have a good day,
Brittany.”

“You too, Trace.” I hang up,
thankful my phone was plugged in because it would probably have
died otherwise.

“Ooh, Trace,” Rebecca says as
I roll over to face her. “When do I get to meet him?”

“Why do you need to meet
him?”

She tilts her head and raises
an eyebrow at me. “Seriously? It should be obvious.”

It is. It’s probably because
of his age and how we came to be. And because she’s my best friend
and she wants to evaluate him. “How about I spend more time with
Trace before you meet him?”

“Fine,” she groans.

The morning passes
uneventfully for a change. My body is still wound tight, my hand
still grasping my wrist more often than not, nausea still my most
prominent feeling, but I haven’t thrown up. Therefore, today is
already a success. After my first class, I fulfill one promise to
Trace. I call my psychiatrist, Dr. Gunner. I just saw him in
December when I went home for Christmas break. I didn’t mention any
problems. Now, I’m having to spill my guts. Luckily, Dr. Gunner is
almost as awesome as Trace. I don’t know many who will use breaks
between appointments to basically have a phone appointment with
me.

After my third and final
class of the day, I go pick up my prescriptions, one for the
sleeping pills, and the other my anxiety meds. Once I came clean,
Dr. Gunner decided to up my dosage. Hopefully, both of these
changes will help. I have another phone appointment next month to
give him an update.

It’s so freaking cold today,
my hoodie is no match against the temperature, and my teeth
chatter. Instead of going to my dorm to work on homework, I head
toward the library. If I ever want to die from heat, the library is
the place I’ll go. No matter the temperature outside, the library
has the heat on, it seems. It comes in handy today; it’s toasty and
cozy. I work for a few hours before my phone vibrates in the
kangaroo pocket of my hoodie.

“Hello?” I whisper.

“Hey,” Trace responds in the
same tone. “Why are we whispering?”

“I’m in the library. What’s
up?” I hold the phone between my ear and my shoulder and pack up my
things.

“Would you like to go on a
date with me tonight?”

I stand up straight, causing
my phone to fall from its place. A date? I scramble to pick my
phone up off the floor and answer his question. “Yes. What
time?”

“Can you be ready in an hour
and a half? I have some errands to run first.”

“Okay. You’ll pick me
up?”

“Of course,” he laughs as if
my question was absurd. “I’ll text you and meet you outside of your
dorm.”

“I’ll see you soon then.”

We hang up and I rush back to
my dorm. I don’t necessarily need to, but I’m taking my second
shower of the day. I decide on jeans, a cute pair of flats even
though my feet are going to freeze, and a cute sweater with a
camisole underneath. Perfect for whatever we do.

When Trace texts me, I’m
ready. The moment I step outside, not immediately seeing him, it
hits me like a billion tons of bricks.

I’m going on a date with
Trace.

A surprising surge of panic
grips me and holds me hostage. I stumble to a nearby bench and take
a seat, hoping I can gather my wits before Trace sees me. My
fingernails dig into the underside of my wrist, my grip not tight
enough. Despite the low temperature, I’m hot. My neck and face feel
like they’re on fire. I can feel sweat beginning to form on my
temple.

It’s just Trace, damn it! Why
am I so nervous?

It doesn’t matter because
this shit isn’t logical half the time anyway. I double over to rest
my head on my knees in a poor attempt to ground myself. The urge to
vomit causes me to squeeze my eyes closed. My heart rate is
erratic, and the feel of my pulse seems to be all over my body,
making me dizzy.

“Britt?”

The sound of Trace’s
concerned voice nearly pushes me over the edge.

***

“
S
it up,” I
quietly demand as I sit next to her. She surprises me when she
does. Sometimes, people can hide the physical effects of an anxiety
attack, or they try to. But there’s no way Brittany can cover up
her pale cheeks, the sweat dampening the hair around her face, or
her heavy breathing. She can’t hide the panic in her wide eyes, the
deathlike grip she has on her wrist, or her trembling hands.

I’ve felt helpless plenty of
times before, but this is torture. How am I supposed to help her?
She needs to calm down and think about something other than
whatever is giving her the panic attack. I pull her toward me so
her forehead is resting on my chest as I glide my hands up and down
her back. “Mimic my breathing and try to focus on that.” She nods
against my chest. I inhale for six seconds, pause for one, exhale
for six, and pause for one more before repeating all over
again.

“Not working,” she squeaks
after the fourth time. It is, though. Some of the tension has left
her body already.

“Try counting or
rationalizing whatever it is,” I suggest, since she’s probably
still thinking too much. “Let go of your wrist, too.”

“There’s no rationalizing it!
I was fine and then I was panicking for no reason!”

“Hey.” I squeeze her
shoulders. “Don’t get worked up about it. That won’t help. Count
and keep breathing with me.”

Five minutes pass.

My body starts to numb before
she lifts her head. Tears are streaking her cheeks. When did she
start to cry? I wipe them away. “Better?”

“Yes. Can we go somewhere
warm now?”

I laugh. “C’mon.” I lead her
to my car. “Do you want to eat first?”

“Sure.” She gives me a weak
smile, which tells me she’d rather not.

“Do you trust me to take care
of you?”

“Yes,” Brittany answers
immediately.

“Then you have nothing to
worry about.”

She nods. With how the
weather is today, I had planned on taking her to a place I pass on
the way to campus. According to my co-workers, the restaurant is
known for its soups. What is better on a cold day than a hot bowl
of soup?

“Do you want to tell me what
triggered it?” I ask.

“Sounds like a therapist-y
question, Trace,” she quips, causing me to laugh. “And I’d rather
not say.”

“Fair enough.”

Once we get to the
restaurant, I take her hand and we walk inside.

“Table for two?”

“Yes, and can we have a table
away from everyone, if possible?”

“Sure,” the hostess agrees.
“Just give me a second.” She looks over her tablet and Brittany
squeezes my hand in thanks. A moment later, we’re being led to the
back corner of the restaurant where the nearest person is four
tables over.

I take the seat facing the
room and let Brittany take the one facing the wall. Her anxiety
might not be so bad if she can’t look around the room. We look over
the menu in silence and it’s not until we’ve ordered drinks that
Brittany speaks.

“I called the
psychiatrist.”

“Good. What happened? Are you
still seeing Dr. Gunner?”

“Yeah. He gave me the
sleeping pills and upped my dosage of my regular medication. Did
you call
your
psychiatrist today?”

“Yep.” Nights are always the
worst time for me. I have no problem waking up, getting out of bed,
and going to work in the morning. I can always manage to push
myself to do that much. But then, at some point in the afternoon,
it’s like a switch flips. It’s why I can’t sleep. It’s why I start
shutting down and have trouble managing to do what needs to get
done during that time. What worries me is how I’m going to keep up
appearances around Brittany. This is when I’ll spend most of my
time with her.

Her troubles are the worst in
the morning, usually. She has so much on her plate as it is and I
don’t want to add to that. But we’re a two-way street now, at her
request, so I don’t have much choice. It should be worth it
anyway.

The waitress returns and we
order our soups.

“Are we doing anything after
this?” Brittany asks when she walks away.

My depressed mind says no,
but my heart says yes. “Anything in particular that you want to
do?”

Her laughter causes me to
smile. “You asked me out on a date. I’m not going to help you plan
it.”

“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.”