Driving Me Mad (11 page)

“Not if it means getting
up.”

He chuckles. “It doesn’t mean
that.”

“Then, I guess I’m awake.” I
tilt my head back to see him smiling.

“Feeling like the
grinch?”

“No.” The answer surprises
me, especially considering how things started.

Trace’s smile widens. “Good.
Me neither.” He dips his head to kiss me softly. “What do you want
to do today?” he asks, his lips brushing over mine while I become
more aware of every part of his body that’s touching me.

Who can focus when his lips
are so distracting? Instead of replying, I kiss him. Trace seems
content, but I’m not. I want more. I kiss him harder and run my
hands over his chest, letting them travel further and further
south. That seems to stir him into action. He rolls us. His hips
are pressed against me and I wish we were naked already. With that
in mind, I start tugging on his shirt. I really need to see him
shirtless.

“Britt,” Trace breathes,
kissing my neck. I can’t figure out if he’s hesitating or what.

“You asked me what I wanted
to do today,” I remind him. “I want to do this.” I pull his shirt
up and he finally helps me out so I can take it off. The sculpted
skin before me has me wondering how this man doesn’t have a lick of
athleticism in him. My fingertips trace over every inch while I try
to let it soak in that this body belongs to my boyfriend.

“Quit staring; you’re making
me self-conscious.”

I start laughing and Trace
grins. Self-conscious?
Yeah, right.

“Time to return the favor.”
He lies on his side and fingers the hem of my shirt which has risen
up just enough that I can feel his fingers grazing my skin. He
doesn’t try to take it off, though. My breaths shallow out when he
brushes his thumb along my hip. His eyes keep flicking from his
hand to me.

“What are you waiting for?” I
ask, tired of waiting.

“You.”

I gulp. He wants me to remove
my own shirt? I’ve always had someone else remove it. It just
happened that way. For a moment, the urge to grab my wrist
overwhelms me. I remind myself that this is Trace. That scatters my
anxiety and I remove my shirt. Those hazel eyes drink me in and
then he’s on me again, taking me from slightly cold to way too warm
in seconds. His hands move over my exposed skin much like I did to
him. My head falls to the side with his open-mouthed kisses on my
chest.

For the briefest of moments,
a sliver of panic enters my mind. This is
huge
and what if
neither of us live up to any expectations we may have? Trace’s
fingers have curled under the tops of my pajama bottoms.

“Britt.”

I look at him and gulp at the
sight of him hovering over me, about to strip me completely naked.
But then he crawls back up my body to rest his forehead against
mine while his forearms brace him on either side of my head. He
kisses me softly once. I can feel his hard length between my legs.
I wiggle my hips, wondering why he’s stopped. Maybe he felt my
momentary tension when I panicked. If that’s why, I don’t want him
to ask me about it and ruin the mood. I kiss him and slip my hand
between our bodies and underneath his pajama pants.

There is no room for anxiety
in this bed. There is no time for second-guessing myself or
thinking about anything other than taking this next step with
Trace. The moment my fingers brush against his length, he’s kissing
me hard, my fluke forgotten completely. He’s not rushing, though.
Trace lowers his body until his head is at my hips and his fingers
are back where they were. All I can do is breathe, enjoy, and
follow his lead.

This is a much better way to
start the morning.

Sometimes, you just need a
lazy day in bed. That’s how Trace and I spent our day before he
took me back to campus yesterday. Now, I’m having lunch with
Rebecca who is waiting for me to spill all the dirty details about
Trace.

“Tell me already!” she
demands.

“One sec, Bec.” I hurry to
type my text to Trace. Today has sucked so far, most of it stemming
from my appointment with the campus counselor.

Me:
Question: If I
happen to need to talk about you, am I allowed to mention it to
Mrs. Rumley? Like, she has to act like she doesn’t know, right? I
don’t actually have anything to say, but I don’t want to freak out
if I happen to bring you up.

Trace immediately texts me
back.

Trace:
Talk about
whatever you need to, Britt. Don’t worry about it.

Me:
Are you
sure?

Trace:
Yes. Enjoy
your lunch and I’ll talk to you later.

With that, I put my phone
back in my purse.

“Well? I know you slept with
him. There was no hiding your thoroughly fucked appearance when you
came back. What was he like? He’s proportional, right?”

I laugh and nod. I think
about yesterday and I don’t even know where to start. “The man has
many sides.”

“What the hell does that
mean?” She stabs a piece of lettuce. She’s on a healthy kick and
swears it will be good for us both, so we’re eating salads today.
With no salad dressing. What the hell?

“It means he doesn’t just do
it the same way every time. I never know what to expect. Sweet,
gentle, tender, demanding, rough, hot, heavy, giving, taking—”

“My god, how many times did
y’all have sex?”

My cheeks burn and I
shrug.

Rebecca raises an eyebrow at
me. “You don’t know.” When I remain silent, she gasps. “Oh, my god.
You lost track of how many orgasms, didn’t you? I guess that makes
sense since you stayed all weekend.”

“The first time was
yesterday,” I correct, causing her eyes to widen. I should probably
tell her that I do indeed know the magical number, but it would
dampen what she’s conjured.

“So, y’all are officially
dating now, right? You’re not going to correct me if I call him
your boyfriend?”

“He’s my boyfriend,” I
confirm. It sounds so weird and comforting at the same time.

“You seem happy. You know,
the most you can be happy with all the shit you’re going
through.”

“Geez, thanks,” I mumble.

“C’mon, you know what I mean.
You had a rough morning and yet you were giving me a goofy smile a
second ago. That didn’t happen before.”

“I’m hoping it’ll all work
out.” Just the thought of things ending with Trace causes my
heartbeat to accelerate.

“Brittany, why are you
already worrying about it? I mean, is it more than your normal
worry?”

“Because he
gets
it,
truly
gets it.” I wait for it to click.

“Oh. So, he deals with it,
too?” I nod. “Maybe it’ll be more helpful than harmful.”

“Maybe,” I agree. I sigh,
wishing to talk about something else. “Don’t you have something
juicy to share with me?”

Rebecca laughs. “Ha, I wish.
Hey,” she suddenly perks up, “we need to discuss spring break
plans.” I groan. “No, you aren’t backing out on me. It’s tradition,
Brittany! We’ve gone somewhere every year.”

“I know, but I don’t know if
I can do it this year. I don’t want to think about it yet.” Every
year, we have gone somewhere, even if it’s only an hour away for
spring break. Rebecca started talking about it around Christmas,
but I’ve been in no mood to think about traveling. It’s stressful
as it is. Add anxiety to the mix and it’s just not fun.

“Think about it, okay?”

I nod. “I will.”

We enjoy the rest of our
lunch and then I reluctantly head to the counselors’ office. I’m
hoping I won’t see Trace. If our relationship is supposed to be all
off campus, then I don’t want to worry about how I’m supposed to
act around him. Squeezing my wrist isn’t bringing me any strength
today. I dig my nails into my skin, hoping the bite of pain will
distract me and do the trick.

“Brittany?”

I lift my head to see the
elderly lady smiling.

“Follow me.”

I follow Mrs. Rumley to her
office, which is across from Trace’s. I sit in the uncomfortable
chair and wait for her to sit in hers.

“I would like to sincerely
apologize for being late last week,” she begins.

“It’s okay.” I glance around
at her dying plants, yet perfectly ordered desk. How can someone be
so orderly, yet keep dead plants in their office?

“So, what brings you in
today?”

I bring my eyes back to hers.
“Um. Well.” My mind blanks. “I don’t know where to start.”

She gives me a gentle smile.
“That’s okay. Maybe start by telling me some general things about
yourself that might pertain to the issue.”

“Right. I was diagnosed with
generalized anxiety disorder and clinical depression when I was in
high school. I take some medications for it. My psychiatrist
recently upped my dosage and prescribed sleeping pills to help me
sleep. They helped at first, but the last two nights, I haven’t
been able to sleep much still. I’m just having a hard time
lately.”

She starts taking notes. I
always
hated
when Trace took notes, so much so that he
eventually waited until after my appointments to do it. My
craziness doesn’t need to be documented before my eyes.

“What has been causing your
anxiety lately? Do you know?”

“School. I’m in my last
semester and had to sign up for more classes to be able to graduate
on time. I’m overwhelmed, but I don’t want to drop any.”

She nods. “Anything else?
Boyfriend? Friends? Family?”

I quickly shake my head, not
wanting to mention a boyfriend at all. Mrs. Rumley’s eyes narrow,
like she knows I’m lying.

“It’s all school?”

God, this feels so stupid. I
don’t want to be here. With a deep breath, I say, “Look, my former
therapist taught me how to manage it. My problem is that none of my
old techniques work anymore. My anxiety is out of control and I
can’t manage it. It’s only a matter of time before my depression
follows suit because it always comes when my anxiety gets too bad.
I’m losing my mind here, and I thought when I stopped seeing him
that I had all of what I needed to keep control, so I would never
have to sit in a therapist’s office again. Not that I hated therapy
in and of itself, but I hated what it meant. And now, it’s worse
than it was in high school. I just want to make it stop and
graduate, so I can be done with it all.”

Her eyes are focused
downward. Thinking there may be something on my shirt, I glance
down, only to see my knuckles white from gripping my wrist so hard.
Damn it, does everyone have to notice that? I slip my hands under
my thighs to sit on them and stop the habit.

“What were your
techniques?”

“Counting, saying the abc’s,
anything that could distract me. Sometimes, it was to rationalize
it or realize that I should have some anxiety because it was a
situation that warranted normal anxiety. Sometimes, it was to focus
on my breathing and try to use that to calm down.”

“Have you tried
variations?”

“What do you mean?”

“Counting seems kind of
simple. It might not be enough of a distraction. Try thinking of a
topic, like farm animals, and name as many as you can think of. I
think you should keep trying the breathing techniques, too. Maybe
try to set time to do your schoolwork, and do it in that
timeframe.”

“I kind of have an issue with
redoing it over and over again,” I add.

“Okay. Once that timeframe is
over, if your work is complete, stop. Find something else to do, so
you don’t redo it.” All her responses sound relatively simple and
obvious. However, during the midst of a panic attack, something so
simple and obvious is elusive and hard to do.

She gives me some more tips
and then the session is over. Trace is talking to the receptionist
when I walk out. I give them both a small smile and head for my
dorm. By the time I get there, my phone buzzes with a text.

Trace:
How’d it
go?

Me:
Good, I
guess.

Part of me wants to say that
she isn’t Trace, but what would be the point? I don’t want Trace to
feel bad and I don’t want him to be my therapist either. It’s just
an adjustment to have someone new. To begin following her advice, I
give myself four hours to complete my homework. Trace must get busy
because he doesn’t send another text.

The longer I do homework, the
more my stress levels grow, putting me on edge. My hands begin to
shake so much that I get annoyed because I can’t write as well. My
stomach is in knots and I don’t feel well at all. Sometimes, I
think the physical symptoms are far worse than the mental ones;
they seem even more uncontrollable. Trace used to talk about how I
have to retrain my body. It’s so used to reacting how it does
during a panic attack that when I finally get a grip on things,
it’s like an automatic reaction for my hands to shake, for me to
feel sick to my stomach. It’s hard to try to get your body to calm
down. Even harder to convince it not to freak out and feed the
cycle of my anxiety.