Making Me Sane (Sanity Book 2) (19 page)

That little voice in the back of my head is waving a red flag. The same voice that wonders if I can really trust Trace again is getting louder, shouting at me that if he can’t even stand the thought of living with me long-term, this is just going to end badly once more. Then I remember we’re supposed to have a clean slate and I start to drown in guilt for continuing to doubt him.

“Hey,” Trace says, taking a step closer and resting his hands, which seem so heavy and large right now, on my shoulders. He glides them inward until his fingers lace together on the back of my neck, his thumbs on my jaw, pushing up to make sure I have my eyes on his. “Please don’t think I’m saying I wouldn’t love to live with you. I’m not. If you weren’t facing the issue you are, I wouldn’t be mentioning it at all.”

My eyes squeeze closed at his contradiction. I go to pull away, but Trace keeps me where I am.

“Damn it; this isn’t coming out right. I’m trying to help here. Be my roommate, so you don’t have to pay the higher rent, and you’ll have more time to search for a decent place. Did any of that cause my foot to reenter my mouth?”

Maybe it’s because of all the anxiety I’ve had all day, but I’m feeling ridiculously emotional and all I want to do is go home and cry. I shake my head to answer Trace’s question, though I’m not positive it’s the truth. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” I say. “I should head home. Looks like I need to pack.”

“Do you want me to come with you? Is that furniture yours?”

“No and no. The only thing that I have is my clothes, sheets, and all the pots and pans and such in the kitchen. Everything I own can fit into boxes.” For some reason, that thought depresses me. The only large item I own is my car, but my parents bought that for me. A short, harsh breath through my nose—you know, the kind you breathe when you’re trying not to cry—comes with my exhale and I try to steady my shaky lungs.

“Britt,” Trace whispers. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I shrug out of his grasp. “I’m just overwhelmed at everything I have to do before Thursday.” Which is the last day of the month. Without waiting for an answer, I head for his room to grab my overnight bag. He’s standing right where I left him. His eyes are analyzing my every movement. I force a smile. “Thanks again for going with me. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I reach up on my tiptoes to kiss the corner of his mouth. He moves his head just a little, so I kiss him full on the lips.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” His hands grasp my hips.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“You already asked if I was sure,” I point out.

“Yeah, I know, but it feels like a lie. I don’t want to start that again. I want you to talk to me, no matter what. I know I fucked up just now, and I know it affected you. Tell me what’s bothering you still. Let me in, Britt.”

Ugh. This is probably the only time ever that causes me to hate him shortening my name. It gets to me. It seeps into my blood, reminding me of how he started using it in his texts, and causing me to remember the first time I heard him say it. It was the first time I came here to his house and it was when we supposedly became a two-way street of discussing our issues with one another.

Trace speaks again as if answering my silence. “I feel like if you leave, and you’re holding back like I think you are, then we’ll be taking a step backward and I don’t want to do that.”

The thing, though, is that I don’t want to talk to Trace about it. Talking about every little thing can’t be any better than not talking about the big things. “It’s not an us thing or a you thing. It’s a me thing, and I’d rather just have some space, decompress, and calm myself down before I go and make issues when none need to be made.” There. That sounds like a good response, right?

“All right,” he says with a nod. “Have your space and decompress. If that doesn’t work, talk to me.”

“Deal.”

Finally, he gives me another quick kiss and releases me. I don’t hesitate to leave. Though I said I was going to pack, I don’t stop to buy boxes and I go straight to my bedroom once I get to my apartment. I realize this is one of my bad habits, but I’m indulging in it. I don’t know of any other method to decompress. When the sheets are up to my nose and I’m comfortable, I inhale long and slow and exhale. My sheets smell like lavender since I washed them the other day.

That’s all it takes for my brain to break down. Turns out that I do want to talk about it. I pick up the phone and call my mom. She’s the one who encouraged me to give Trace a second chance. She should be the one to help me sort this mess out.

“Hey, Brittany,” Mom answers.

“Help me.”

“What’s wrong?” The sudden concern in her voice makes me wince and regret my opening line.

“Nothing bad. I just...need someone to talk to before I go crazy.”

I hear her release a breath. “I’m listening.”

“So, I told you that we were going to look at apartments today, right? They were all a bust for various reasons. Naturally, I started panicking because the month ends Thursday. That’s not a lot of time to find an apartment and move, and I really don’t want to pay higher rent. We get back to his house, I’m freaking out and wondering what I’m going to do, and Trace says, ‘You could move in with me. Until you find a new place, I mean.’

“That’s what I’m going to do. He made it clear that I’m coming in as a temporary roommate and I can stay in his guest bedroom. It’s screwed with my mind, though. He was trying to reassure me that it’d basically be different if I didn’t need somewhere to go. It just made him sound like he never wanted to live with me long-term and didn’t want it to be an option. We’re supposed to have this clean slate and I still don’t trust him. It scares the hell out of me. I’m going to be living with him. Even if it is short term and I have my own room. That’s going to have an effect. Right? I’m so stressed as it is and I don’t know if I can handle this, too.”

We’re both quiet for a beat and then Mom asks, “Are you done?”

I laugh. “Yes.”

“I think it’s normal for you to be concerned. It sounds like Trace wasn’t very good at wording things, but he means well. Don’t be upset, but it sounds like you’re still holding back. Now, no one expects you to overcome everything that happened so quickly, but from what you’ve told me, Trace has done well so far.”

“But things haven’t been bad,” I interrupt. “How do I know he won’t do like before when things are bad?”

“You’re not giving him enough credit,” she starts, but I cut in again.

“Well I’m sorry that I can’t seem to do that! It
hurt
when he broke up with me, Mom. It hurt for a long time. I don’t want to go through that again.”

Mom’s voice softens. “I was there, Brittany. I remember all of this, too.”

“Then why does everyone think it should be so easy to just jump in head first?” I blurt out.

“Who thinks that?”

“You. Mrs. Potter. Trace.”

“I don’t think that’s the issue here.” I open my mouth, but she keeps talking. “You’re too focused on the past, Brittany. Everyone understands how the break-up did a number on you, but we all also see how much he loves you. You need to look at that more than what he did. He’s trying. You need to be trying too.”

The tears come from nowhere and it isn’t until I speak and I hear my voice break that I even realize they’re there at all. “If he loves me so much, why’d he leave me in the first place? Why did he make it sound like he never wants to live with me? Why did he make me so insecure?”

Mom sighs, and I can’t tell if it’s an annoyed, frustrated sigh, or one of sadness. “Again, you aren’t going to get over it quickly or easily. Maybe you should talk to Trace.”

Tired of talking, I say, “Maybe. I should go. I have to pack.” Wonder how many times I can use that line as a lie before I actually have to do it. Mom and I hang up. Something that started out so small has gone and blown up on me. I guess it’s my fault, too. One misstep from Trace and I’m transported back to when he broke up with me and focusing on that more than anything else. Impulsively, I text Trace.

Me:
I’m sorry.

Trace:
For what?

What, exactly, am I sorry for? For panicking? For not trusting him and us enough? For not talking to him?

Me:
A
bunch of things, I guess.

Trace:
Are you okay?

Me:
Yeah. It’s just a struggling kind of day.

Trace:
Struggling with...?

Me:
Everything.

Trace:
Want to talk about it?

Me:
I tried that with Mom. Didn’t make me feel better.

Trace:
Maybe because you weren’t talking to me. ;)

Suddenly, I realize what I need. My fingers move fast.

Me:
Reassure me, Trace.

I hold my breath as I wait. He’ll know what I mean, but will he say the right words and tell me what I need to hear? Is that possible when I don’t even know myself? How can he know if I don’t? A whoosh of air leaves me with the incoming text.

Trace:
I love, want, cherish, need, and trust you. We’re in this for the long haul. You couldn’t get rid of me even if you wanted to. Believe it or not, but you make me sane when I’m going mad. I don’t care how many times I have to reassure you, remind you, or convince you, you are mine, and I am yours. When we fuck up, we’ll recover. We’ll come out on the other side stronger. Got it? Good. I love you.

Me:
Thanks. I love you, too.

Trace:
Any time, Britt. Take a nap or something.

Me:
Nap might not be a good idea. I stopped by a bookstore the other day and bought a book. I’ll read that.

I literally walked in, wandered around until I found the romance section, and picked up the first book that caught my eye. I can’t ever remember reading for
fun
. It’s always been about reading because I had an assignment to do or a test to take. I don’t even know what genres I really like. Can’t go wrong with romance, though, right? At least, I hope so.

Every time I’ve woken up this morning, I’ve rolled over and fallen back to sleep. It’s like gut instinct. As if my body knows it needs to spend a day in bed. Or my mind is trying to convince itself that’s what I need. Actually feeling tired, I’ve given in and gone back to sleep. However, my phone is ringing. And ringing, and ringing, and ringing.

I blindly reach for it, keeping my eyes closed, and swipe at the bottom of the screen. “What?” My voice is groggy from sleeping.

“You’re still in bed.” Trace doesn’t ask; he can tell. Before I can say anything, he tells me, “Come open the door for me.”

“You’re here?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, give me a sec.” I hang up without waiting for a response, throw the covers off, and grab my robe since I slept naked last night. Hmm. That’ll definitely have to stop if I stay with Trace since sex is still off the table for the time being. Don’t want to tempt fate. I open the door, standing behind it with only my head poking around, to see Trace with a bunch of bins in his hands.

“I came to help you pack. I used these when I moved, so I figured you could put them to use now,” he says. “I also brought lunch.”

“Lunch?” I close the door after him.

“Yeah. Lunch.”

“I didn’t realize it was that late. I didn’t mean to sleep in.” I feel like I need to add more and defend myself.

Trace sets the bins on my coffee table and starts to say, “How are you fe—?” His words die as he turns to face me, catching sight of my attire. His gaze
devours
me. Heat flushes my cheeks, I shiver, and then quickly head to my room, muttering about getting dressed. I feel...almost embarrassed? Is that right? Whatever it is, it’s ridiculous. It’s not like we haven’t had sex since the break-up. Then again, we haven’t had sex since we’ve gotten back together. But still.

After finding a shirt, panties, and shorts, I leave my bedroom fully dressed and in the process of pulling my hair up in a ponytail. Based on Trace’s expression, I probably should’ve put on a bra, or a sports bra at the very least, but who wants to wear a bra when they don’t have to?

“Burgers?” I ask, seeing the logo on the fast food bag he pulls out of where it was sitting in the bins.

“Yeah. Are you hungry?”

I nod. We sit on the couch. He passes me my burger and fries, and then goes to grab drinks from the kitchen. He clears his throat and tries again.

“How are you feeling?”

I shrug. “Tired, but otherwise okay. You?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m fine,” I mock in a terrible imitation of his voice. “Maybe you’ll rub off on me then.”

“Maybe.” Trace looks around. “Where are we going to start? If we can get it all done, then you could start staying over tonight. This is really the only full day we’ll have to do it since your lease is up during the week.”

I think about it, cataloging in my mind all that needs to be packed. “You could start in the kitchen and I can do the living room and bathroom. Then we can both work through my room. We should be able to finish today as long as we stay focused.”