Making Me Sane (Sanity Book 2) (8 page)

I
stare at the plant just like I did when I came home yesterday and found it. Will I need to move into a greenhouse eventually because he’s going to keep bringing me plants? Part of me wants to break the pot and leave the pieces on his porch with a note that says something about how his love breaks me or something like that, but better. Part of me wants to take care of it. I’m doing neither of those things today.

Turning away from the bamboo, I go to my room, shed my clothes, and crawl into bed. Trace pissed me off by being nosy and pushy with his questions about my medication habits. It’s not any of his business. One date with him and it’s like he’s my boyfriend again. No, thanks. Maybe I shouldn’t try to work things out. All it’s done so far is further exhaust me.

I’ve just gotten comfortable when I hear a pounding on my door. Maybe I can ignore it. I pull my pillow over my head, but the knocking doesn’t stop. Irritated, I snatch my robe off the floor, yank it over my body, and stalk to the door. I fling it open to see the one person I don’t want to see.

“You’re ignoring me. That doesn’t sound like you’re giving me a chance,” Trace says, pushing his way past me and into my apartment, leaving me stunned. “I’ll leave once you agree to another date.” He sits down on my couch and settles in like he owns the damn place.

He’s going to be so disappointed, or thrilled, by my quick reaction. “Fine. I’ll go; just leave.” I’ll do anything to make him get out of here, so I can be alone. Trace frowns, either from how I’m still standing by my open door or because I did give in so quickly.

“Bad day, Britt?”

“That wasn’t part of your demand.”

“It is now.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Go home, Trace.”

He stands and walks until he’s in front of me. He takes one of my hands in his. “Come on. Let me be there for you,” he begs quietly.

I pull my hand away. “Why? So you can tell me how I’m doing everything wrong? My parents do that already. So you can be encouraging? They do that too. So you can be there for me? I have people for that. What I want is to go to bed and I can’t do that with you here.”

“No, I want you to talk to me, and I can just listen.” At this, I scoff. “I’m worried about you.”

His words and his sincerity have no effect on me. I’ve reached a familiar place that’s void of caring, where the only thing I feel is despair, pain, anguish, and a simple sense of hopelessness. My eyes water and I’m so fucking sick of crying. I feel like that’s all I ever do and all I’ve done since the man in front of me left a year ago.

Before I can half-heartedly tell him to leave, he wraps me in his arms. I melt against him, feeling as if this is a critical moment and I just need someone to be there for me and tell me it’s going to be all right. Trace pulls me far enough away from the door that he can close it and then walks us to my couch. He sits and tugs me down to sit in his lap sideways.

He doesn’t say anything. He just holds me. I rest my head on his shoulder, wondering what the point is. It doesn’t feel right while managing to feel perfect. My anxiety scratches at me as consistently as Trace’s hand rubbing up and down my back until I’m raw and can’t think straight. He’s here. I don’t want him to be. I want to be in bed. I want this to be over. I want it to stop. I want to go back to work, which is the one place I manage to find my courage to fight through this disaster called my life. And in the midst of it all, Trace is back, front and center.

I don’t get it.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

Trace doesn’t immediately respond, but seconds later, he quietly replies, “I’m trying to love you, Britt.”

I press my forehead into his neck. “Try harder.” My words are so quiet, barely audible, because I almost hope he doesn’t hear me.

But he does if him pulling me closer is any indication. Thankfully, he doesn’t speak. His breathing, his steady heartbeat, and his constant rubbing of my back lulls me to sleep. Trace ruins it before I can nod off completely.

“I need to get back to Lily. Do you want to come with me?”

“Not particularly.”

“Okay.”

I guess it’s only natural for me to have love and hate feelings toward that answer when I have a love and hate relationship with Trace. Conflicted feelings are a bitch. I don’t want to go to his house; I don’t want him to leave my apartment either. I want to stay just like we are. But Trace isn’t staying and I’m not going, so five minutes later, he’s gone and I’m in bed.

He gave me this lame, kinda sweet kiss on the forehead and promised he’d be in touch about our next date. I lie in bed, wondering where he’ll take me. If my anxiety and depression weren’t so bad, would I be thrilled that Trace has come back to me? Even though I no longer trust him? Would I be more willing to give him a chance?

This is the man who I loved without reservation, the man who got me through some of the hardest times of my life, and the man who, for the most part, treated me so well. I have a chance to get back what we once had and I’m fighting him tooth and nail. He hurt me so badly, though. Every day, I’ve had to deal with this ache in my heart on top of so much anger toward him. It can’t be swept under the rug.

I wipe away my tears, feeling like an idiot. For not really giving Trace a chance and for not giving the love we shared a chance. How am I not even a little excited or happy about this? Why am I not hopeful that it’ll work out?

My phone lights up on the nightstand. I reach for it, see it’s my mom, and decide to ignore it. When it dings with a voicemail, I go ahead and listen to it.

“Hey, Brittany. It’s Mom.” She says this every single time I don’t answer, as if I don’t already know. “I wanted to check in and see how you were doing today. Please call me, so I won’t worry. Your dad and I miss you. Maybe we can come up and visit soon. Call me back. We love you.”

I wait for some type of emotion to hit me from ignoring her call, from knowing I’m not calling back tonight, but there’s only indifference. Well, that and a pure sense of being overwhelmed. My life wasn’t perfect before Trace forced his way back into it, but it was simple. I knew what to expect every single day: work, dread, hopelessness, a call from my mother, and whichever method I used to cope that night.

Now?

Who the hell knows what’s going to happen. I could get a call from Trace, or a text, or he’ll show up unannounced and certainly uninvited. There’s too much going on in my head, too much to think about, too much that I’m
not
feeling while managing to feel
everything
I don’t want to deal with yet.

I open the bottom drawer of my nightstand for the bottle of vodka I’ve hidden there. I only take my medicine when I feel like it, and it’s been weeks since I last took one of those stupid pills, so it’s not like I would be mixing the two. I get up, yank my comforter off my bed, and go lie on the couch, turning on a hockey game.

It’s the finals, and soon the season will be over. One night, I saw our local team, the Carolina Rebels, were playing and decided to watch. Sometimes I drink when I watch; sometimes I don’t. Tonight, I will. One swig for every icing, off sides, goal, penalty, period, intermission, and fight, if there is one. One swig for every time the broadcasters annoy me. I can’t say I completely understand the game, but I watch often and know some of the terminology. Surprisingly, even when I don’t drink, hockey is a good distraction that helps me relieve stress. Sometimes, I yell at the TV and the players like I know what I’m talking about. I often wonder if regular hockey fans do the same. I don’t know what I’m going to do over the summer without it.

This is a wild game and I’m officially drunk midway through the second period. I can’t help but think about the first time I went to a game. I’ve actually been to a few this season. Alone. Rebecca wasn’t interested at all, and I was desperate enough to get away that I went by myself. My phone rings, distracting me from the game.

Mom. Again.

I answer. “I’m okay, but in no shape to talk.”

“Are you drunk? Brittany,” she begins, but I interrupt her.

“Please, don’t. No shape to handle it. Fuss at me tomorrow when I can feel ashamed. Just wanted to answer and say I’m okay. Bad day, Mom. Terrible day.” The never-ending tears flow across my face. “Bad, bad day. Work, okay, but Trace left me bamboo and showed up and I don’t know how to deal. I just don’t know anymore, Mom. I don’t know if I want to anymore.”

“Don’t want to what?” she asks softly, but I ignore her question.

“It’s hard, Mom. So, so hard. Always so hard. I’m tired. I’m tired of it all. I want it to stop. Please make it go away.” Panic seizes my throat and steals my breath until I’m breathing too fast. I grip the bottle and down some more.

“Brittany.” Her voice is calm, the opposite of how I feel. “You’re worrying me. I don’t like you talking like this. You need to stop drinking and just go to bed.”

The words rush out of my mouth to keep up with my out of control breaths. “It won’t help. Nothing helps. I’m tired of talking. I feel like my lungs are going to explode and I can’t. I can’t!” I hang up and throw my phone across the room. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I sob. I don’t even know why I’m crying. Everything. Just every-fucking-thing! I’m so unbelievably over it that I want to let go completely.

I want to lock my door and never leave my house ever again to avoid dealing with life. Who needs it? What good is it? It’s just problem after problem after problem. It’s a bunch of bullshit. There’s pain. There’s an ex-boyfriend you don’t know what the hell to do about. There’s a job you love but you dread showing up because that means you have to leave your apartment. There’s so much that’s wrong and nothing that’s right. And if there is, it’s not worth the hassle.

My eyes begin to droop. Yes. Sleep. Take me away from reality for as long as possible. Faintly, I think I hear some thumping. But wait! The hockey game. I struggle to keep my eyes open while sipping from my bottle, making a mess as I miss my mouth a little. I need a straw. My brows pull together when something blocks my vision.

“Britt, what are you doing to yourself?”

Oh, god. No. Not that soft, caring voice. Is Trace invading my dreams now too? “Why is he here?” I blubber.

Dream Trace tries to take my bottle, but my hands tighten around it. “Your mom called Will’s office to get my number. She was worried you might do something stupid; glad to see you aren’t.” He starts pacing, but it’s hard to follow him.

Rage burns through my veins. “Go to hell. I don’t want you here! God, get out of my head. I hate you!” Without thinking twice, I sit up and throw the bottle at him. It’s disappointing when it misses. You’d think I’d have better aim.

“What the fuck?”

“You ruined me! I loved you, and you abandoned me! Why can’t you just leave me alone?” I fall backward, tired. “I just want it to stop,” I whisper, rolling over to face the back of the couch, and close my eyes. I want it all to end.

I groan as I rouse awake. My head is pounding, my chest and cheek feel sticky, and I fear too much movement may cause me to vomit.

“Good. You’re awake.”

Screaming, I jump upright to see Trace in one of my chairs. “What the fuck are you doing here? How’d you get in?” Before he can answer, I run to the trash can in the kitchen since it’s the closest and throw up. He tries to hold my hair, but I blindly push him away.

“Door wasn’t locked. What do you remember about last night?”

“Nothing. Why are you here?” I ask, wiping my mouth on my arm. He follows me into the bathroom where I quickly brush my teeth.

“You called your mom last night and freaked her the hell out, so she called Will’s office repeatedly until she could speak to him to get my cell number. She couldn’t get up with Rebecca and she wanted someone to check on you.”

“Well, get the hell out.” I’m in no mood to deal with him while dealing with a hangover from hell.

“Why are you drinking anyway? You know mixing that with your meds is a bad idea.”

“I’m not taking my meds!” I blurt out. I’m unbelievably sick of him lecturing me. I’m pissed at myself, at him, at my mom, and at Rebecca. Luckily for Trace, he’s here to get the brunt of my anger. “Go home! I don’t want you here. I don’t want to work this out with you. I don’t want you to tell me I’m making all the wrong decisions, Trace! I am this close to my breaking point and I’ll be damned if you’re going to watch me fall apart. You didn’t care to stick around for that last year, and I don’t need you here for it this go round.

“The best thing you can do for me is to get as far away from me as possible and stay out of my life. How many times do I need to say it? I HATE YOU! I couldn’t pick up the pieces without you, and I can’t do it with you either, apparently. You’re making everything worse.” I don’t even care about the tears pouring down my face. “Just go away and let me do a piss-poor job of taking care of myself.”

Trace stares at me and I can’t tell if he’s shocked, stunned, or pissed. He’s definitely seeing me in a new light now, I bet. He’ll be glad to get rid of his crazy ex-girlfriend. “Okay,” he finally says, nodding to himself. He turns and starts walking to the door, leaving me stunned with a mixture of disappointment and relief. But then, he swivels on his heels and stalks toward me with such purpose that I back up until my hips hit the counter.