Driving Me Mad (Sanity Book 1)

by Lindsay Paige

  “I know,” she whispers.

  She yawns and I decide today is over. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “Yeah, I’m actually sleepy.”

  We head toward my room and soon, we’re lying in bed. One rather quick kiss and our heads hit the pillow. It’s sad when I can’t give her a proper kiss goodnight, but it’s just not happening tonight. Today has been up and down and all around, and I want some sleep.

  I wake up to what sounds like a pot crashing onto the floor with a clang, followed by a, “Damn it all to hell!” Tossing the covers aside, I get out of bed and walk to the kitchen. Brittany is standing in the middle, staring at the floor, her hands shaking. There’s an upside-down pan at her feet and eggs scattered about.

  “Brittany?” I ask, noticing it’s just before seven in the morning.

  She lifts her head, tears in her red, tired eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to buy you groceries because I keep dropping and spilling stuff. I shouldn’t be trying to fix breakfast because this isn’t even my house. But I was hungry and I couldn’t sleep. I’m sorry. I’ll buy you more food and clean up.” She bends to start picking up the mess, but I walk over, put my hands on her shoulders and make her stand. “I’m sorry, Trace. I’m just tired.” She rests her head on my chest again as I wrap my arms around her. “So, so tired.”

  “You didn’t get any sleep?”

  “Not even for a sweet, blissful second. I thought the pills were supposed to make me sleep.”

  “They are. How about you sit at the table and I’ll make us breakfast.” I take her hand and lead her to the dinner table. She plops into the seat without protest. Once I clean up the eggs, I glance over at Brittany and see her with her arms folded on the table, her head resting on top of them, and she’s sound asleep.

  I carefully pick her up and carry her into my bedroom. She’s out completely. If the fire alarm were to go off, I don’t think it would wake her up. For a moment, I debate on if I should leave her alone to sleep or crawl in next to her.

  I choose to sleep with her in my arms since it’s still early. We deserve to sleep in.

  There’s a moment before you’re fully awake that you become aware of your body. Mine feels trapped while cozy and snug at the same time. A tight grip is holding me in place. My legs feel tangled and something hard is pressing against the top of my head. I open my eyes, only to be met with the view of Trace’s neck. His arms are locked around me and our legs are indeed tangled together. This morning, the only reason I was able to get out of bed was because Trace was lying on his stomach. I squeeze my eyes closed, hoping this morning was just a bad dream.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

  I snuggle closer to him, smiling when his arms tighten around me. His hand spasms against my back.

  “You awake?” he grumbles, his chin moving on top of my head.

  “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.

  I’m almost done, even though I went an hour over the limit I set for myself, when the urge to vomit becomes overwhelming. I rush to the bathroom, making it just in time to heave over the toilet. Water leaks from my eyes as the salad from lunch forces its way back out. My stomach cramps, but I think I’m finished for now. The walk back to my bed is long and slow. I slide my textbooks onto the floor and plop down face-first onto my bed.

  I’m so over today.

  My phone start
s vibrating from under my stomach. I sigh as I pull it out, swiping my finger to answer Trace’s call.

  “No,” I say.

  “I didn’t ask anything.”

  “Were you going to?”

  He’s quiet for a moment before saying, “Yeah.”

  “Then, you already know my answer. I’m tired, don’t feel well, and I just wanna lie down for a while.”

  “Do that with me.”

  “Trace,” I sigh.

  “Brittany,” he sighs right back. Neither of us say anything for a minute or so. “Please, Britt.” His voice is so soft, and I realize I’m not the only one having a rough day.

  “I’ll meet you at your house in a few minutes.”

  “Did I ever tell you that you’re my favorite person?”

  I laugh. “No, you’ve never told me that.”

  “Well, you are.”

  Smiling, I tell him, “I’ll see you soon.”

  Once we hang up, the smile fades as I realize I’m going to have to get out of my bed, brush my teeth, and then drive to his house. The idea of spending time with Trace is definitely appealing. It’s the small stupid things like having to leave my dorm while feeling like I do that sucks. However, I manage to get up and drive to his house.

  I knock, and he calls for me to come in. The house is quiet because the TV is off. Trace is kicked back in his recliner, and I wonder if that’s his preferred place to sit when he feels like shit. I drop my purse on the couch and lie with him. His hand starts to rub my back.

  “Hey,” he whispers.

  “Hey,” I whisper back.

  “I got pizza delivered.”

  “Not really hungry.”

  “I figured as much.” His tone lacks sarcasm. He’s only stating a fact. “Pizza is good 24/7, so if you do get hungry, I thought that would be something you’d eat.”

  I nod my head on his shoulder. He’s right. After a while, I snuggle a little closer, pulling my legs across his lap to sit sideways and be a little more comfortable. “I like this chair.”