Driving Me Mad (Sanity Book 1)

by Lindsay Paige

  But the current weight of helplessness I feel is beyond overwhelming. If I thought I felt helpless because I can’t help myself, I feel ten times worse about not being able to do anything for Trace. Being here and doing what he needs me to do isn’t enough. It’s like putting a Band-Aid on a large cut gushing blood. Or maybe a better example would be like taking a pill and it only being a little effective and only two percent of the time.

  I care for him so much and he’s so good for me. I just want to make him better. What sucks the most is that neither of us have the full capabilities to make that happen.

  “I think I’m going to stay here today.”

  “What?” I turn to look at Trace, who is still in bed. Rebecca is in the bathroom, finishing getting ready for our day.

  He looks sad and a little guilty. “I can’t do it. I do want to go to Fremont Street tonight, but I definitely can’t do both. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay; I understand. Do you want me to bring you breakfast before we leave or is there anything you want me to do for you?”

  He shakes his head. Rebecca steps out of the bathroom. I grab my phone, money, and room key.

  “Let’s go,” I tell her. She glances at Trace, but walks to the door without saying anything.

  I’m distracted all day because Trace is occupying my mind. I wonder if he’s eaten, if he’s sleeping, if he’s feeling okay, and the wonders go on and on. It’s a tough task to pay attention to both what we’re seeing, doing, and what Rebecca is saying.

  Eventually, she gets fed up.

  “Either go back to the hotel, or liven up, Brittany,” she snaps. “Trace is a grown man who can take care of himself. If he’s having a bad day, then okay. But you can still have fun!”

  “Sorry. I’ll do better, promise.”

  The day still blurs by. Once we’re back at the hotel for dinner before we leave for Fremont Street, I text Trace to meet us. Waiting for him is torture. It feels like a lifetime passes before I see my tall, blond man walking toward me. His smile is a barely there small one, which is both a good and bad sign. Good because it’s a smile. Bad because he’s still not doing well.

  He wraps an arm around my waist and kisses the top of my head. “Y’all have fun today?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, though I doubt I could honestly give him specifics. Rebecca leads the way upstairs to where all the food is located. “Did you end up doing anything?” I ask quietly.

  Trace simply shakes his head. Dinner is awfully quiet, and even a little awkward. Afterward, we catch a cab. I’m so ready to go home. Maybe that’ll help Trace too. Or not. It hits me that going home also means going back to school and my parents visiting to meet Trace as my boyfriend. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to stay in Vegas longer.

  “Quit worrying,” Trace says in a low voice.

  “I’m not worrying.”

  He looks pointedly at my hand clutching my wrist. I force them apart and sit on my hands, causing him to chuckle. I want to comment that telling me not to worry is like telling me to not breathe. I can’t do it. It’s part of living for me. He already knows that, though.

  The taxi driver drops us off in front of one of the hotels. The place is crawling with people and my chest tightens at the sight once we actually reach the midst of Fremont Street. The first thing I see is a man walking around with a cowboy hat and a thong. I look away before he can catch me looking. But that leads to a woman wearing a thong with angel wings on her back and those pasty flowers on her nipples.

  Good lord.

  I can’t do this.

  Scenery overload!

  There are clusters of people everywhere, and I step closer to Trace. It’s not like I think they are dangerous or anything, but how are they even able to walk around practically naked in public? I’m then distracted by a shriek, which causes me to jump. It’s only someone overhead on the zip line. Trace pulls me closer to him and rubs my back. Doubt that will soothe me.

  We walk in and out of the souvenir shops, buying something to take home here and there. A little further down there’s a DJ playing music and people are dancing. There’s a bearded man in plain clothing wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He’s sweating and seems to be staring at something, but I’m not sure what. Suddenly, he moves as if he’s a pitcher throwing to a batter, and then he’s hitting an imaginary ball. He stalks out of the group, stops in an empty area, and begins nodding his head. He starts talking, having a conversation with no one.

  That guy makes me a little nervous. He doesn’t seem like he’s here in the present, or in the same reality as the rest of us. Nonetheless, we watch the people dance for a few more minutes before walking some more. There’s another DJ at the end of the road. Waitresses in skimpy outfits are on the bar dancing. There’s too much going on here. It’s insane!

  Rebecca wants to zip line, but we don’t. She goes to stand in line, and we wait for her at the other end. Trace wraps his arms around me, and I rest my head on his chest.

  “How are you doing?” he asks.

  “Ready to go home, even if it means flying.”

  Trace laughs, but it sounds forced. I jump as I hear, “Hey, you!” A glance over my shoulder shows me the same man from earlier. He’s pointing a finger, but it’s like he sees something we don’t because there’s no one in that direction. He stalks off.

  “How are you doing?” I tilt my head back to look at him.

  “Ready to be home.”

  “This time tomorrow, you’ll be there.” I glance up in time to see Rebecca flying toward us. She waves with a big grin. I could maybe do it if I were in an upright position, not this face-down position she had to do. A few minutes later, she joins us and tells us how exciting it was.

  “Let’s find a place to watch the light show,” Trace says.

  We walk down toward the intersection and stop there. This way we’re close to the road we’ll need to walk along to get a taxi back to our hotel. We only have to wait ten minutes. The light show is pretty cool, but not nearly as impressive as the fountain show. Sure, they are two different things, but I almost wish we went back to watch the fountain show again instead.

  Rebecca seems bored too; she says she’s ready to head back.

  “I think I’m going to play some more slots,” she says in the taxi ride back.

  “How much have you lost?” I ask.

  Rebecca laughs. “None! I have two hundred dollars right now, and that’s off my first twenty!”

  I playfully glare at her. “That’s not right. I’ve lost a hundred dollars.” And boy, did it go fast! Losing money isn’t fun at all.

  “I’ll play the slots with you,” Trace says, which surprises me. “I haven’t really played much. Might as well do it tonight.”

  Now I’ll look like a loser if I go up to our room. I definitely don’t want to gamble away any more money, but I’m not sure if I want to stick around and hang out with them. I’m tired, and I’m feeling antsy. I wait until we’re back at the hotel with Trace and Rebecca sitting side-by-side at a pair of slot machines to mention going back to the room.

  “You want me to come with you?” Trace asks.

  “No, stay and play. I’ll be fine. You have a room key, right?”

  He nods. I give him a quick kiss and make my escape. Dread quickly fills my body. Something ominous and terrible is coming. I can’t quite put my finger on what it’ll be, but my gut doesn’t have good feelings about what’s to come once we return home.

  What a way to end a trip.

  My chest labors with great effort as I try to breathe in more air. My eyes water as I lurch over the toilet to puke again. We’ve been back for two weeks. My schoolwork seems to be mounting higher every day, my anxiety doubling right along with it. Trace has yet to tell me about his mom, and my parents are coming today.

  I can’t stop thinking about everything possible. When is he going to tell me? Why hasn’t he told me yet? How bad can it be? I’m going to fail this semester and have to push off graduating. That would be so emb
arrassing. Rebecca and I have already found and put a deposit down on an apartment. Moving is going to be so stressful. Why can’t I breathe?

  Taking in large gulps of air, sounding like I’m gasping, my chest tightens even more. God, how could it be worse? The attacks are stronger than ever. I sway and reach out to grab the countertop, feeling lightheaded as black dots cloud my vision.

  “Britt, breathe.”

  I vomit and faintly wonder when Trace walked into the bathroom. Throwing up hasn’t made breathing any easier. I inhale, nearly choking on my own spit. Wouldn’t that be a way to die.

  “Breathe strong and steady.”

  “I,” another labored breath, “can’t.” My stomach convulses as I dry heave, nothing left in my body to force its way out. I stand up and lean my hips against the sink. I don’t even know what the hell I’m panicking about. I woke up, sweating like it’s fucking July and a hundred degrees. The overwhelming urge to vomit flung me from Trace’s bed and into the bathroom. Tears begin to fall freely. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep waking up, either in my bed at the dorms or here at Trace’s, and already be in the midst of a panic attack. I’m back to obsessing over my homework and life and my relationship and Trace and every other thing I could possibly obsess about.

  Therapy has been more annoying than helpful. I can’t even focus well enough in there. My last session, which was yesterday, was me sitting in the chair, staring at the wall, and my mouth opening and closing. I didn’t know where to start. Mrs. Potter, my therapist, started asking questions and my responses were short and lacked any real information. I’m even failing at therapy now!

  What’s next? School? My relationship with my parents? With Trace? What the hell is wrong with me that I can’t bear the thought of waking up in the morning because I know it’s a start to yet another hellish day and I can’t do it anymore!

  “Brittany!” Trace shakes my shoulders. “Did you hear me?”

  I shake my head. I have zero energy left to talk. There’s nothing more I want right now than to crumble to the floor, curl up in a ball, and cry. I’m already crying. All I need is to form a ball on the floor. Without even trying, my body starts to slide.

  “No, no, no,” Trace says, grabbing me by the waist.

  I blink through the tears to see he looks almost as terrible as I feel. God, I suck at being a girlfriend too! I sob and fall against him. “I’m sorry,” I cry.

  “Fucking hell,” he mutters. I feel him take a deep breath, and then he’s pulling me out of the bathroom and back to bed. He props me on the edge, but I fall to my side, still crying like I’m crazy. “Britt, I need you to either talk it through to me or give me something, so I can help you, damn it. It’s too fucking early for this.”

  His words stab me in the heart. No shit. He’s not the only one who is tired of waking up like this, but he doesn’t have to push his frustrations on me! I roll over and pull the pillow over my head. It doesn’t help me get any cooler, but at least I won’t have to look at him. Oddly enough, this somehow forces me to regain control of my breathing. The tears, however, are still coming strong.

  I clutch the pillow, pretending it’s my wrist. I hear Trace curse, huff, and then silence. My heart is pounding so hard and loud, I swear I can hear it in my own ears. My stomach hurts. I finally curl into a ball. The bed dips, so Trace must be getting back into bed.

  His voice sounds muffled as he speaks to me. “Britt, talk to me. What’s it over today?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t freaking know!” I yell into the pillow, my body jostling as Lily jumps onto the bed. “It’s everything!”

  “What do you want me to do to help?”

  “I. Don’t. Know!” I don’t mean to yell at him again, but I feel like I’m about to bust at the seams. The tsunami wave of panic is swelling, growing larger, and is about to come crashing down on me again.

  “Then how the fuck am I supposed to know?” His frustration is growing with me and I can’t deal with it right now.

  “Just leave me alone,” I plead.

  “Fine.” The bed moves again, and the silence is consuming.

  I have to move the pillow because I can’t breathe. Trace isn’t in bed, but I can hear the shower. Lily crawls up the bed like she’s in trouble and plops down in front of me. I lay an arm around her and rest my forehead against her shoulder. She makes me feel marginally better. I try to close out everything except for Lily’s breathing and the feel of her soft fur. She dozes off and starts to snore.

  My heart rate falls back to normal. How in the hell am I going to get out of this bed today? I wish I had the option not to. I could lie here with Lily and not get up unless I wanted to.

  A few minutes later, Trace is crawling back into bed, his hair wet and a fresh pair of pajamas on.

  “Lily, move,” he demands.

  I frown as my sole source of comfort moves to the foot of the bed. My eyes inevitably lift to Trace’s. He’s moved to lie on his side, his gaze pinned to me. I can’t read his expression and that in combination with earlier has me worried.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally says.

  “Me too.”

  “We’re a barrel of issues this morning. You’re overwhelmed by anxiety, which is driving us both crazy, and you’re at your wits’ end and stressed. I’m overwhelmed by depression, which is making me irritable, exhausted, and tense with a short fuse. You won’t always be like this, and I won’t always be like this.”

  “I’d love you anyway.” If this is what every single day of the rest of our lives would be like, yeah, it would suck to have more bad days than good. Regardless of how tough it is and what we’re going through, if I was stuck with this Trace forever, I’d love him anyway. Bad days aren’t what makes a person, and it won’t be what breaks him, or us, either.

  “You took away my comfort,” she says, glancing down at Lily.

  “I thought I was supposed to be your comfort.” I reach out to pull her against me.

  “Yeah, well, you didn’t seem like you’d be up for it,” she mumbles.

  “You can always count on me.”

  “Always?” she questions. There seems to be more weight to it than there should be.

  “Always,” I confirm. I was extremely frustrated earlier, but if she’d told me she wanted me to hold her, I would have happily done so. “What time are your parents coming again? Are we going out to eat or am I supposed to cook?” She’s told me already, but I can’t remember which for the life of me.

  “They’ll be here around noon. I’m leaving to meet them for lunch and to hang out with them. I thought we’d go out to eat around six; you can meet us there.”

  I’m not sure which is better. To go out where other people are around and there’s less pressure, or if it’d be better here at my home where they can see me more as a regular person dating their daughter? Then again, having it here could be harder. They may not so easily see me as a regular person.

  Brittany reaches up to pull my hand away from my neck. “I can’t wait to say I told you so,” she says with a little smile.

  “Me too. Feeling any better?” She shakes her head, and I sigh, “Me either.” The best way to describe it would probably be that you simply feel terrible for a prolonged period of time. Not much can make you happy, make you smile or laugh, or make you feel positive. You can be logical all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact of how you feel. I’ve been dwindling at a steady pace since Vegas.

  “Listen,” Brittany begins. My stomach starts to churn even though I have no idea what she’s going to say. “My parents are good at reading people. Try to be as genuine as possible; don’t try to hide your mood. It’ll be better that way.”

  “All right.” Though I’m not sure how it’ll be better.

  “They already know about your depression, so it’s not like it’ll catch them by surprise if you don’t smile as widely or laugh as much.”

  I pull away from her, my eyebrows pulling together. “They already know about it?�
�� My own father doesn’t know, and she’s told her parents.

  She nods. I stay quiet, waiting for her to explain, and she does once she realizes I’m not going to say anything. “Well, when I went to them, I had to tell them something, and it kind of came up.”

  All I do is nod. It’s not like I can make her take it back. We lie in bed for a while longer until Brittany insists on getting up to cook breakfast once she’s showered. I doubt either of us are hungry, but if she needs to do it, then I won’t stop her. I’m not helping her, though. I go from my bed to my recliner, Lily choosing to stay close to Brittany instead of me. I wonder if that’s a sign of who needs her more.

  My phone rings in my pocket and I reluctantly pull it out. There’s two people who might be calling me. Faith, to check on Lily, which she’s only done twice since I’ve had her; or my dad. Neither of whom do I want to talk to.

  “Hey, Dad,” I answer anyway.

  “Hey, Trace. I figured I’d call and see how you were doing since I haven’t heard from you since my visit.”

  “I’m doing well. Been working, went on a short trip to Vegas, and taking care of Lily because Faith couldn’t keep her anymore.”

  The mere mention of my ex-wife has my dad’s full attention. “You’ve talked to Faith? How did that go? Are you still with that young’un?”

  I wince. “She’s not a young’un, and yes, I’m still with her. Faith had to get rid of Lily because she was moving in with her boyfriend who has a daughter with allergies.” Maybe he’ll finally let it go if I tell him that Faith is happy and with someone now.

  He tsks and I can practically see him shaking his head in disappointment. “You sure messed up with that one.”

  “Well, it’s over and done with. How are you and Amy?” I don’t have the patience to hear him berate me for a failed marriage that ended years ago.

  “We’re good. A little upset that you can find the time to go to Las Vegas, but can’t visit us, but we’re good.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. Something in me just snaps. “Maybe if you’d get off my fucking back and quit being condescending and irritating every damn time I talked to you, you’d hear and see me more often. While we’re at it, Faith has moved on. I’ve moved on. We’re as over as can be. Let it go! Is that really too much to ask?”