Making Me Sane (Sanity Book 2)

by Lindsay Paige

  “Lily needs to be let out,” I explain.

  “Oh. Yeah, she probably does.” She starts to pull away from me.

  “You could come over. I could stop and get us something to eat on the way.” I get out of bed and start dressing while she thinks it over. Please say yes. Overall, things have been going well tonight and I don’t want to leave her alone with her thoughts.

  “What are you thinking of getting for dinner?” she finally says once I’m dressed.

  “What do you want?”

  “Hmm, I could go for a chicken sandwich and some fries.”

  I nod. “Get dressed and I’ll meet you at the house.” I lean over to kiss her softly.

  “I’m not spending the night,” she tells me, holding the sheets tighter around her chest.

  “Wasn’t expecting you to.”

  The corners of her mouth drop, but I don’t know why she’d frown. She nods. With one last kiss to her forehead, I leave. By the time she dresses and I stop by a fast food restaurant that serves chicken sandwiches, we arrive at my house within a few minutes of each other. I’m standing on the front porch while Lily attends to her business, but as soon as Brittany pulls into the driveway, Lily runs toward her car.

  Not going to lie; it stings a little that Brittany’s biggest smile tonight is because of Lily’s excitement to see her. She didn’t even smile like that after sex. I shake my head, not needing to worry about it. Brittany and Lily make their way inside. We get settled on the couch, where we eat our dinner. It’s kind of odd, but reassuring, that she doesn’t seem to have an issue eating.

  We’re watching some crime drama once we finish eating. For a moment, I wonder if Brittany is going to go ahead and leave, but she doesn’t. She stands, holds out her hand to me, and then pulls me over to the recliner without uttering a word. A surprising rush of relief hits me to be lying in my recliner with her again.

  “I’ve missed this,” she whispers a few minutes later.

  “Me too, Britt.” I rub her back, just like old times.

  A minute passes and she adds, “I’ll head home after the episode ends.”

  “Okay.” Do I want her to stay? Of course, but I’m not going to ask. She needs to make that decision. I need to figure out when to fight for her and when to leave her to her own battles.

  However, by the time the episode ends forty-five minutes later, Brittany is sound asleep in my arms. I try to do the right thing by attempting to wake her, but she’s dead to the world. I push the footrest down, adjust her in my arms, and carry her to my room. Lily immediately settles at her feet while I change, take my pills, and get ready for bed myself.

  God, I’ve missed sharing a bed with her. I pull her against me and quickly fall asleep.

  I don’t know when she has to report to work, but six in the morning seems like a good time to wake her up and make sure she has plenty of time. “Britt. Wake up.” I shake her shoulder. She grumbles and I smile. “You need to head home and get ready for work. Plus, take your pills since you missed them last night.”

  She looks at me sleepily, but shrugs. “It’s no big deal.” Brittany stretches and I start to feel uneasy. “It doesn’t make a damn difference if I miss here or there,” she mumbles as she gets out of bed.

  “Are you saying you skip doses?”

  “It happens. Where’s my phone?” She starts toward the living room, not once looking back or waiting for me to answer.

  I quickly follow her. “Brittany, are you intentionally skipping doses?”

  “Of course not,” she retorts. She looks tense, though, and she’s snatching her phone and keys from the end table.

  “Don’t lie to me. This is a big deal if you are.”

  She whirls around. “I don’t need you to save me, Trace!” she shouts, suddenly pissed. “It’s none of your damn business anymore! I’m doing the best I can; get off my back.”

  A humorless laugh leaves me. “The best you can? Bullshit. You aren’t going to therapy or seeing Dr. Gunner or taking your fucking pills like you ought to! You’re not helping yourself at all!” I lower my voice and stare at her. It’s like I have fresh eyes when I look at her. She’s broken and she doesn’t seem to care. She’s self-destructive right now. “Where’s your fight, Britt?”

  She scoffs. “I don’t know. When you find it, send it my way.” Before I can say anything else, she’s walking out of my door.

  I plop down onto the couch and pet Lily as she jumps up next to me. Did I do this to Brittany? Did I take her fight away and serve as a catalyst for what she’s become and the worsening of her mental health? Somehow, I have to get through work today and the weekend before I can talk to Mrs. Kirk. Maybe I did fuck her up. After all, I wasn’t there for her when she needed me the most.

  Guilt is tempting to swallow me whole. How did she go from a faithful medication taker, psychiatrist and therapist seer, and a person willing to fight for her sanity to the person she is today in only a year? This has to be my fault. Should I even be trying to win her back when my mistakes can obviously have disastrous effects on her? Maybe we can’t work and aren’t good for one another.

  Similar thoughts plague me all weekend. I’m an anxious mess when I walk into Mrs. Kirk’s office. She doesn’t even have to prompt me before I’m launching into all the details of what’s happened since I last saw her.

  “I don’t know how to help her because the last thing she wants is help from me, but she does need help. And it should be me who helps her if I’m part of why she is this way. I’ve tried calling and texting her all weekend, but she ignored me. What am I supposed to do?”

  Mrs. Kirk hesitates, which puts me on guard. “Have you been obsessing about this all weekend?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Hear me out before you go off on me,” she begins. “I think that maybe you should put getting back together with Brittany on hold.” No fucking way. When I open my mouth, she raises her hand. “I said hear me out. She is obviously not in a good place, and if she isn’t willing to accept help, it’s only going to be bad for you if you try. Maybe you should give her some time to get her life together before she starts tearing yours apart.”

  I wait two seconds to make sure she’s done talking before I start my rebuttal. “No. I’m not doing that. I can’t abandon her again. If I do what you suggest, she’d never take me back. She needs me. She needs me to help her, whether she can see it or accept it or not. It was a mistake to leave her the first time for the exact same reasons you mentioned; I won’t do it again. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past year, it’s that Brittany is a piece of sanity among the chaos. The same thing goes for her in regards to me. We make each other sane. I am not giving that up again or putting it on hold. Maybe she does need time to get her life together, but maybe she needs me to help her do it.”

  She purses her thin, wrinkled lips before nodding. “Okay. Tell me your plan to win her trust, then.”

  “Have any suggestions?”

  Mrs. Kirk laughs. “Keep doing what you’re doing. Be there for her. Keep pursuing her. Stay honest with her. Get her some help. Be understanding, and don’t blame this on yourself. Regardless of if there is blame for you, she’s the one who is refusing to do her part to help herself. I’m not a couples therapist, but you can bring her in for a session if you’d like as well.”

  I don’t know if Brittany would be willing to do that since she doesn’t even want to see a therapist for herself. After my appointment, I decide I’m going to deliver more flowers. I need to do something to let her know I’m not giving up. An idea hits me and I hope it won’t be as bad as it sounds. I buy a bamboo plant and a small card to go with it. On it, I write: Like my love for you, this plant never dies.

  The plant can die, but it’s probably hard to kill it. Who knows. Bamboo plants are easy to maintain and are little work, so at least it’ll last instead of eventually dying like the roses I got her last week. I don’t see Brittany’s car in the lot, so I guess she’s not home ye
t. I set the bamboo in front of her door with the card stuck on the small pot. I knock twice, but there’s no answer, which is okay. I leave the plant and head home.

  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.