Making Me Sane (Sanity Book 2)

by Lindsay Paige

  She nods against my chest and then tilts her head back to look at me. “I guess that’s the best we can come up with. Thanks for checking on me.”

  “You answering a text would’ve been nice, too,” I lightly tease.

  “And keep you from seeing my pretty face? That would be cruel of me, knowing how much you like to see it.” She manages to give me a small smile and I laugh. Then she surprises the hell out of me by lifting onto her toes to kiss me.

  At first, it’s light and sweet as if it’s a thank you for stopping by kind of kiss. It can never be just a simple kiss, though. I lose my mind, holding her closer as her arms wind around my neck. Wanting nothing more than to indulge in this woman, I keep kissing her. Slowly. Treasuring the moment and the feel as if it could be lost in any second. Every gasp of air, I take from her. Take. Take. Take. I’ll take whatever she wants to give me. This, being able to hold her, to kiss her, to have her kiss me like I’m the very thing she needs to survive in life, is what I’ve missed the most. Maybe because she’s the very thing I need in my life.

  This past year, I learned I could be content in a life where she wasn’t present. However, contentedness is not a way to live. I want to be bursting with happiness. I want to smile stupidly at seemingly nothing because I’m thinking of her. I want to wake up every morning, happier than I thought possible, all because she’s mine. We aren’t quite there yet, unfortunately.

  Our kiss goes to hell when I force myself to pull away. Brittany’s hands were getting dangerously close to the button of my pants. Who knew I had so much fucking self-control? Brittany looks more disappointed and hurt than I’d like, but I’m going to stand my ground on the no sex thing.

  “We shouldn’t,” I whisper.

  “Of course not.” She takes a step back. “You should go.” And just like that, I’m the Trace who broke her heart and not the one trying to put it back together.

  It shouldn’t bother me so much that Trace pulls away when things start heating up, but it does. When I’m thinking clearly, I understand why. But I’m not thinking clearly and the only thing I want is to forget every single problem on my plate.

  There’s Trace.

  There’s my sick mom who doesn’t want me there.

  There’s the fact that I can’t force myself to drive to the hospital anyway.

  There’s my anxiety, which has been out of control.

  There’s my depression that wants to suffocate me and I’m about ready to let it.

  I’m so tired of it all. Even work sucks now. What’s going to happen if I do give up? My parents are spending time in the hospital, so they might not notice for a little bit. Trace will butt in at some point, I’m sure. I haven’t heard from Rebecca in a while, so I doubt she’d care.

  My phone dings with a text.

  Bec: Want to meet me at the bar for drinks? We need to catch up.

  Me: On my way.

  Used to be, she was the only one drinking. She’s been so far up Dustin’s ass that she hasn’t even questioned why I can drink now when I didn’t before. I meet Rebecca at the bar, highly disappointed. What she failed to mention is the fact that she was bringing Dustin along. Otherwise, I would’ve stayed at home to drink alone.

  “So, you’re still talking to Trace?”

  “Yeah.”

  She shakes her head at me and I fill her in on what’s happened so far. She’s anti-Trace, and I listen to her go on and on about him.

  “Are you sure he’s not playing you again? I mean, if he wants you back so bad, why won’t he have sex with you? Are we even sure he hasn’t been with someone else? Maybe that’s why he won’t. He could have something. Have you heard from Quinn?”

  “He texted me yesterday, saying he missed me, but I ignored him.”

  “Babe,” Dustin starts, and that’s all it takes for her focus to shift to him.

  The bartender sets our third set of drinks in front of us. This is why I’m here. For the chance to get plastered and forget all about Trace, my mom, my rising rent, my anxiety, and my depression. Let’s stop thinking and stop feeling. About one more drink and three shots later, someone appears next to me.

  “Brittany, hey.”

  I squint my eyes to see him clearly. “Hey, Quinn.”

  He’s standing a bit too close, and that’s a problem because he’s brushing against me and it’s making me all hot and bothered. I’m pitiful. “How’s it going?” he asks.

  “Good. Great. Perfect.” Lies. All lies.

  “That bad, huh?” That cute half smile of his appears.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” he asks innocently.

  “See through it.” It’s a rare accomplishment of his.

  He nods, takes a sip of his drink, and brushes against me again. “I miss you,” he says quietly.

  “You do?” This is twice in two days he’s told me. Wonder if he means it. When was the last time Trace told me he loved me, even if I didn’t want to hear it? All he does is take me out on dates. No, hey, how are you? Only a few kisses because heaven forbid we have sex again. I just wish there was one clear solution. I grab my phone and text him.

  Me: I hate this. So. So. Much.

  I’m not even sure what I hate. How my parents are pushing me away? How I can’t decide one minute from the next if I love him or hate him? How work is starting to lose its appeal? What about anxiety and depression? Maybe it’s all of the above.

  Quinn’s hand rests on my lower back and I finally look at him. “Don’t you miss me?”

  “A little.” Maybe. I’m not sure. At least he’d have sex with me. “Don’t you wanna know what happened with the ex?”

  “Nope. Sounds like he’s still an ex.” His hand slips underneath my shirt and grazes against my skin now. I should push him away, but I’ve been wanting to escape in the touch of another and I just don’t care who it is anymore. I can smell the alcohol on his breath as he leans forward and kisses my neck as if he’s reading my mind.

  My head falls to the side. How can it feel good and wrong at the same time? I shouldn’t let him do this. “Quinn,” I breathe. Am I stopping him or encouraging him? Damn it, I’m horny as hell and Trace won’t touch me until I give in and tell him I love him and why shouldn’t I? Trace’s tongue grazes my ear. Shit. Quinn! Quinn’s tongue. Trace isn’t here.

  “Brittany.” I turn at the sound of Rebecca’s voice. Quinn is still planting kisses on my neck and bare shoulders. His other hand starts sliding up my thigh. My breaths come out fast and short. I could rip off his clothes right now. His hand just needs to move a little higher.

  Dear lord. Am I sure this is a bad idea?

  “Should I?” I ask, not caring that Quinn can hear me.

  “Why shouldn’t you?” she counters. “If you want to, then go for it.”

  “What about Trace?” Just saying his name makes me want more alcohol. I wave the bartender over for another shot and down it.

  “What about him? He hurt you, Brittany. You know you shouldn’t get back together with him. Besides, Quinn has always been good to you.” Mostly true things.

  “Come on, Brittany,” Quinn says, standing up and dropping a handful of cash on the bar. Without waiting for an answer, he takes my hand and leads me out of the bar. I follow along.

  I shouldn’t do this. The only reason I shouldn’t is Trace. We’re not together, though, and damn it, I want to feel good. Sex will make me feel good and I’m not getting that from Trace any time soon. Quinn takes me back to my apartment. All doubts are shoved into a dark corner for me to come back to later when I regret this.

  Quinn tugs my shirt off and walks me to the couch, kissing me. All I’m able to do is kiss him while he easily undresses us, mumbling something about missing me, being hard, and something else that I don’t catch. A wave of nausea churns my stomach, but I ignore it. Is it possible to be too drunk for sex? I’m starting to get sleepy and Quinn is too busy kissing me to hurry up and get this over with.

  I grab his shou
lders and push him away. Wait. Trace? I blink his face away to see Quinn’s. This doesn’t feel right at all. Quinn leans down to kiss me again and I forget that thought. A loud noise startles us both. Did a door just slam? I glance over Quinn’s shoulder to see my door is open. If it was slammed hard enough, it could’ve popped back open.

  “Get off me.” My light shove ends up being a hard shove as Quinn falls off the couch. I grab a blanket, wrap it around me, and peek out my door to see a tall blond man waiting for the elevator and repeatedly pushing the button.

  Oh, god, no. “Trace?”

  “Don’t come near me.” His voice is tight and furious, and he doesn’t turn around.

  The doors finally open. “Trace, wait!” I start running toward him, but he refuses to look at me. “Trace!”

  “What?” he roars, holding his arm out to keep the doors from closing. “I’ve been doing every fucking thing I can think of to make you better and to get you back and you go off and fuck him! You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Brittany! You kept telling me you hated me and I hope you’re happy because now I believe you. I’m done!”

  “Trace, no, please,” I beg. “I can explain.”

  Trace shakes his head in disbelief. “Enjoy your miserable life.” He drops his arm and the doors close.

  What have I done? I’ve ruined any chance I had.

  “Brittany?” Quinn’s voice comes from behind me.

  I whirl around and stalk past him. “Get dressed and get the hell out!”

  “We haven’t even fucked yet!” he yells, pissed off.

  I slam my bedroom door and lock it. Tears fall before I can climb into my bed. Everything has officially fallen apart. I’ve failed life. I’ve lost Trace. I could lose my mom. Rebecca has been a crummy friend. My anxiety and depression are swallowing me whole and I haven’t even tried to stop them. There didn’t seem to be a point and nothing was helping. I fall asleep before I can wonder if there’s a point to changing my ways now or not.

  “You look worse than death,” Melissa whispers as she stops by my desk. “What’s going on?”

  “Just be glad I’m here and not home.” It took everything, every last bit of strength, every last bit of love I had for my job, and every last bit of self-control, to get out of bed and go to work this morning.

  “Okay, let’s go.” She reaches over me to minimize my email, grabs my purse from my drawer, and takes my hand. I let her lead me to where we have to time out for lunch and then to her car. She drives to her apartment, which is only a few blocks away from mine.

  “Why are we here?” I ask.

  “Because I’m your friend, something is wrong, and we need privacy so you can tell me.” She leads the way to her apartment and takes a seat on her couch, patting the spot next to her. “Tell me what’s going on, Brittany.”

  Before I can second-guess myself, the words spill from my mouth in a jumbled mess. “I suffer from anxiety and depression. It’s been pretty bad for a while. I’m not seeing anyone or taking my meds and it’s just bad. Trace has come back into my life and he wants to be together again, but I don’t know if I can trust him. Then I go and almost have sex with Quinn, but Trace caught us. He thinks I did have sex with him and I would have! He’s given up on me. I’ve given up on me. My mom had a heart attack and is having surgery today and I can’t be there because she doesn’t want me there. My life is a mess.” The story starts coming out from the beginning, from high school until now.

  At some point, Melissa hugs me and doesn’t let go. I eventually stop talking.

  “I’m here for you,” she tells me. “I can’t say I’ve ever gone through this, but I’ll help you any way I can.”

  “Thanks. No advice?”

  “Nope. I don’t think you need it, because I think you already know everything you need to do.”

  “Don’t be a good, smart friend,” I grumble, making her laugh.

  “Should have chosen another friend. We should get back to work. You talked a long time, and we’ll be late if we don’t go. I’m going to give you my cell number. We are officially friends, not just co-workers.”

  “Thanks.” I can definitely use a good friend. On the way back to the office, my dad sends me a text.

  Dad: Mom is good! Surgery is over and she’ll go home tomorrow. Everything went as planned. She is okay and wants you to call her when you get off work.

  Me: Will do. Love you both!

  “Everything went fine with my mom’s surgery.”

  “That’s great,” Melissa says.

  “Should I tell Trace? He was worried about her last night before…”

  Melissa seems to think about it. “You could text him.”

  So, I do.

  Me: Mom made it through her surgery okay. Just wanted to let you know.

  He doesn’t respond. Though, I shouldn’t be surprised.

  “Everything will be okay,” Melissa tells me when she pulls into the parking lot at work.

  “I hope so.” She was right earlier, too. I do know what I need to do. The problem is finding the courage and strength to do it.

  Fury has kept me on edge since I walked in and saw two naked bodies on Brittany’s couch. It’s only grown in strength and size as the weekend passes with Lily’s fence and doggie door being installed and as Monday rolls around. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that she slept with him when I’ve been trying to win her back. It was pointless. She definitely meant it when she told me she hated me. I was so sure there was still some love left, but there couldn’t have been for her to go off and do what she did.

  I give up.

  I could deal with her not taking care of herself.

  I could deal with her resistance and uneasiness of getting back together.

  I can not deal with her fucking someone else while I’m trying to put us back together.

  The funny thing is I never would’ve known had she not texted me that night. I couldn’t get a feel for how she was doing and how much I needed to worry about her. She didn’t respond to my texts, so I decided to drive over and check on her. The moment I opened the door and saw the two of them, my body reacted before my brain could fully catch up, slamming the door and walking away.

  Now, I’m in the waiting room before my appointment with Mrs. Kirk. I need to talk about this because I haven’t yet, but I’m not looking forward to it at all. Ben has been irritating the shit out of me because I’ve been in a sour mood. I didn’t talk to him, though. I don’t want to say the words out loud. I don’t want to admit defeat. I don’t want to say it’s over. I don’t want to think about any of it.

  “Trace, come on back.” I follow Mrs. Kirk to her office. She eyes me for a moment and then asks, “How are you?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “What did she do to push you away? Looks like it might’ve worked.”

  “What makes you think she did something?” I ask.

  “Every session, I ask you that question and you answer, ‘Pretty good.’ Something has happened, and considering the biggest wild card in your life right now is Brittany, I’ll ask again. What did she do?”

  I brace my elbows on my knees with my hands clasped and rest my forehead on my knuckles. Am I really going to say it? Out of everything she could possibly do to push me away, this was the last thing I ever expected. I never even thought about it.

  “Trace,” Mrs. Kirk pushes.

  Clearing my throat and without looking up, I say, “I caught her with someone else. Her ex-boyfriend. I think she’d been drinking again. She’s been annoyed that I won’t sleep with her, so I’m sure that helped her go elsewhere. She was probably stressed over her mom because she had a heart attack and her parents wanted her to stay here instead of going home. None of that matters. She shouldn’t have done it. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. All of my time, energy, and focus has been toward getting her back and that’s out the window now.”

  “Has she tried contacting you?”

  “She texted me that he
r mom made it through surgery okay and she’s called a few times over the weekend, but I haven’t answered. She doesn’t leave voicemails either.” I’m thankful for that because I would be tempted to listen, and I’m not sure I can hear whatever she has to say.

  “So, it’s over with her? You’re not going to hear her out?”

  I lift my head. “What is there to hear? She fucked her ex-boyfriend. She’s been pushing me away constantly, telling me she hates me, and then she goes and does that? Why shouldn’t I walk away and let her—” I stop short. Am I really going to let her fall apart without me? After I told her mother I would keep an eye on her for when she hit rock bottom? An image of her and Quinn on her couch flashes in my mind.

  “Let her what, Trace?” Mrs. Kirk asks quietly.

  “I was going to say that I should let her fall apart on her own. She’s self-destructive and everything I’m doing isn’t making a bit of difference anyway.”

  Mrs. Kirk leans back in her chair, looking as if she’s mulling something over. She’s quiet for what feels like forever.

  “What?” I finally ask.

  “I’m not excusing her actions in any way, but hear me out. You hurt her severely when you broke up with her. You want her to give you a second chance after what you did. You’ve said so yourself that she’s self-destructive, and one could say that last May, so were you. Now that the tables have turned and she’s hurt you, you don’t want to give her a second chance if she wants one? A bit hypocritical, isn’t it?”

  My eyes narrow and my jaw clenches. “That is not the same thing.”

  “No, but it’s awfully similar.”

  The beginning of my session has been stuck in my head for days. Brittany hasn’t tried to contact me again. I haven’t reached out to her either. I’m still figuring out how I feel about everything. I have not missed the jumble of emotions running into one another, tangling together, when something stresses me out and gives me anxiety. My anger is dancing with how I still miss her while my hope is intertwining with my pain, urging extreme caution in whatever my next move is.

  Friday evening, it’s hot as hell, humid, and I’m sweating profusely. I figured it would be better to mow the yard now than during the day tomorrow. And because I like to torture myself, I only have a push mower. I can’t help it. My dad owned a push mower and he would drag me out to help him mow the yard. I liked the exertion. When he upgraded to a riding mower, he didn’t need my help and it lost the appeal when I did it for him. Any time he asked after that, I’d drag out the old push mower. I’m weird and stuck in my ways, I guess. I’ll finish in time to shower and settle in for Dateline.