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“Sure.” She gives me a weak smile, which tells me she’d rather not.
“Do you trust me to take care of you?”
“Yes,” Brittany answers immediately.
“Then you have nothing to worry about.”
She nods. With how the weather is today, I had planned on taking her to a place I pass on the way to campus. According to my coworkers, the restaurant is known for its soups. What is better on a cold day than a hot bowl of soup?
“Do you want to tell me what triggered it?” I ask.
; “Sounds like a therapist-y question, Trace,” she quips, causing me to laugh. “And I’d rather not say.”
“Fair enough.”
Once we get to the restaurant, I take her hand and we walk inside.
“Table for two?”
“Yes, and can we have a table away from everyone, if possible?”
“Sure,” the hostess agrees. “Just give me a second.” She looks over her tablet and Brittany squeezes my hand in thanks. A moment later, we’re being led to the back corner of the restaurant where the nearest person is four tables over.
I take the seat facing the room and let Brittany take the one facing the wall. Her anxiety might not be so bad if she can’t look around the room. We look over the menu in silence and it’s not until we’ve ordered drinks that Brittany speaks.
“I called the psychiatrist.”
“Good. What happened? Are you still seeing Dr. Gunner?”
“Yeah. He gave me the sleeping pills and upped my dosage of my regular medication. Did you call your psychiatrist today?”
“Yep.” Nights are always the worst time for me. I have no problem waking up, getting out of bed, and going to work in the morning. I can always manage to push myself to do that much. But then, at some point in the afternoon, it’s like a switch flips. It’s why I can’t sleep. It’s why I start shutting down and have trouble managing to do what needs to get done during that time. What worries me is how I’m going to keep up appearances around Brittany. This is when I’ll spend most of my time with her.
Her troubles are the worst in the morning, usually. She has so much on her plate as it is and I don’t want to add to that. But we’re a two-way street now, at her request, so I don’t have much choice. It should be worth it anyway.
The waitress returns and we order our soups.
“Are we doing anything after this?” Brittany asks when she walks away.
My depressed mind says no, but my heart says yes. “Anything in particular that you want to do?”
Her laughter causes me to smile. “You asked me out on a date. I’m not going to help you plan it.”
“I don’t need your help,” I chuckle. “I was only wondering. I have something planned.”
“Better. We don’t want you to be lazy and uncreative.” A slow smile rises on her face and I laugh.
Her first semester her junior year, she went on a date. She texted me afterward and said she couldn’t decide if it went well or not, which was telling in and of itself. When she told me what happened on the date, what they did, I told her she could do better than someone who was obviously lazy and uncreative.
“No, we don’t,” I agree. “What are your plans after graduation?”
“Rebecca and I were thinking about getting an apartment together.” Her mouth opens and then closes.
“But?” I prompt.
Her shoulders sag. “I’m barely getting by with school some days. How am I supposed to sustain a job? That’s the main reason my parents decided to keep paying for my tuition after my sophomore year. They don’t think I can handle a job and school.”
