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Or not.
Trace’s hold tightens, and he places open-mouthed kisses along my jaw and down my neck. It’s such a stark contrast between the cold air and then his hot mouth. Making out in the winter has more perks than I realized. I don’t know if I’m freezing or too warm.
“Trace,” I breathe, thankful for his hold because my entire body feels so light and overwhelmed.
“One more,” he mumbles before taking my mouth again. I can barely breathe for how consuming and demanding he is. When he pulls away, it takes everything I have not to gasp for air with my already labored breathing. “Sure you want to go back to campus?” I open my mouth to say no. Wait, yes. Yes, I need to go back to campus. I have homework. Trace doesn’t give me the chance to argue that point. “You can do it at my house and spend tomorrow with me.”
It’s tempting. Damn it all to hell, it’s tempting. Trace, in and of himself, is a comfort. I can relax just a little more when he’s around. I don’t have to think so much if he’s there to distract me. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to stay again. I can definitely do my homework there just as well as I can on campus.
“Okay,” I give in, causing Trace to steal my breath away with his grin.
It’s not until after the pitstop at campus for my things that I wonder if it’s good to use Trace as a distraction.
It’s not until we get to his house that I wonder if he’s using me as well.
I’m lying on the couch while Brittany is sitting in the recliner, obsessing over her homework. My stomach is starting to grumble from where we never finished eating thanks to my own panic attack. I’ve been watching her for two hours. She’s squeezed her wrist over a hundred times because yes, I started counting.
“Brittany.” She lifts her head. “Are you hungry?”
“No, I’m fine.” She returns her attention to her laptop and textbook.
I stand and head to the kitchen to fix us dinner. I feel bad, like I’m the reason for her anxiety and in turn, her loss of appetite. Maybe I can get her to eat something anyway. Cheeseburgers and French fries are on the Lexington Menu tonight. Who can resist that? I can feel myself shutting down and if a person’s mind can dig its heels in to resist, I’m sure doing it. The night has been a bit rough as it is and I don’t need to dampen it even more by wanting to crawl into bed and leave Brittany to her own anxiety with her homework.
“Hey,” I poke my head into the living room. “Come eat.”
Brittany doesn’t even lift her head. She’s seems to be busy rewriting what I’m sure was a perfectly well-written paper because her fingers are flying across the keyboard at a rapid pace, stopping occasionally only to slam down on the backspace key repeatedly. “Not hungry,” she mumbles. I walk into the room, carefully pick up her laptop, and hold it behind my back as she reaches for it. “Give it back.”
“Come eat with me.” It’s a simple request that she should have no problem accepting.
“I’m not hungry, Trace. Give me back my laptop,” she demands in a low tone with a glare.
“No. I’ve seen everything you’ve eaten today, and you have to be hungry. I am.”
“That’s because you’re a fucking giant! Give it back!” Her outburst surprises me as she stands and reaches for th
e device again. “I didn’t save it and it could crash at any time. I was right in the middle of a sentence, too! I’ll eat when I get hungry.”
“Which won’t be until tomorrow. What was it you told me the first day you saw me in my office? Something about you looking like crap? That’s because you’ve lost too much weight. You should eat something, even if it’s only a little bit. Your body needs it.”
Her arms fall to her sides, only to be propped on her hips. “You know, Trace, that’s just what every girl wants to hear. Thank you for telling me. It definitely makes me want to go stuff my face with food that makes me nauseated already!” she shouts. She takes a deep breath. It’s as if all her fight leaves with her exhale. “I call the grinch,” she whispers, plopping back into the recliner, which causes her textbook that was balancing on the arm to fall onto the floor.
“What?” What the hell does that mean?
“It’s something Rebecca and I came up with. It means I need twenty-four hours completely to myself to deal.” Her fingers wrap around her wrist. “I thought I’d be okay tonight, but I don’t know. I’m snapping and yelling at you, and,” she shakes her head, “I think I need the grinch.”
The last thing she needs, the last thing I need, is for either of us to be lost in our own heads. I think that’s why I asked her to come back. To keep me in the here and now and not in the dark, murky places of my mind. I place her laptop on the coffee table and get on my knees in front of her, reaching for her hands.
My mouth opens and closes a few times as I struggle with what to say. Me, a therapist, has no fucking clue what to tell her. Nothing seems appropriate or right because half of it is a slew of things I could say to soothe her while the other half would allow me to keep my end of the bargain of making us a two-way street. I’d much rather soothe her and keep the mess about me to myself. I sigh, rubbing my thumbs over her knuckles.
“I love how easily you can talk to me, but it’s not easy for me to do the same. So, bear with me, okay?” She nods. “I’m sorry for pushing you; I know it’s not easy when your body rebels against you. I want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself, though. And if it makes you feel any better, I kinda feel like calling the grinch, too.” Turns out, that’s all I’m able to force myself to say. So much for opening up.
Her eyebrows rise. “Really?” She sounds awfully surprised. I nod, and she adds with a frown, “With me, you can obviously tell. I can’t tell with you.”
“You’ll eventually be able to tell,” I reassure her and it seems to satisfy her. It seems like such an odd thing to be reassuring her on, but it’s true. I knew how to read her long before now. She’s never had the opportunity before to be able to read me and see my signs. “How are ya feeling?”
One corner of her mouth lifts. “Like maybe I can at least sit at the table with you.” When I stand, she quickly says, “As soon as I save my paper.” She finishes her sentence and then saves it, following me into the kitchen.
I decide to leave the fries on the plate they’re on, instead of putting some on my own plate. This way, maybe Brittany will pluck some off while she’s sitting with me. She giggles to herself as she taps the screen of her phone, probably texting someone.
