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Wrong answer. “You’re impossible! I
can handle myself just fine, okay? I don’t need you checking and asking if I’m okay all the time. I’m not a mental mess 24/7, Trace.”
His voice softens. “Hey, calm down. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I grit.
“You just blew up at me because I asked you a simple question.” His calming voice is irritating.
“Then stop asking me!” I vehemently whisper into the phone. The waitress arrives with my meal. “My food just came. I’ll talk to you later. Enjoy your time with Clark and Amy.” With that, I hang up.
I poke at my food, feeling terrible. I keep picking up my phone to call him back and apologize, but something makes me set it down each time. Blowing up at him wasn’t my intention, but it’s like I have this excess stress and I don’t know how to get rid of it, so I’m taking advantage of whatever opportunity comes my way. It terrifies me to think of anything going wrong with us. Currently, I’m not helping things.
Fifteen minutes pass without me calling Trace and without him calling me back. This time, I pick it up and hover my thumb over his contact. I need to fix this and stop causing issues with us. My anxiety can’t get in the way this time.
“Thinking of calling me?”
Startled by Trace’s sudden appearance and his lips brushing against my ear, my phone slips from my hand, clanging onto the table. He slides into the booth next to me, angling toward me. I don’t have to ask how he found me: “fried pickles” was all he needed to know.
“What are you doing here?”
Trace doesn’t answer my question. “You know, you have a short fuse when you’re stressed,” he says instead. “I didn’t know that.” He plucks a fried pickle from the pile and tosses it into his mouth, and all I can do is stare at him. “What’s bothering you, Brittany?”
“Why did you ask me to leave?” I blurt out.
He frowns. “So you wouldn’t have to deal with my dad.”
“Why? Because of the simple fact that he’s a jerk or because I have anxiety and you didn’t think I could handle it?”
His mouth parts and his eyebrows pull together. “Where is this coming from?”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Trace.”
He sighs, which isn’t a good sign. “A little of both, I guess. It wasn’t because I didn’t think you couldn’t handle it, but because I didn’t want you to have to. Will you please tell me why you started thinking about this?”
“Rebecca has had a boyfriend for two months.”
“Okay,” Trace says with confusion.
“She didn’t tell me because I was, and I quote, ‘preoccupied with my anxiety and everything.’”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh. So then I wondered if you were basically doing the same thing, and you are! Trace, you can’t hold back or make decisions because I happen to deal with anxiety. It’s not fair. I’m still me and I don’t deserve to be treated with kid gloves. How is this supposed to work if you’re more concerned about my anxiety than me?”
Trace takes my hands in his. “I’m sorry, Britt. I just didn’t want to make things worse for you if it could be avoided.”
“I don’t want to be treated like I’m fragile and can crack at any second, even if it’s true,” I whisper.
He cups my face. “I’ll work on it,” he promises before kissing me gently. “Now, let’s eat before this food goes to waste.” He picks up my fork and eats a bite of my pasta.
“Let’s? This is my food.”
“Yeah, well, consider it my reward for coming to work things out with my girlfriend.” The waitress makes her rounds to our table and Trace orders a drink and asks for another set of silverware.
“That was really sweet.”
He grins, accepting the silverware the waitress brings. “I figured it would be easier to solve things in person when you can’t run away or hang up.”
