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“You know, I’m not so sure I like you anymore, Trace,” I joke. “Your tactics seem more aggressive.”
“That’s because you’re reluctant to talk to me.” He lowers his voice and leans forward. “C’mon, Brittany. We’ve known each other for years and we’re supposed to be honest and forthcoming with each other. What’s changed?”
Now he’s made me feel guilty. Before I can respond, he does.
“You haven’t failed, Brittany.”
I push my plate away, a wave of nausea hitting me, making me clutch my stomach and close my eyes for a second. Everything’s different, but it’s the same. I didn’t used to make it to the point where I’d vomit, I only had nausea. I didn’t used to squeeze my wrist all the time, only during attacks. How have I not failed?
“Long deep breath,” I hear Trace whisper.
Slowly, I inhale and exhale. “Thanks.” My voice is strained, but I open my eyes, feeling only slightly better. “I didn’t know it could be worse. I wasn’t expecting that it would ever be worse than before.”
“I know, but we can get you back to where you were. I need to get back to the office for an appointment. Are you busy tonight?” I shake my head even though I do have homework to do. “Meet me back here around five and we’ll grab dinner, okay?”
“Thanks, Trace.”
He smiles, a real smile where it reaches his eyes and he flashes me his pearly whites. I had forgotten just how handsome his smile could be. I mentally shake my head to rid myself of those thoughts.
Brittany is standing outside the building, her fingers wrapped firmly around her wrist. My heart aches at seeing her in turmoil. I almost think it’s harder because she thought she had experienced the very worst her anxiety and depression could do to her. She turns her head toward me at the sound of the door closing with a thud. Without overthinking it, I pull her cold fingers away from her wrist and let them intertwine with mine.
“Nervous about dinner with me?” My breath is visible in frigid winter air. A smile, which has been a hard task for my lips to perform lately, easily lifts into place when she laughs.
“No,” she answers as I lead her to the parking lot. “It could merely be a habit, you know. It could have nothing to do with my anxiety.”
I release her hand as I reach into the side of my briefcase for my keys. “Could, but we both know that’s not the case.”
“You always have to ruin the fun,” she jokes, sliding into the passenger seat.
I shake my head at her while closing the door and then walking around to my side. All day I’ve been wondering what to do about dinner. I want to be able to talk to her without interruptions, make sure she’s comfortable, and the best solution is my new home. Brittany usually doesn’t have problems out in public and around other people, but for some reason, her anxiety always comes out a little more when she has to eat in public. It makes her self-conscious. I always made her go out two or three times a month, just so her body could readjust and catch up to her feeling fine about it as she conquered her anxiety.
So, she would probably be fine. However, with her anxiety acting up, I can’t be sure. I turn the key in the ignition and decide to ask Brittany what she wants to do.
“We can find a restaurant or we can…” My voice trails off, now unsure if offering is such a good idea.
“We can what?” she asks.
“I can cook us dinner,” I manage to say nonchalantly, trying to remind my heart and body t
hat Brittany is the one with anxiety, not me. But she…she makes me nervous. I don’t know how or when it happened, but the line of professionalism between us became blurred until I wasn’t sure it existed at all. She went from being my client, to a former client, to Brittany, to Britt. When any and all lines disappear, when I only see the beautiful person I care for, that’s when she becomes Britt. It’s when things feel dangerous for the sake of our livelihood.
“That sounds nice,” she replies softly. Her hand moves to her wrist. “I still have trouble in restaurants sometimes. I don’t want to deal with it today.”
That I can understand. We head out of the parking lot and toward my house. It’s about twenty miles away from campus in a nice little housing development in a neighboring suburb. Thankfully, I’m completely unpacked and settled in. Neither of us will be able to relax and have a clear head in a messy, chaotic house.
I park my car in the driveway. Brittany meets me at the front door, standing behind me quietly as I unlock it and push it open.
“Chicken sound good?” I ask as I set my briefcase on the kitchen counter.
“Yeah. Can I look around?”
“Sure.”
She wanders off while I go about getting dinner started. I’ll bake some chicken breasts and pair it with rice, gravy, and some vegetable. I glance over my shoulder at the sound of footsteps to see Brittany reentering the kitchen.
“Nice place,” she comments.
“Thanks.”
