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I zone out in a slightly panicked haze as he explains the medication in detail. This is happening. Please, please, please let this medication work like it should with zero side effects. Once he’s done explaining, he walks us out front where I schedule a phone appointment in two weeks. On the ride back home, I text Trace the details. He doesn’t respond, so I assume he’s busy at work.
“I’m going to take a little nap,” I tell Mom as we walk up the sidewalk to the house. “Can you update Dad?”
“Of course. I’ll wake you in an hour. We planned to have a quiet weekend here.”
I smile. “That sounds perfect. Thanks for going with me.”
“You’re welcome.”
I leave her for my old bedroom. My parents have left it alone. I’ve updated it here and there when I come home from college to visit. They wanted to leave it untouched to emphasize that I always have a place here. All of their plans to turn it into a small workout room or an office or a man cave for Dad never came about. Maybe they would have if it wasn’t for my issues. It was after I was diagnosed that they stopped mentioning it at all. This is their way of providing me even more stability and giving me a safe place to go if I need it. My parents are amazing. One day, I hope to show them how much I appreciate all they’ve done for me.
That’s the last thought I have as I lie down for a nap.
Mom woke me up in an hour as she promised. Trace still hasn’t texted me back, but I don’t worry about it. I join my parents in the living room.
“I picked up your prescription,” Dad tells me.
“Thanks.”
A quiet day is exactly what we have. We watch TV until Mom drags us into the kitchen to begin making dinner. My parents love to cook. I have countless memories of us cooking most of our meals together. Maybe that can be something I continue once I have my own family. My phone buzzes on the counter, and I quickly pick it up.
Trace: I’ve heard good things about that one, so maybe it’ll work out for you. Enjoy your weekend away, Britt. Text me if you need me.
“Who are you texting?” Mom asks with a grin.
“Probably that secret boyfriend of hers,” Dad answers.
“He’s not a secret.”
“Oh, yeah? Then tell us about him.” Mom raises an eyebrow and waits.
“Um,” I falter, unsure what to say about Trace that wouldn’t give him away.
“Start simple. How old is he?” Mom asks.
“Thirty-one.” Mom and Dad exchange cautious glances at one another. “It’s not that big of a leap,” I defend.
“How did you meet him?” Dad wants to know.
“I’ve known him for a while.”
“That doesn’t tell us how.” He folds his arms over his chest, and I sigh.
“We just started dating, Dad. Can’t you wait until things are serious to learn our history?”
He gets back to the skillet, quiet as he thinks. “Fine. You can be secretive about your boyfriend all you want. We will want all details once you’ve been dating him for three months. That’s me being generous.”
Mom is quick to add, “We’re just worried about you, Brittany. You are being really quiet about him, and that’s new.”
I hate making my parents worry, and that’s pretty much all I do. “I want to wait because our relationship is already hard. I want to make sure we look like we’ll last before any introductions or getting too used to talking about him with y’all.”
“Why is it hard already?” Dad asks.
“Well, I have my anxiety and depression, and he has depression. We’ve been experiencing them at the same time.”
Another glance is exchanged between the two of them. Mom’s lips are pursed and Dad is frowning. It looks like I’m not the only one who wonders if we can work when we both have such issues. My parents don’t say this to me, though.
“Are you happy?” Dad asks.
