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Before I can half-heartedly tell him to leave, he wraps me in his arms. I melt against him, feeling as if this is a critical moment and I just need someone to be there for me and tell me it’s going to be all right. Trace pulls me far enough away from the door that he can close it and then walks us to my couch. He sits and tugs me down to sit in his lap sideways.
He doesn’t say anything. He just holds me. I rest my head on his shoulder, wondering what the point is. It doesn’t feel right while managing to feel perfect. My anxiety scratches at me as consistently as Trace’s hand rubbing up and down my back until I’m raw and can’t think straight. He’s here. I don’t want him to be. I want to be in bed. I want this to be over. I want it to stop. I want to go back to work, which is the one place I manage to find my courage to fight through this disaster called my life. And in the midst of it all, Trace is back, front and center.
I don’t get it.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
Trace doesn’t immediately respond, but seconds later, he quietly replies, “I’m trying to love you, Britt.”
I press my forehead into his neck. “Try harder.” My words are so quiet, barely audible, because I almost hope he doesn’t hear me.
But he does if him pulling me closer is any indication. Thankfully, he doesn’t speak. His breathing, his steady heartbeat, and his constant rubbing of my back lulls me to sleep. Trace ruins it before I can nod off completely.
“I need to get back to Lily. Do you want to come with me?”
“Not particularly.”
“Okay.”
I guess it’s only natural for me to have love and hate feelings toward that answer when I have a love and hate relationship with Trace. Conflicted feelings are a bitch. I don’t want to go to his house; I don’t want him to leave my apartment either. I want to stay just like we are. But Trace isn’t staying and I’m not going, so five minutes later, he’s gone and I’m in bed.
He gave me this lame, kinda sweet kiss on the forehead and promised he’d be in touch about our next date. I lie in bed, wondering where he’ll take me. If my anxiety and depression weren’t so bad, would I be thrilled that Trace has come back to me? Even though I no longer trust him? Would I be more willing to give him a chance?
This is the man who I loved without reservation, the man who got me through some of the hardest times of my life, and the man who, for the most part, treated me so well. I have a chance to get back what we once had and I’m fighting him tooth and nail. He hurt me so badly, though. Every day, I’ve had to deal with this ache in my heart on top of so much anger toward him. It can’t be swept under the rug.
I wipe away my tears, feeling like an idiot. For not really giving Trace a chance and for not giving the love we shared a chance. How am I not even a little excited or happy about this? Why am I not hopeful that it’ll work out?
My phone lights up on the nightstand. I reach for it, see it’s my mom, and decide to ignore it. When it dings with a voicemail, I go ahead and listen to it.
“Hey, Brittany. It’s Mom.” She says this every single time I don’t answer, as if I don’t already know. “I wanted to check in and see how you were doing today. Please call me, so I won’t worry. Your dad and I miss you. Maybe we can come up and visit soon. Call me back. We love you.”
I wait for some type of emotion to hit me from ignoring her call, from knowing I’m not calling back tonight, but there’s only indifference. Well, that and a pure sense of being overwhelmed. My life wasn’t perfect before Trace forced his way back into it, but it was simple. I knew what to expect every single day: work, dread, hopelessness, a call from my mother, and whichever method I used to cope that night.
Now?
Who the hell knows what’s going to happen. I could get a call from Trace, or a text, or he’ll show up unannounced and certainly uninvited. There’s too much going on in my head, too much to think about, too much that I’m not feeling while managing to feel everything I don’t want to deal with yet.
I open the bottom drawer of my nightstand for the bottle of vodka I’ve hidden there. I only take my medicine when I feel like it, and it’s been weeks since I last took one of those stupid pills, so it’s not like I would be mixing the two. I get up, yank my comforter off my bed, and go lie on the couch, turning on a hockey game.
It’s the finals, and soon the season will be over. One night, I saw our local team, the Carolina Rebels, were playing and decided to watch. Sometimes I drink when I watch; sometimes I don’t. Tonight, I will. One swig for every icing, off sides, goal, penalty, period, intermission, and fight, if there is one. One swig for every time the broadcasters annoy me. I can’t say I completely understand the game, but I watch often and know some of the terminology. Surprisingly, even when I don’t drink, hockey is a good distraction that helps me relieve stress. Sometimes, I yell at the TV and the players like I know what I’m talking about. I often wonder if regular hockey fans do the same. I don’t know what I’m going to do over the summer without it.
This is a wild game and I’m officially drunk midway through the second period. I can’t help but think about the first time I went to a game. I’ve actually been to a few this season. Alone. Rebecca wasn’t interested at all, and I was desperate enough to get away that I went
by myself. My phone rings, distracting me from the game.
Mom. Again.
I answer. “I’m okay, but in no shape to talk.”
“Are you drunk? Brittany,” she begins, but I interrupt her.
“Please, don’t. No shape to handle it. Fuss at me tomorrow when I can feel ashamed. Just wanted to answer and say I’m okay. Bad day, Mom. Terrible day.” The never-ending tears flow across my face. “Bad, bad day. Work, okay, but Trace left me bamboo and showed up and I don’t know how to deal. I just don’t know anymore, Mom. I don’t know if I want to anymore.”
“Don’t want to what?” she asks softly, but I ignore her question.
“It’s hard, Mom. So, so hard. Always so hard. I’m tired. I’m tired of it all. I want it to stop. Please make it go away.” Panic seizes my throat and steals my breath until I’m breathing too fast. I grip the bottle and down some more.
“Brittany.” Her voice is calm, the opposite of how I feel. “You’re worrying me. I don’t like you talking like this. You need to stop drinking and just go to bed.”
