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It shouldn’t bother me so much that Trace pulls away when things start heating up, but it does. When I’m thinking clearly, I understand why. But I’m not thinking clearly and the only thing I want is to forget every single problem on my plate.
There’s Trace.
There’s my sick mom who doesn’t want me there.
There’s the fact that I can’t force myself to drive to the hospital anyway.
There’s my anxiety, which has been out of control.
There’s my depression that wants to suffocate me and I’m about ready to let it.
I’m so tired of it all. Even work sucks now. What’s going to happen if I do give up? My parents are spending time in the hospital, so they might not notice for a little bit. Trace will butt in at some point, I’m sure. I haven’t heard from Rebecca in a while, so I doubt she’d care.
My phone dings with a text.
Bec: Want to meet me at the bar for drinks? We need to catch up.
Me: On my way.
Used to be, she was the only one drinking. She’s been so far up Dustin’s ass that she hasn’t even questioned why I can drink now when I didn’t before. I meet Rebecca at the bar, highly disappointed. What she failed to mention is the fact that she was bringing Dustin along. Otherwise, I would’ve stayed at home to drink alone.
“So, you’re still talking to Trace?”
“Yeah.”
She shakes her head at me and I fill her in on what’s happened so far. She’s anti-Trace, and I listen to her go on and on about him.
“Are you sure he’s not playing you again? I mean, if he wants you back so bad, why won’t he have sex with you? Are we even sure he hasn’t been with someone else? Maybe that’s why he won’t. He could have something. Have you heard from Quinn?”
“He texted me yesterday, saying he missed me, but I ignored him.”
“Babe,” Dustin starts, and that’s all it takes for her focus to shift to him.
The bartender sets our third set of drinks in front of us. This is why I’m here. For the chance to get plastered and forget all about Trace, my mom, my rising rent, my anxiety, and my depression. Let’s stop thinking and stop feeling. About one more drink and three shots later, someone appears next to me.
“Brittany, hey.”
I squint my eyes to see him clearly. “Hey, Quinn.”
He’s standing a bit too close, and that’s a problem because he’s brushing against me and it’s making me all hot and bothered. I’m pitiful. “How’s it going?” he asks.
“Good. Great. Perfect.” Lies. All lies.
“That bad, huh?” That cute half smile of his appears.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” he asks innocently.
“See through it.” It’s a rare accomplishment of his.
He nods, takes a sip of his drink, and brushes against me again. “I miss you,” he says quietly.
“You do?” This is twice in two days he’s told me. Wonder if he means it. When was the last time Trace told me he loved me, even if I didn’t want to hear it? All he does is take me out on dates. No, hey, how are you? Only a few kisses because heaven forbid we have sex again. I just wish there was one clear solution. I grab my phone and text him.
Me: I hate this. So. So. Much.
I’m not even sure what I hate. How my parents are pushing me away? How I can’t decide one minute from the next if I love him or hate him? How work is starting to lose its appeal? What about anxiety and depression? Maybe it’s all of the above.
