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Brittany’s had a death grip on her wrist since the moment we saw the very first apartment. We’ve seen four this morning and none of them were as nice as the one she’s in right now. One landlord gave us both the creeps. Another showed up twenty minutes late. The other two seemed fine, but the apartments were less than stellar. All of my hard work in getting my girl to relax yesterday flew out the window as she grew tense with every passing minute.
She hasn’t said much either. That all comes to an end once we walk into my house and I say, “Britt.”
“What in the hell am I supposed to do now?” she shouts, whirling around to face me, her arms flailing about. “I can’t move into any of those places! I only have a week left. I really don’t want to pay more than I am now. What am I going to do?” Her frustration sends tears over the edge, falling down her cheeks and leaving a wet, glistening trail behind.
My mind goes into overdrive to think of a solution for her. For the moment, I pull her into my arms and hold her. I end up blurting out the first thing I think of. “You could move in with me.” Brittany takes a step back to stare at me with wide eyes. “Until you find a new place, I mean.” My heart starts hammering as the silence grows between us. That was a mistake. Obviously, by her reaction. But now my brain is playing dead and refuses to help me out with how to recover from this.
“Are you insane?” The question jumps off my lips in a shout, and I feel as if I’m forcing it out to cover up some of my hurt. I panicked when he asked. Who wouldn’t? But then when I realized he wanted it to be temporary, my mind surged to pain and questions. Are we in a place where we should live together? I don’t know. But to hastily tack on that it’d be a temporary move, it’s like he doesn’t want to live with me. And if he doesn’t want to live with me now, why would he in the future?
Because that’s how my mind works!
“I…I…” My mouth keeps opening, but that’s all I can manage to get out.
Unfortunately, Trace decides to start talking. “I have an empty guest bedroom, Brittany. As much as I hate to say it, I don’t think we’re quite there yet. But you could move in, have your own room, and we’d be roommates until you could find your own place.”
That little voice in the back of my head is waving a red flag. The same voice that wonders if I can really trust Trace again is getting louder, shouting at me that if he can’t even stand the thought of living with me long-term, this is just going to end badly once more. Then I remember we’re supposed to have a clean slate and I start to drown in guilt for continuing to doubt him.
“Hey,” Trace says, taking a step closer and resting his hands, which seem so heavy and large right now, on my shoulders. He glides them inward until his fingers lace together on the back of my neck, his thumbs on my jaw, pushing up to make sure I have my eyes on his. “Please don’t think I’m saying I wouldn’t love to live with you. I’m not. If you weren’t facing the issue you are, I wouldn’t be mentioning it at all.”
My eyes squeeze closed at his contradiction. I go to pull away, but Trace keeps me where I am.
“Damn it; this isn’t coming out right. I’m trying to help here. Be my roommate, so you don’t have to pay the higher rent, and you’ll have more time to search for a decent place. Did any of that cause my foot to reenter my mouth?”
Maybe it’s because of all the anxiety I’ve had all day, but I’m feeling ridiculously emotional and all I want to do is go home and cry. I shake my head to answer Trace’s question, though I’m not positive it’s the truth. He breathes a sigh of relief.
“Thank you,” I say. “I should head home. Looks like I need to pack.”
“Do you want me to come with you? Is that furniture yours?”
“No and no. The only thing that I have is my clothes, sheets, and all the pots and pans and such in the kitchen. Everything I own can fit into boxes.” For some reason, that thought depresses me. The only large item I own is my car, but my parents bought that for me. A short, harsh breath through my nose—you know, the kind you breathe when you’re trying not to cry—comes with my exhale and I try to steady my shaky lungs.
“Britt,” Trace whispers. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I shrug out of his grasp. “I’m just overwhelmed at everything I have to do before Thursday.” Which is the last day of the month. Without waiting for an answer, I head for his room to grab my overnight bag. He’s standing right where I left him. His eyes are analyzing my every movement. I force a smile. “Thanks again for going with me. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I reach up on my tiptoes to kiss the corner of his mouth. He moves his head just a little, so I kiss him full on the lips.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” His hands grasp my hips.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“You already asked if I was sure,” I point out.
“Yeah, I know, but it feels like a lie. I don’t want to start that again. I want you to talk to me, no matter what. I know I fucked up just now, and I know it affected you. Tell me what’s bothering you still. Let me in, Britt.”
Ugh. This is probably the only time ever that causes me to hate him shortening my name. It gets to me. It seeps into my blood, reminding me of how he started using it in his texts, and causing me to remember the first time I heard him say it. It was the first time I came here to his house and it was when we supposedly became a two-way street of discussing our issues with one another.
Trace speaks again as if answering my silence. “I feel like if you leave, and you’re holding back like I think you are, then we’ll be taking a step backward and I don’t want to do that.”
The thing, though, is that I don’t want to talk to Trace about it. Talking about every little thing can’t be any better than not talking about the big things. “It’s not an us thing or a you thing. It’s a me thing, and I’d rather just have some space, decompress, and calm myself down before I go and make issues when none need to be made.” There. That sounds like a good response, right?
“All right,” he says with a nod. “Have your space and decompress. If that doesn’t work, talk to me.”
“Deal.”
Finally, he gives me another quick kiss and releases me. I don’t hesitate to leave. Though I said I was going to pack, I don’t stop to buy boxes and I go straight to my bedroom once I get to my apartment. I realize this is one of my bad habits, but I’m indulging in it. I don’t know of any other method to decompress. When the sheets are up to my nose and I’m comfortable, I inhale long and slow and exhale. My sheets smell like lavender since I washed them the other day.
That’s all it takes for my brain to break down. Turns out that I do want
