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“That’s great, Britt.” I squeeze her hand.
“I keep thinking about my session with Mrs. Potter earlier this week, though.”
“Why?” She was quiet that day, but she said it went fine.
“She wanted to talk about triggers. How sometimes, there are specific reasons why I have attacks. Like crazy, congested crowds or traffic, or if there’s a situation where there’s a lot of pressure, things like that. She talked about doing those things to face my fears, like what you used to make me do with going to restaurants. But something keeps nagging me. There’s been plenty of attacks without a trigger. What then? How do I face and tackle a fear to conquer my anxiety and hopefully stop it when there seems to be none? What then? It’s starting to stress me out a little because I keep thinking about it.”
I think about what she’s said before responding. There are plenty of ways to answer her question, but they feel like bullshit responses because they aren’t catered to Brittany and her anxiety. The perfect res
ponse shifts through the rest and becomes clear to me. “Don’t those kinds of attacks usually happen when you’re completely stressed to the max? Not that you mean to, but you could be working yourself up until you’re having a panic attack. Maybe there is a trigger, but it’s less obvious than the rest. You’ve freaked the fuck out on me before and it was ultimately because of stress. Don’t look at me like that,” I say when she gives me a little glare. “Freaked the fuck out, panic attack, same thing.” I know my wording is what bothered her because that’s when she shot me the glare.
“Maybe you’re right. Everyone’s always happier when they aren’t stressed and sulkier.” She laughs and I smile. When she sobers up, she sighs. “It seems daunting and tiring, knowing how much mental stuff we have to constantly attempt to manage.” These are those little bad moments I mentioned.
“Thinking about it doesn’t help, but at least we each have a therapist and each other to vent to.”
Brittany shoots me one of those my-boyfriend-just-did-something-great smiles that I haven’t seen in what seems like forever. “That we do,” she agrees. “That we do.”
“I missed you so much.” I have a deathlike grip on my mom as I hug her.
“You talk to me almost every day,” she laughs.
“Still feeling well?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Yes, Mom.”
I release her to glance at Dad, whom I’ve already hugged. “Is she telling the truth?”
He laughs. “Yep. Y’all need to rest at all or are y’all ready to go to the beach?”
Trace looks at me to answer. “We’re ready. We just need to change.” Trace picks up our bags from where he set them down to hug my parents, and I lead the way to my room while Lily stays behind with my parents, who are already dressed and ready for the beach. He breathes what sounds like a sigh of relief when we enter my room. “What?” I ask.
“I was suddenly worried on the way in here that you’d have a twin bed.” He sets the bags down on the full-size bed and I laugh.
“Nope. You’re in luck and will get to sleep in here with me.” He seems to feel a little better today. He assured me this morning that he wanted to come regardless, but he seemed cranky when he said it. I’m glad his mood has improved.
“It’s weird to be here,” he says as we begin to change into our bathing suits. “Back to where it all began and at your parents’,” he clarifies. “Like, here we are in your old bedroom at your parents’ and we’re getting naked.”
I laugh. “To redress; stop making it sound weirder.”
“So you agree?” He raises an eyebrow at me.
“No, I don’t.” I glance around the room that hasn’t changed since high school and then to Trace, all the while I’m shimmying into my bikini bottoms. “Okay, it’s a little…odd, but it feels right, too.”
He smiles and tugs me against him. I haven’t yet put on my top, but I have already discarded my shirt and bra. We’re bare chest to bare chest. “I agree.” He dips his head to drop a kiss on my forehead before releasing me and handing me my top.
I hold the cups to my breasts and turn with my back facing him. “Tie me up.”
Trace chuckles and makes a tsking sound. “Three little words that can mean a few different things,” he says as he does as I asked.
“Don’t even think any dirty thoughts, Trace. Those aren’t allowed while we’re here because I am so not that type of girl.”
“But you are,” he insists. “What’s the difference between it being my dad and stepmom across the hall and your parents down the hall?”
The memory of that night surges to the forefront of my mind. How could that have slipped my mind?
“How’s that?” he asks, tugging both of the knots he tied.
“Good, thanks.” I turn to face him. “The difference is that…” What is the difference? “There just is one!” I burst out, exasperated. “So, your body is on probation. Your hands are restricted to my hands and the small of my back unless you’re applying sunscreen, and your mouth is restricted to my face. Got it?”
