Page 67 of Driving Me Mad (Sanity 1)

Trace glances at the clock and then holds out his hand. I place mine in it. He’s lying on his back, his sigh sounding as tired and distraught as he looks. “Stay with me for a bit, Britt. Please?”

Has he ever said please before? Has he ever sounded like he was begging me? Has he ever sounded so weak? I nod and climb into bed next to him, my back resting on the headboard. Trace throws an arm around my hips and rests his head on my chest. I slip a hand through the back collar of his shirt to rub his back while using my other hand to play with the cold, wet hair on the top of his head.

“I hate this,” he mumbles.

“What?” I can’t help but ask. Is he referring to depression or leaning on me?

“How I feel.”

“It’ll pass eventually.”

“Yeah, eventually. I hate that too.” He squeezes me tighter. “Okay. I’m going to sleep.”

It does funny things to my heart to have this big, strong man curl into me and hold onto me as if he’s holding on for dear life. As if he needs something—or someone—to anchor him.

I’ll gladly be that person.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s sound asleep. I ease out of bed, grateful I don’t wake him. Downst

airs, I find Rebecca at the same slot machine. She’s up a hundred dollars, but who knows how much she’s spent to get there.

“What happened to five minutes?” She glares at me, but I don’t think she’s actually mad. “I’m guessing he wasn’t asleep.”

“No, he was.” She grins and holds out her hand for the money I owe her. I roll my eyes and slap her hand away. “He fell asleep in the shower. I woke him up and got him back into bed. He wanted me to stay until he fell back asleep. I don’t think he’s doing well at all, Bec.”

“At least he’s resting now.”

I told her earlier that he didn’t get much sleep last night. Rebecca gets distracted by spotting a waitress and ordering another strawberry daiquiri. “That’s your last one. You’re a lightweight and I’m not taking a drunk Rebecca to the show,” I tell her as I feed money to the machine in front of me.

She only rolls her eyes at me. It may not be a big glass, but it’s loaded with alcohol. We play for a bit before walking upstairs where the show is. I’m a little nervous because I’m not sure what to expect. I’m considering this normal anxiety—the kind where you’re expected to be nervous about whatever it is because it’s a natural and normal reaction.

From the moment the show starts, I can’t stop giggling. Yeah, the men are hot, but they are funny too, and it’s just ridiculous to watch them. All the thrusts and dirty moves, sitting in the lap of an elderly lady, and hearing the catcalls from the other girls is hilarious. It feels good to laugh and not think for a while, on top of spending time with Rebecca. There’s a nagging in the back of my mind that I should be with Trace, but it’s good to know he’s sleeping right now. After the show, Rebecca and I get our pictures taken with all of the guys as a keepsake.

Trace is knocked out, lying on his stomach, when we return to the room. I change and crawl in next to him, smiling a little when he wakes up just enough to pull me closer.

There have been numerous times in my life when I’ve felt helpless. Usually at the hand of my own anxiety. You can’t make it stop just because you want it to. You can’t force yourself to feel better. There’s only a handful of things you can do. The sometimes lack of effectiveness of what you can do can easily make you feel helpless.

But the current weight of helplessness I feel is beyond overwhelming. If I thought I felt helpless because I can’t help myself, I feel ten times worse about not being able to do anything for Trace. Being here and doing what he needs me to do isn’t enough. It’s like putting a Band-Aid on a large cut gushing blood. Or maybe a better example would be like taking a pill and it only being a little effective and only two percent of the time.

I care for him so much and he’s so good for me. I just want to make him better. What sucks the most is that neither of us have the full capabilities to make that happen.

“I think I’m going to stay here today.”

“What?” I turn to look at Trace, who is still in bed. Rebecca is in the bathroom, finishing getting ready for our day.

He looks sad and a little guilty. “I can’t do it. I do want to go to Fremont Street tonight, but I definitely can’t do both. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay; I understand. Do you want me to bring you breakfast before we leave or is there anything you want me to do for you?”

He shakes his head. Rebecca steps out of the bathroom. I grab my phone, money, and room key.

“Let’s go,” I tell her. She glances at Trace, but walks to the door without saying anything.

I’m distracted all day because Trace is occupying my mind. I wonder if he’s eaten, if he’s sleeping, if he’s feeling okay, and the wonders go on and on. It’s a tough task to pay attention to both what we’re seeing, doing, and what Rebecca is saying.

Eventually, she gets fed up.

“Either go back to the hotel, or liven up, Brittany,” she snaps. “Trace is a grown man who can take care of himself. If he’s having a bad day, then okay. But you can still have fun!”

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