Read Online Driving Me Mad by Lindsay Paige - Free Book Online

the
friend,” I give him a pointed look, “I’m hanging out with and who
is the reason I can’t talk to her right now.”
    His body tenses. I swear, he
even stops breathing for a moment. “Fuck,” he mutters under his
breath, releasing my hands and leaving them to fall limply into my
lap. “You told them?”
    “No.” I shake my head. “But
am I not supposed to?”
    “I just.” He grips the back
of his neck and squeezes. His eyes tightly shut before staring at
the basket of pickles. “I didn’t consider them when I was trying to
think of all my bases that might need covering. They won’t be happy
about it. About us .” Those hazel eyes return to me.
    “Why?” I don’t understand his
reaction. My parents know Trace. They met him when he was my
therapist, and they loved him as much as I did. My body now has no
problem getting warm. My hands begin to turn clammy, my neck heats
up, and I start squeezing my wrist. I mean, I don’t even know what us means. Nausea rolls through me. The last
thing a person wants to smell when they feel like vomiting is the
aroma of fried pickles. I push them away as Trace answers.
    “Think about it. I was your
therapist. I coincidentally moved to the same town as you. What if
they question my professionalism when you were my client? What if
they don’t believe how this,” he motions between us, “started? Not
to mention, I’m nearly a decade older than you.” Okay, now putting
it that way makes him sound so much older. “After I was asked for
an interview, I thought about what it could mean for me to move
here. I knew I would have to tell them, but they didn’t know you
were a former client. What they needed to know is that you’re a
current student. Your parents finding out will be a completely
different beast.”
    Trace squeezes his neck
harder and it hits me as I realize what’s happening. He has a tell.
I squeeze my wrist; he squeezes the back of his neck. Then it really hits me. Trace is having a panic attack. Oh, my god.
While I know that anxiety and depression can go hand-in-hand, Trace
has never, not once, mentioned he also dealt with anxiety. Only
depression.
    “If they don’t believe it,
they could ruin my career.” Now, he’s talking more to himself than
me. It’s like he’s checked out, even though he’s looking at me. I
reach over, pull his hand away, and squeeze it. “Why in the hell
didn’t I consider that?” he continues. “I swore I thought of everything , and of course, I didn’t.”
    “Trace,” I interrupt sternly.
He blinks twice. “Stop it. My parents are open-minded people. If
they weren’t, I never would’ve seen a therapist in the first place.
I’m not telling them any time soon, but when I do, they’ll
understand as long as I explain it right.”
    “As long as you explain it
right? Great,” he huffs.
    I drop his hand. Did he
seriously just say that to me? Obviously, I’m incompetent to
explain us to my parents, right? Before my anger gets out of hand,
I remind myself that he’s probably still panicking and his words
are a reflection of that—not of what he actually thinks of me. I
take a deep breath and calmly say, “My parents won’t find out in
the foreseeable future, Trace.” Considering that I try not to think
too far ahead, it’s totally plausible. “If a time comes when I’ll
need to tell them, then I will. If you’re worried about it, you can
be there or be the one who tells them instead of me.” To hopefully
end this, I finish by throwing his own words back at him. “One day
at a time.”
    He nods. “You’re right. I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. My career is
extremely important to me, and I don’t want to do something that
could jeopardize it. Or have someone think I did do something.”
    “I get it.” And I do.
    We sit in silence for a
moment. The waitress checks on us and Trace asks for the bill; it
seems we’ve both lost our appetites. The fried pickles go to waste.
What