“What?”
“This was our song!” she cries.
“Damn it…” I hit the power button. I try not to laugh, saying, “If you think I had anything to do with that…”
“Obviously I know you didn’t,” she mutters.
“Okay, because—”
“I’m just so mad at him!” she shouts. “I’m mad at myself! Why can’t I just be a normal person! Ya know, I used to think, like, ‘Oh, I’m a good person, I’ve got my head on fairly straight, I try my best to be a good Christian.’ I really, genuinely, didn’t think I had much wrong with me. I don’t think I’m ugly or anything, but this anxiety, throwing up over a simple nervous breakdown, just ruins it all, doesn’t it? All of it! Nothing elseseems to even matter!” Her voice ricochets off the walls of the cab, but then it’s silent. Painfully silent.
“Addison,” I murmur. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re an amazing person, you’re funny, you’re smart, you’re witty, you’re beautiful.” My throat dries but I press on. “You have it all. Any guy would be lucky to have you,” I admit. The words are coming out of my mouth so naturally that I feel a slight shift in the air between us.
“I wasn’t asking for a pity party, I’m just pissed off. You don’t have to try and talk me up to be some great thing when I’m not, Wes.”
Her negativity about herself makes me suddenly angry. My blood actually feels hot. I wouldn’t lie to her, and Iknowshe knows that.
My voice finds an edge. “I’m not lying about a single damn thing I just said.”
“Yeah, well, you’re my friend. You might think differently if you were my boyfriend,” she utters, and a lump forms in my throat.
If she only knew.
I swallow and feel a little relieved when I see a sign for Texas Roadhouse three miles away.
“Three miles,” I point out.
She starts to put her shoes on and clean up a little. Not having a clue about the conversation I just completely pushed off to the side.
Chapter 18
Addison
Wesley and I ate at Texas Roadhouse about an hour ago and it was good. I was surprised at how much I actually ate.
I keep looking at my phone, waiting for Brantley to text me to say he is sorry or that he wants to talk things out, but it’s been radio silence.
I just wish I would’ve known he was reaching a breaking point with me. Sure, we fought, but we always got through it and grew…or so I thought. We weren’t even in a fight prior to that call, per se; he apologized for the whole anniversary thing two days ago. I have a feeling that this trip with Wesley was a tipping point though.
Brantley goes out with friends—guysandgirls—all the time, and I’ve just had to learn how to be okay with it. Meanwhile, I told him I was going to do this with Wes today and he got very uptight. Gave me a guilt trip about never wanting to go anywhere withhimdue to my anxiety, but with Wesley things were different. While I don’t understand it either, there’s nothing I can do about it. Wesley’s my best friend; we’ve been doing stuff like this since forever.
Ironically, my anxiety was pretty good on this trip up untilnow. I’m starting to feel a little queasy though. Especially after eating all that food. Wesley’s been good at keeping me distracted with light conversation, but the last forty-five seconds have been silent between us…just enough time to get my anxiety to flare up due to overthinking.
Even with the AC running, the backs of my legs tingle, my hands are sweaty, my throat feels like it’s closing, and the urge to gag surfaces.
“Can you stop a minute?” I manage to choke out, ready to jump out of the truck no matter what, my hands already on the door handle.
“Yeah, sure.” He pulls off the road and I get out of his truck as quickly as I can.
I take a slow, deep breath of the cold November air as I walk towards the back of his truck, attempting to get out of sight of any mirror. I need to feel like I’m in my own space, alone.
I start to walk slowly down the road, focusing on the edge that turns into a grassy field. I then focus on the loose gravel. On sweeping the small rocks off into the field with a swift kick of my foot. Counting how many times it takes to clear. I turn around and do it again the whole way back to the truck. Distraction. Anxiety is most of the time easy to combat with distraction. For me anyways.
I rest my hands on my hips and take another breath. The winter wind is so frigid it’s almost too cold to inhale, but I do anyway. The urge to throw up starts to subside.
I hear Wesley open his door. “Here.” He hands me my water and walks away again. He knows to give me space.
I take a sip of my water and bask in a break from the nausea.
