Chapter 9
Addison
I hop in Brantley’s truck. He leans across the console to kiss me, but I’m too distracted by the fact that the air in the cab isn’t cold enough. Not when I’m this anxious.
It’s been almost a week since the concert, and he’s finally apologized for how he acted. It took a few days for him to understand my feelings and where I was coming from, but now things are good. He offered to make it up to me by taking me out to a movie.
There’s a little hole-in-the-wall theater in the town south of us. We’ll probably be the only ones there, being that the movie is at three o’clock on a Wednesday.
I reach for the air controller and turn it up before I even get situated in my seat. I make sure it’s full blast and turn the vents so that the air is blowing in my face.
“Anxious?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, closing my eyes and focusing on the feel of the air.
I tell myself we’re just seeing a movie.
I’ll be back home in two hours and then I can get a shower, eat something, and relax.
Focusing on what comes after, as if it’s the reward for doing something that made me anxious.
No matter how small that reward is, it usually helps me get through the waves.
If I just fix my mind on that end goal, I can get through just about anything. Not all the time, but sometimes.
“Sorry,” Brantley says, backing down the driveway. For a split second I think I might actually throw up when the reality sets in that I’ll be gone for a while. Why is this anxiety so much worse than the last time we went to a movie?
Maybe it’s just that I don’t really have the desire to see this particular movie?
It’s not something I’d choose on my own, like a rom-com.
It’s a total guy movie—action-packed with blood, guns, and cursing every other sentence.
It’s not that I hate those types of movies, I just grew up in a house fueled by testosterone that I rarely get the chance to escape.
We pass Ella walking up the lane, and it’s enough to snap my mind away from going over the edge. Brantley doesn’t stop, he just waves and I do the same. I bet she’s going to the Big House to hang out. Darn it, I’d rather be doing that than this.
I sit back in my seat and soak in the feeling of my nerves settling and nausea subsiding. I never know how long it’ll last.
“Brr,” Brantley says. “You’re gonna freeze me to death.” He laughs, reaching for the dial that turns down the air. And just like that, the urge to gag ramps back up.
“Put on a sweatshirt!” I snap, reaching to turn the dial back up again. I can barely bend forward, the position makes my throat feel closed.
“Geez, why are you angry?”
I close my eyes and let out a slow breath. So frustrated that I have to explain this to him. As if we hadn’t been together long enough? The last thing I want to do when I’m having an anxiety attack is talk someone through what’s happening. It just makes it worse.
“I’m so anxious and you’re messing with the air!” I say in one breath. “I need the air or I’ll throw up, Brantley!” I clench my teeth.
“Okay,” he grumbles, as if it’s such a bother for him. As if I’m not the one fighting for my life right now.
We drive in silence for the next five minutes. My nausea doesn’t fully go away, but it has subsided enough that I can talk now.
I look at him, but he doesn’t even bat an eye at me. He just sits there, driving, as if I’m forcing his hand to go down the road to watch some stupid movie. “You know that’s how it is sometimes. Why do we have to argue about it?”
“Because it’s August, Addison, and I didn’t exactly think I’d need a sweatshirt.”
“I told you this morning I was anxious.”
“So? I didn’t know you’d still be anxious by now. It’s two o’clock.”
“My gosh.” I lean my head in my hand against the window. “Do you listen to anything I say?! We’ve been together almost two years now and you still can’t seem to understand the basics to this.”
“Well, my bad. I didn’t expect you to get all worked up over a movie. It’s a movie, Addison! It’s not that serious!” His voice is hostile and it makes my heart beat faster, the bile in my stomach stirring.
“Pull over.” I gag, fumbling with the door handle. I push it open and throw up before the truck even comes to a full stop. My hands are trembling, my face is hot, but I feel a little better.
“Here.” Brantley hands me McDonald’s napkins and I clean myself up.
He doesn’t say anything else. No “I’m sorry for yelling” or “Are you okay?” Nothing.
I set the napkins I used on the floor by my feet and lean back in the seat, taking in a breath and sipping from my water bottle.
“So, I guess I’m taking you back home?”
I glare at him, but I honestly have to think about it, studying how I feel. I already got sick, so I might be okay now. My gut twists at the thought of continuing on and that’s enough of a sign for me to agree with him.
The whole way home is quiet. He still doesn’t say anything and I’m certainly not talking. Why should I? I’m the one who threw up.
When he pulls up to the house, my mom and Ella are on the front porch swing.
“Want me to hang out for a little?” Brantley asks.
“No,” I’m quick to say while I get out of his truck.
I slam the door harder than I mean to, but he doesn’t react.
Tears build in my eyes as he backs up and leaves.
I want to scream. I’m so angry with everything…
myself, Brantley, the tension between Wes and I, the season, the air, the entire situation.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asks, meeting me at the top of the steps.
The frustration quiets to a simmer and sadness takes over instead. I feel so defeated, like I took ten steps backwards with my anxiety. It’s like losing a game you never signed up to play but you still had a desire to win.
“I got sick,” I tell her.
“Okay, well, was he mad about it?”
“Yeah. We were arguing about the stupid air, and I just…it just…sent me over the edge.” My voice is broken and shaky. My body is heavy, I’m tired. I’m so mentally exhausted.
“Okay. Well, deal with that later. Just go in and lay down.” She gestures inside, pushing me along into the house.
I get a drink first and stare into space as I replay everything. My appetite slowly resurfaces as I stand in the comfort of my home, so peaceful and quiet.
“Hey,” Ella’s voice sounds from the doorway. She softly steps into the kitchen. Her arms are loosely crossed and resting on top of her stomach.
“Hi.”
“Do you wanna talk?”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, can I at least say something?”
“Sure.”
She steps further into the kitchen. “I can’t help but notice how much you’re trying to do for him. Going to that concert, the rodeos, his house, this movie. What’s the last thing he did for you?” she asks, taking a seat at one of the barstools along the edge of the counter.
“Oh, jeez…I don’t know.” I laugh, but Ella tilts her head, waiting for it to hit me.
I honestly don’t know. Unlike Brantley, I’m fine with hanging around home. It’s easier, less stressful, and more comfortable.
“Why don’t you ask Brantley to come do something that’s comfortable for you?”
“Yeah.” I sniffle. She has a good point. I keep pushing myself to do all these new things and I’m suffering for them. Maybe I need to take a step back and start again, slower, and build up a better foundation to try new things, while asking Brantley to meet me where I’m at.
“Invite him to church and lunch this Sunday. We’re doing the little gender reveal, remember?”
I hum, “Mm-hmm.”
“If he’s anything like Jesse, he won’t care where or what it is. He’ll just be happy to be with you.” Her voice is comforting and sure, but I don’t know if Brantley is like Jesse in that way.
All in all, I already feel better at the idea she suggested and plan to take a few steps back. There’s still one other thing standing in the way of making me feel 100 percent better though.
Wesley.