Page 100 of Sugar Coated Secrets

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because doctors cost money.”

I’ve googled my symptoms. It’s some type of PTSD from trauma. Therapy is recommended, but that isn’t an option. I don’t have the money for a therapist, and the ones in town can’t be trusted, but I don’t tell him that.

There is a knock on the door.

He grabs a shirt and pants off the chair on the corner and gets dressed. He moves to his bag, digs inside, and hands me a T-shirt. “Here, put this on.”

I pinch my brows. “Who is it?”

“I called my manager and told him to call the doctor assigned to my team to come check on you.”

“Why?”

“The truth? I was scared when I heard you thrashing in the tub, and you wouldn’t wake up. I didn’t know what to do.”

I should be mad at him, but he was worried. I can see the worry etched in his face. Only one person in this world worries about me, so it’s nice that someone else does. I slide my legs down, place my feet on the plush carpet, take the T-shirt, and put it on.

When I’m done, he moves to the door and opens it.

A man in his late fifties walks in with a bag. “Hi, I’m Dr. Long,” he says, shaking hands with Ford. “Derek said you needed me to see someone in your room.”

“Yes,” Ford says and gestures to me. “This is Dulce. She was in the bath having a nightmare, and I couldn’t wake her. I didn’tknow what to do,” Ford says helplessly. “She was screaming for me, but I couldn’t get her to wake up,”

I feel my cheeks flush. I can’t make eye contact with Ford. He gives me the best first time, and I screw it up by having a nightmare and freaking him out. I have the worst luck in all of humanity. I try to make myself look smaller by sinking my butt into the mattress.

Dr. Long asks me basic questions, and I answer until he gets to the more personal ones, like if I have any ongoing conditions he should know about. Been to the emergency room. I glance at Ford, sitting in the accent chair near the window.

Dr. Long pauses. He glances at Ford and then at me. “If you would prefer…”

“He can stay.”

“Alright. I’ll make this part quick. Last time you’ve seen a doctor? Are you on any medications? Do you suffer from panic attacks?”

I tear my gaze from Ford and look out the window at the bright blue sky. “The last time I saw a doctor was in the emergency room.”

“For?”

It’s like all the air is sucked out of the room. While the doctor enters information on his tablet, I feel Ford’s gaze on me and hear him shift in his seat.

All the air leaves from my lungs. I haven’t been asked that question since I was placed on birth control during the follow-up with my gynecologist to avoid getting pregnant.

Seconds tick by.

Ford’s eyes are glued to my mouth. He’s waiting for me to answer. So is Dr. Long, who’s watching me with a raised brow. The glow from the tablet reflects off his reading spectacles.

“Miss Webster?”

My heart rate slows, and I let out a deep breath.

I clear my throat and cross my arms. “I had a miscarriage at home when I was in the shower. There was a lot of blood, and no one could drive me to the hospital. My grandmother’s nurse called the ambulance, and I was treated at the ER. ”

He nods, taking notes on his iPad. I can feel the heat of Ford’s stare on the side of my face.

“How long ago was that?”

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