Page 101 of Sugar Coated Secrets

I look down at my hands. “Almost four years ago.”

“Have you been diagnosed with PTSD or having panic attacks?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Medications or pills you take daily?”

“Just birth control,” I reply, avoiding Ford’s gaze.

The doctor’s finger hovers over the screen. “Did the nightmares or panic attacks start after the miscarriage?”

“Something like that,” I reply, feeling a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. It’s not the only reason. My mind races, playing what happened over and over.

“I see,” he says, but he doesn’t see because that isn’t the whole story.

Dr. Long places the tablet on the side table. He reaches inside his bag for his stethoscope and blood pressure cuff, then walks over to take my vitals.

I glance at Ford. His jaw is set. A hostile stare aimed at the wall. I’m wondering what is going through his head. Is he disgusted? Does he regret sleeping with me?

The sound of the Velcro as the blood pressure cuff comes off my arm pulls my attention back to Dr. Long.

“Have you seen a therapist or a doctor about the episodes?”

“No.”

“Alright,” Dr. Long says, “I’m going to give you a prescription for a medication to help you sleep. I sent the script to the nearest pharmacy. If you are interested in therapy sessions, I will leavea number of a good one with Ford. I recommend you call and make an appointment. Do you have any questions for me?”

“No, thank you.”

He probably thinks I’m stupid for not getting help, but Chris’s and Trent’s lawyers warned me not to. They told me not to speak to anyone.

Ford gets up. “Is there anything you need from me?” he asks Dr. Long.

“No. I’m done here.” Dr. Long turns to me, handing me his card. “Call my office. The appointments for refills can be done virtually.”

“Thank you,” I say gratefully.

Ford waits until Dr. Long leaves the room before facing me as he scrolls through his phone. “Your medication will be delivered shortly,” he says like he didn’t just hear another part of my fucked-up life. Like he doesn’t see how I’m breaking inside.

He waits, watching me with an unreadable expression.

Tears clog my throat, making it impossible to speak. I know this changes everything between us. There is no way it couldn’t. There must be a ton of questions running through his mind. I want to ask what he’s thinking, but I’m afraid to hear the truth.

I lie in bed while he scrolls through his phone. His fingers fly across the screen, and we sit in silence. The tension in the air stretches like a rubber band.

When the sun rises across the horizon, there is a knock on the door.

Ford quickly gets up and opens the door. “I have a package for Dulce Webster,” the man says.

“Yes,” Ford replies. I hear the door close.

Ford walks to my side of the bed and hands me a small paper bag containing the medication the doctor prescribed with a bottle of water.

I take the medication, hoping we could talk before the medication kicks in to help me sleep. His phone rings, and the moment to talk vanishes as he walks into the bathroom to take the call. After fifteen minutes, my eyes start to get heavy. The last thing I remember is Ford saying hello behind the bathroom door.

I look out the window, watch people moving on with their lives while mine is constantly breaking at the seams as tears stream down my cheeks.

When I wake up six hours later, Ford is gone. There is no point in calling him. If he wanted to talk, he would have stayed. He would have called.

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