Page 39 of Sugar Coated Secrets

“The prom? She was so happy when you invited her at the last minute.”

A sick feeling crawls up the back of my throat.

“You sent her a message, and she wouldn’t stop looking at it the entire time she was getting ready.”

My stomach self detonates. The walls feel like they are closing in. What is she talking about?

“I want to thank you for putting that smile on her face,” she says with a soft expression, remembering the way she looked that day.

Something is not adding up. I don’t remember seeing her in that dress before.

Dulce and Mary walk into the room with a plate in each hand. I place the photo back, wanting to keep it but knowing I can’t.

“What’s going on, Grandma?” Dulce says, but I see when she notices the picture I just put back. Her eyes widen in fear. Her face looks pale.

She lied to her grandmother, and I’m guessing who she went with when I see the trembling of her expression. I can tell she made it all up to please her grandmother about going with someone to prom. I should be annoyed, but I’m not.

“I was thanking Ford for taking you to prom,” her grandmother says, looking between us.

The plate slips from Dulce’s hand and crashes on the floor.

“Mary—” Her grandmother trails off, her voice weak.

“Dulce?” I rush to her side, but her face is white. She is trying to take large gulps of air like she’s suffocating. Something is wrong.

“It’s a panic attack,” Mary says, putting the food down and rushing to her side. “She gets them sometimes.”

Before Mary can reach her, I pick her up bridal style on instinct to soothe her. “Shh…” I rock her in my arms, placing a strand of her hair behind her ear. Her eyes are snapped shut. I can feel her heart racing like a racehorse. “It’s okay,” I say, trying to soothe her in hushed tones. “I’ve got you…breathe.” Her chestrises when she takes a deep breath and then lets it out. “That’s it, Dulce. You got this, baby.” Her eyes open, looking around in a daze, and I smile. “I’ve got you.”

“Come, lay her down in her room,” Mary says, guiding me out of the room.

I lay her on her bed on the small mattress with pink sheets. I slide in next to her, holding her. I want to know why she has panic attacks.

“I’m sorry,” Dulce mutters.

“There is nothing to be sorry about. Relax and breathe.”

Mary checks her to make sure she’s okay. Then she excuses herself to tend to Mrs. Webster.

I remember seeing someone on the track at a race have a panic attack. The most important thing is to take them to a quiet place and calm them.

“Uh, Ford,” Mary calls.

I look up, then at my chest to see Dulce sleeping, her breaths even. “Yeah?”

“Could you walk me out? Mrs. Webster is already asleep, and I need someone to lock the door behind me,” she says, but when I place Dulce gently on the bed and walk out of her bedroom, I see something in Mary’s eyes. She wants to tell me something. “There’s something you need to know.”

FORD

No one was happy when I left town. I never thought they would go after her or stoop so low. I get that those girls in school hated her, so I was careful not to sneak glances when I was around them. I ignored Dulce as much as I could. I hated to laugh atsome of their jokes, so it seemed believable, but fuck if it didn’t eat me up inside. It fucking wrecked me that I couldn’t do anything about it. I had my parents’ money, not mine.

I drive for what seems like hours, the sun heating the road as I push the Aventador to its limit down the backroad where Mary said it happened.

I look left and right like it will give me a clue of who is responsible, but in my eyes, they all are.

I place the car in park, open the door, and scream like a wild animal until my throat is raw, hearing the whoosh of birds flying from the trees in panic. My chest heaves as my lungs burn with rage.

I get back in the car, and there is only one place I can go right now. I check the time on the dash; she should be open at eight o’clock. It’s the last place I thought I would visit since I came back. I have a doctor I see on a regular basis in Italy, but he doesn’t know this part of my past. The part I keep hidden from the world.

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