Page 79 of Your Secret to Keep

The air breaks.There it is. I can’t help the smirk that spreads over my lips.

“I tell you I want you forever, and you don’t think I love you?” I look away before catching her eyes. “Of course I love you,” I insist.

She falls into me, letting me hold her for what feels like the first real time. There’s no part of her holding back.

“I’ve got you,” I say as I carry her upstairs.

I feel lighter, finally telling her my secret—how I love her the way I do.

And how I plan to keep doing it.

Chapter 47

Lia

I’minaprivatetraining room after everyone has gone home for the day. Brooks told me he had a shift in his conditioning schedule, but I know it’s so he can stick around in case I need him.

It’s been three days since I told Brooks I love him. Three days since he told me he loves me back. Three days since we started trading even more secrets. I don’t expect this won’t continue to have challenging moments, but all we can do is take it day by day.

Today, I’m seeing a team doctor and I’m a ball of energy. Nervous to potentially get answers, but anxious about what it could mean. Brooks was right; there’s no way waiting until July was going to work.

When the doctor introduces himself, he’s kind and welcoming, picking up on my anxiety. I take off my top and show him my back, keeping my bralette on.

“Are you having any other symptoms? Any pain?”

“Sometimes my hands and wrists are really sore,” I admit. “Like I did a weird exercise using muscles I haven’t used before.” I put my hands out and he feels through each knuckle and does some range of motion stretching.

“How bad does this hurt? Or itch?” The doctor stands in front of me and waits for a response.

I think back to all the nights I’ve struggled to sleep, all the burning from lotions and creams meant to help with the dryness. My brain kepttrying to convince me it could be worse, but I never took the time to think about how awful it truly was.

“Depends,” I answer. “I’ve had trouble sleeping some nights and burning with lotion, things like that.”

He sighs and then is behind me again, looking closely at my skin. “Where else have you had redness or areas like this?” He asks this while delicately touching the skin on my back. “My eyelids, scalp, and sometimes on my elbows. It’s never been as bad as it currently is on my back.”

He nods and I’m surprised with how he’s listening to me. I feel like most doctors I see are trying to get me in and out as quick as possible. Maybe having a connection to team doctors is a true perk I didn’t know I needed.

“Everything here seems sensitive skin friendly, so that’s great,” he says while reviewing the list of products I use on a regular basis.

He looks at some other spots on my neck, my lash line, and then asks me to put my shirt back on.

“As a reminder, I’m the first step for you figuring this out. But I think this is severe plaque psoriasis. The spots on your back aren’t presenting the way tried and true psoriasis does, but if we don’t treat it, it might. With your other symptoms, I’d want to rule out psoriatic arthritis. Both are autoimmune conditions. Are you familiar with that term?” His voice is kind and soft.

I swallow harshly. “Ugh, yeah. The body attacks healthy parts of itself, right?”

“Pretty much. Autoimmune conditions range from asymptomatic to severe, and no patient is ever the same. I’m going to get you a referral to a dermatologist and a rheumatologist.”

“My insurance is kind of lacking—” I try to explain.

“Don’t worry about it. We’re calling in a favor and I’ll let them know that. We’ll figure it out.” He gets his phone out and says, “Until then,try to drink enough water, eat good food, and keep your stress under control. Stress is one of the biggest triggers for autoimmune flares.”

Why am I immediately stressed thinking about not being stressed?

I can’t explain why, but tears start rolling down my face. The doctor keeps using ‘we’ and it’s making me emotional by how much this borderline stranger is on my side. The support and his guess at my diagnosis are fighting for which is making me more emotional—I couldn’t pick a winner if you paid me.

“I’m sure this has been hard, but we’ll get you some answers and the help you need.” He gently puts a hand on the top of my arm.

It’s a small gesture—one that shouldn’t smash into me like it does. The tears flow freely no matter how much I try to stop the stream.

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