Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(65)

She was also sad.

So fucking sad all the time.

A sad shell of her former self.

She was sad that she had caused her father’s heart attack and worked, every day, to win back his trust and love. But it was an uphill battle, and more and more, she suspected that something had changed—or been destroyed—between them. He could barely look her in the eyes. There was no teasing, no asking about her day. And when he did look at her, his shame was so apparent, so sharp and thick, it made her cringe with self-loathing. She didn’t know how, but she needed to redeem herself. She desperately needed to win back her father’s love.

And it wasn’t just her father either. She was sad that Kyrstin and Issy looked at her differently now: not like their beloved little sister, but someone tarnished, someone a little dirty, someone who didn’t follow the rules and had gotten herself in trouble. They didn’t know where she’d been that night, but they studied her with shrewd eyes, trying to figure out if she was still pure. She wasn’t, of course. She was spoiled now. And though it had felt worth it in the heat of the moment to open her legs for Erik Rexford, she didn’t know if it was worth it now that she was paying the price for her lust and hedonism.

She was sad that the rest of Corey Island had found out about her night away, when her father had searched frantically for her that evening. And now they speculated in whispers that cut off abruptly, about where she’d been, and with whom. She had been the highlight of the Corey gossip mill for months now, the subject of low-toned rumors and haughty, knowing looks. It would be a long time before the islanders forgot about her missing night. In fact, it was an episode that would follow her around for the rest of her life, changing the way people saw her and interacted with her. She was a little less worthy now. A little too worldly.

She was so sad, she hadn’t designed a blouse or a dress in months, not that anyone had asked. But her fingers weren’t interested in creating something beautiful. Not for herself or someone else. It was like all her creative energy had been siphoned away when she watched Erik walk out of her father’s hospital room with a broken heart. It was like she had killed the best part of herself when she ripped out his heart and stomped on it.

She was so sad that she forbade herself to think about Erik because she worried for her sanity if she did. When she dreamed of him, she woke up crying uncontrollably and had even woken up her father once or twice.

The love she bore for him was ceaseless and throbbing, an open wound on her heart that made her feel like she was dying inside. Unlike his life, which had certainly sped up with his move back to college, hers had slowed down. Unable to use her father’s boat, she was trapped on Corey, working every day at King Triton, where her father and uncle were constantly in and out and could keep an eye on her. Since barely anyone spoke to her anymore, she was left for quiet hours alone with her thoughts, and she tortured herself, second-guessing her decision to force Erik from her life. But what had been her alternative? Her decision to be with Erik had almost killed her father. No matter how much she loved Erik, she loved her father more, didn’t she? Yes, of course she did. She should, right? A good daughter would choose her father’s health over the love of her life, wouldn’t she?

And yet her love for Erik hadn’t died, as she’d hoped. It lived, strong and aching, within her, hoping for a day when it might be allowed to thrive again.

She sighed, feeling mentally exhausted as she looked back down at the computer.

The cursor was blinking.

She typed “weight gain, fatigue, nausea” and pressed Enter. WebMD came up with a list of possible health concerns:

Depression. Well, yes. That made sense. But her symptoms were physical, not just mental. She felt it in her gut—something more significant was going on.

Type 2 diabetes. Hmm. She bit her bottom lip, trying to remember if there was diabetes on either side of her family, but she came up dry. Still, she ripped a piece of paper from a notepad under the counter and wrote down the disease.

Congestive heart failure. Her breath hitched. Certainly heart problems ran in her family, considering her father’s two heart attacks. She wrote down the three words carefully, frowning at them.

Hypothyroidism. She read the word slowly aloud, “Hypothyroid-ism,” and her fingers grew instantly cold, withdrawing from the mouse in horror as she stared at the second syllable.

Thyroid.

Her breathing hitched as she whispered it again, “Thyroid.”

Laire’s mother had died of medullary thyroid cancer, a cancer that might have been treatable had it been discovered before stage 4.

Without waiting another moment, she picked up the phone and dialed the Hatteras Health Center, making an appointment to see the nurse practitioner tomorrow and have some blood tests run on her thyroid.

Because she hadn’t been allowed to use her father’s boat since the day she’d returned from staying overnight with Erik, she asked Kyrstin if she’d drive her over to Hatteras for her appointment, and after sharing her fears, Kyrstin agreed.

The next afternoon, Laire sat uneasily on the paper-covered examination table while one nurse prepared three plastic vials for a blood draw and another nurse analyzed Laire’s urine in a small room beside the bathroom.

A knock at the exam room door made Laire look up.

The nurse doing the urine analysis peeked into the room. “Can I, uh, speak to you for a second?” she asked her colleague. “I’m not sure you need to, um, to do the draw.”