Beg You to Trust Me (Lindon U #2)(4)

Maybe Mom was right. I shouldn’t have turned down my full ride to Penn State, or any of the other ivy leagues I was accepted to. Because then I wouldn’t be in this situation, sweating through my shirt and feeling like I’m going to vomit.

When I walk into the dorm room that I share with Rebecca, I instantly find her scowling from where she’s perched on the bed.

“Tyler came by again,” she informs me, pushing the laptop from where it’s perched on her lap. “This is the third time he’s dropped in. It’s getting annoying, Skylar.”

She doesn’t explain why she didn’t wait up for me at the lounge as she grabs her smoothie from her desk and takes a long sip like she’s rubbing it in.

Then again, I don’t ask her the reason.

Our “friendship” seems to be strictly need-to-know.

And maybe I shouldn’t be okay with that, but I’m learning to be. Because at some point the things bubbling deep inside me will boil over, and I have a feeling Becca will be the first casualty if my sanity isn’t.

“I’ll deal with it,” I tell her.

She grumbles something about me and guys, making my skin crawl with faraway memories.

I don’t let myself think about them for too long.



My entire body is on fire as the nurse takes my vitals and then sits behind the computer attached to the wall and begins asking me questions.

“When was the date of your last period?”

I squirm on the cushioned table, listening to the paper crinkle under my butt. “Um, two weeks ago. I don’t remember the exact date.”

The dark-haired woman presses her lips together before glancing at the calendar on the wall and typing something in.

“So, what brings you in today?”

This is where the words get jammed in my mouth, twisting around my tongue, and trying to slide back down my throat. “Er…” Sweat dots my forehead as the woman looks from the computer screen to me, her plucked eyebrows drawn up.

My hands clasp together tightly in my lap until my knuckles turn white. “I-I think I may have a UTI…or something.” The last part is choked.

“Or something?” she repeats, voice monotone as one of those eyebrows arches higher on her forehead.

I swallow past the huge lump of embarrassment in my throat. “I’ve had UTIs before. This doesn’t feel like that. It’s different.”

Deep down—deep, deep down—I know what it is. I know it isn’t a UTI. I know that the symptoms are similar, but nothing like what I’ve been experiencing for the past week.

The nurse types something in the computer and asks, “Are you sexually active?”

“No!” The high pitch tone of my voice makes even me cringe as I pinch my eyes closed and feel the heat creep up the back of my neck and settle in my cheeks. “I mean, I wouldn’t call myself active. It was one time. Once. That’s all.”

God, this is humiliating.

“Did you use protection?” is her next question as her nimble fingers fly across the keyboard.

I blink. “I’m on birth control.”

“Birth control doesn’t prevent you from catching STIs, though. Did your partner use a condom?”

It’s hard to breathe.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

In, out. Repeat.

Those meditation classes my sister Serena made me take with her a few times back in Cali paid off. It’s a solid ten seconds before my eyes trail down to the floor. “I don’t know.”

Not even the clicking keyboard greets me, which is the only reason I look back up. The nurse is studying me, eyes narrow as she takes me in. I don’t know what she’s thinking and probably don’t want to.

Eventually, she continues her questioning. “Can you list your symptoms, please?”

The ‘please’ surprises me, even if it’s not delivered in the soft comfort I need right now. But I do as she asks, flinching as I list the burning, pain, and discharge. All the dirty, ugly details that make me feel…ashamed.

Guilty.

Tainted.

Ever since I noticed something was wrong, I tried patching together the night of the party. I vaguely remember following someone upstairs and feeling hands on my body and lips on mine once a door clicked closed behind us. I remember liking the way he kissed and the way he traced my curves like he was worshipping them. But everything that came after? Nothing.

I’ve searched for the two-letter word I could’ve said to avoid being here right now.

No.

But I come up blank every single time.

Once the woman collects everything she needs, she opens a cabinet and passes me a paper-thin green gown. “The doctor is going to want to do a physical examination. Before you change into the gown, head across the hall and pee into this cup—” She passes me a plastic cup with an orange lid and some sort of sticker with information on the front. “—so we can collect a urine sample. Put it on the back of the toilet and I’ll grab it. Once you’re changed, gown open in the back, Dr. Patterson will do an examination, collect some labs, and you’ll be set to go.”

She says it so quickly, so routinely, that I can’t help but wonder how many times she’s gone through this. Lindon’s campus clinic lists this one as its main recommended clinic to see outside of the university, which means everyone who works here probably gets an earful from the students who come seeking help.