Page 136 of You Said I Was Your Favorite

“What about your mental health, Daisy?” she asks—the thin gold badge pinned to her shirt says her name is Carmen—and I lift my gaze to hers. “How have you been feeling lately?”

“Happy. Stressed.” I take a deep breath, wondering how much I should reveal. Carmen doesn’t know me. She’s just asking questions because she’s required to, not because she cares. “I have a boyfriend.”

Her smile is soft. “Your first?”

I nod. How did she know?

“The young man waiting for you?”

I nod some more.

Carmen’s voice gets a little louder. “You two didn’t have a—fight, did you?”

“No.”

“So, he didn’t do this to you?” She inclines her head toward me, indicating my injuries.

“No, no, no.” I shake my head, hoping I don’t sound too defensive. I’m just shocked she would even think that. “I did this to myself. I got mad last night.”

“At your boyfriend?”

“At my father,” I whisper, closing my eyes, the humiliation returning. When I woke up this morning—late, which never happens—I realized my father was already gone. He didn’t leave me a note, nothing. No apology given, and I couldn’t say sorry to him either.

I hate that we’re fighting. That I lost my temper and acted like a toddler having a tantrum. I don’t know how to make this right because I never do this.

Ever.

“Your father didn’t do this to you, did he?” Carmen asks gently.

“No.” The tears are streaming down my face and I close my eyes, hating that I’m crying again. “He’s a good person. My boyfriend is too. They just want what’s best for me. I’m the one who lost it.”

Carmen pats my knee and I can’t help it.

I begin to cry harder. Hard enough that she pulls me in for a hug and lets me sob against her shoulder. We stay like this for an embarrassingly long amount of time until I finally pull away from her, wiping at my face with the back of my hand, wincing when I drag my fingers across my wounds.

Carmen offers me a box of tissues and I take the entire thing, grabbing a few and blowing my nose.

“Your cuts are pretty superficial but I do worry about the one on your right cheekbone. The doctor will be here in a few minutes and she’ll take a look at it,” she explains.

I grab another tissue and carefully dab at my face. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Daisy. And here.” She pulls a business card out of her pocket and hands it to me. “Call this number or visit the website if you ever need to. The services they provide are free.”

Carmen leaves me alone in the examination room and I study the card. It’s for a mental health website aimed specifically at teens.

Right after my mom died, I went to counseling, and continued to do so for about six months. One day my father asked if I felt okay about Mom dying and I said yeah because how else was I supposed to answer? Because of that, I never went back.

I probably should have. Maybe my dad couldn’t afford it. He has decent health insurance, but there are some things that aren’t covered. I don’t know what happened, but I never saw that counselor again. I can look back now and see it was probably too soon for me to quit, but I was twelve and I just did what my dad said.

I never questioned it. I never thought I could.

There’s a knock on the door and then it swings open, revealing the doctor. She has a friendly face and long dark hair that’s pulled back into a low ponytail. She has kind eyes. They’re big and brown and her smile is pleasant, as is her demeanor.

“Looks like you had a run-in with a rose bush,” the doctor says jokingly.

“Actually, you’re kind of right,” I say, holding very still when she comes close to examine me.

“Tell me what happened.” She presses her fingers against my face.

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