Page 71 of The Masks We Wear

No part of the space makes me want to bare my soul, and I vaguely wonder how many people stopped seeking help because they felt so out of place here as well.

The doctor strides behind her desk and sits, tapping her computer, so it whirls to life. That simple act leaves me feeling as though this is an interview, but I force my mind to hold on to her warm smile and shove away the nagging wall that’s trying to rise up and shield me.

“Miss Conley. My name is Dr. Floren. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Swallowing around the knot in my throat, I plaster on my cheerleader smile. “Lily is fine.”

Her dark eyebrow raised above the rim of his glasses. “So not Liliana? Got it.”

She types into her computer, and I shift in my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of the chill in her room. It sprouts goose bumps all down my arms even though I have on a thick sweater.

After a few more seconds, the doctor grabs a notebook from inside her desk drawer and shoots her chair around, sitting a few feet to my left.

“Alright, Lily. How are you feeling today?”

It’s a simple question. One that people literally ask one another every day. But being asked in a room that I’m not sharing withhimcuts through the air, slicing into me despite my emotional barriers. Despite her impersonal office, tall windows, and lack of therapy animals.

It punctures my chest, letting everything seep out and pool on the floor beneath me.

The truth is, I’m not okay, and pretending to be is becoming too hard. Burying my issues seemed easy, but after each rainstorm, everything just floated back to the surface, leaving me to repeat the process. So instead, I bury my nails in the dirt and rip up the ground. Taking out every little thing for me to shove on a table to be dissected and picked at. Scrutinized and judged.

I hate my mother. I hate that she carried me for almost ten months and felt absolutely nothing when I was born. That she was able to throw me aside, and nothing I did was enough for her attention—enough for her to leave that goddamn room. That I’ve let my mother turn me into a monster like her.

I hate my father. I hate that he left me with someone he knew didn’t love me and found himself a new family instead. He’s a coward that couldn’t fight for me.

He’s a coward that couldn’t fight for me.

Spencer.

I fucking hate Spencer Hanes. I hate that he left me, again when all I wanted him to do was stay.

My eyes reconnect with the doctor, and my smile fades to a grimace. I tell her what I wanted to tellhimevery time he asked. “I’m pretty fucking sad today.”

JENNY’S SMOOTHIE SHOP.

Still a relatively new place not too far from Emerald Falls stadium, and it’s dead as a doornail on a Thursday night. Blaze suggested we stop by after our stint at the gym. One of the many things my therapist suggested.

“Find a way to relieve some of the tension. Instead of focusing only on cheer and helping other people, try focusing onyourbody.”

It turns out you really can’t judge a book by its cover. Her plain-jane office had nothing to do with her incredible personality. Every session, she milks more out of me than a dairy farmer. I try to pass some of that on to Blaze, but I’m not quite sure if any one of it sticks yet. He’s got a soft spot for me only because we share the same bruise. Not sure if he’ll ever let anyone else see it.

When we walk inside, Remy’s face is buried so far in a book that she doesn’t even hear us come in.

Blaze stiffens and nudges my shoulder. “Grab me a banana mango. I’ll be in the car.”

Instead of questioning him, I nod and strut to the counter.

When I’m three feet away, I clear my throat, letting her face pop up.

The customer service smile she wears fades quickly, replaced with furrowed brows and twitching lips. She snaps the book closed. “Lily, what do you want?”

I bite my tongue. The temptation to spew a harsh comment or quick insult is strong, but it won’t get me what I want, what Ineed. Instead, I shove my hands in my back pocket and rock on the balls of my feet.

She raises a brow, drumming her fingers on the cover of her book, her patience clearly wearing thin.

Forcing a large breath through my nose, I relent. “Two mango banana smoothies. Also, did Spencer move?”

“Why do you care?” she clips, and the nerve in my temple tics.

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