You Said I Was Your Favorite (A Lancaster Prep Novel)

The nurse is kind, with her gentle voice and gentler questions. I do as she says, standing on the scale. Letting her take my blood pressure. Answering her questions about my health.

“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.

“I got into an argument with my father and I threw a vase full of roses at the sink,” I explain, wincing when she gently prods at my cut.

“Uh huh. That doesn’t sound so good.”

“It wasn’t.” I hiss in a breath when she removes the butterfly bandage that I put on my cut earlier. “The vase shattered when it hit the sink and glass went flying.”

“Into your face,” the doctor says.

“I have some cuts on my arms and legs too,” I admit.

She pulls back, her gaze narrowed. “Let me see.”

The humiliation is back, twenty-fold. I feel so stupid as I shove up my sleeves and show her the tiny cuts on my forearms. And the ones on my legs too. She deems all of them superficial and that I’ll be okay.

“The cut on your cheek though.” She shakes her head, her gaze trained on it. “You’re going to need stitches.”

Fear trickles through my blood, leaving me cold. “Will it scar?”

“Not if I can help it. I’m pretty good at this.” She smiles reassuringly. “And the cut only needs about four stitches, so not too bad. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Will it hurt?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “The worst part is the shot I’ll give you to numb the pain.”

“Can my boyfriend come in here and be with me when you stitch it up?” I ask, suddenly needing Arch with me.

“Absolutely. I’ll have Carmen go fetch him.” She pats my shoulder. “Let us get some things together and then I’ll do the procedure. It won’t take long.”

I watch her go, wringing my hands in my lap the entire time while I wait for Arch. When the door finally swings open and he’s walking into the room, I start crying all over again.

I’m so tired of crying. Of being sad. Of beating myself up over this. I had an outburst and I’m acting like it’s the end of the world.

Arch doesn’t say a word. Just takes me into his arms and holds me close, his hand running up and down my back, soothing me. The tears dry up as fast as they spilled out and I finally pull away from him, tilting my head back so I can meet his gaze.

“What’s the verdict?” he asks, concern filling his blue eyes.

“I need stitches.”

His smile is faint. “You’re going to look like a badass.”

The laugh is automatic. Small but there, and my heart immediately feels lighter. “Please. I will not.”

He nods, his eyes dancing. “Hell yeah, you will. That’s all I wanted when I was a kid. Stitches. And on my face? That would’ve been so cool.”

“Why would you want stitches on your face?” I’m still laughing, shaking my head, smiling at him.

“Because like I said, you’ll look like my favorite badass. Especially where the cut is, right on your cheekbone.” His smile fades, his gaze turning serious. “You going to tell me what happened?”

“It’s dumb,” I say on a sigh.

“Aren’t accidents usually dumb?” He goes quiet and I realize he’s waiting for me to explain.

“My dad and I got into an argument.”

He averts his gaze like he’s staring out the window, though he can’t see anything because the blinds are closed. “About me?”

“It started out about you.” I clamp my lips shut when the doctor walks back into the room, Carmen, the nurse, trailing behind her.

Arch and I share a look and I realize we’re going to have to talk later.

About everything that happened.

After the procedure, Arch takes me to the café I mentioned to him earlier, and I order a vanilla latte and a cinnamon roll while he gets a white chocolate mocha and a breakfast sandwich. He insists on paying and I let him because I didn’t even bring my wallet with me. Plus, I think it makes him feel good, that he’s taking care of me.

My face is still numb from that terrible shot—the doctor was right, it was horrible and painful—and I feel like I’m eating weird. Drinking weird. Arch even grabs me a straw to use to sip my hot coffee from the to-go cup, and while I feel dumb, it does help.

I feel dumb about a lot of things, including the argument with my father. The way I acted last night. It’s like I’m having an emotional come down and I’m regretting everything I did yesterday, with the exception of one thing.

I don’t regret having sex with Arch.

We make small talk and it’s almost as painful as the shot the nurse gave me. Until finally, Arch balls up the wrapper his sandwich was in—he consumed it in less than five minutes I swear—and tosses it on the table so it bounces against my cup.

“Are you going to tell me what happened last night when you went home?”

Taking a deep breath, I tell him everything. How my dad scared me. How mad he got when he found out that I was with Arch. I don’t mention Dad figuring out we had sex because that’s just embarrassing, but I tell him how angry I became when I saw he cut the roses. How upset I was at the idea of him giving the flowers to Kathy.

“My mom’s favorite color too,” I add, my voice small.

Arch reaches out and rests his hand on my forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry, Daze.”

“I am too.” I drop my gaze to where his hand rests on my arm, noticing how big it is, how long his fingers are. How his touch gives me so much comfort—and pleasure too. And how that feels like a very grown-up thought to have.

“Have you talked to him?”

“He was already out of the house by the time I woke up,” I admit.

“You should probably have a conversation with him.”

“I don’t know what to say. I want to apologize, but I think he should too, you know? I can’t believe how mean he was. He said terrible things about me and you and—us.” I whisper the last word, feeling silly.

“I don’t know what I did to him to make him hate me.” Arch removes his hand from my arm and leans back in his chair, kicking his legs out. His frustration is clear and I wish I could reassure him. “Be real with me, Daze. Am I that bad?”

No. He’s perfect—perfect for me. But how can I tell him that? How can I say the words out loud when we haven’t discussed what exactly our relationship is? He hasn’t asked me to be his girlfriend. Is that how it works? Do we need to make it official? We spend all of our time together and I could assume that’s what we are, but I never want to assume.

I never want to be made a fool.

“You’re not that bad. You’re not bad at all,” I murmur, thinking of all the wonderful, thoughtful things he’s done for me lately. “You’re a good boyfriend.”

The word falls from my lips without thought, hanging between us, and Arch’s gaze flicks up to mine.

“I didn’t mean that,” I say when he remains silent. “I mean—you’ve been a great friend.”

Okay that sounds lame.

One side of his mouth kicks up in a closed-lip smile. “You really calling us friends right now?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug, tearing my gaze away from his. I am squirming in my chair, and I think he’s enjoying it. “What do you call what we’re doing?”

“Well, I know one thing.” He scoots close to me, crowding me until he’s all I can see and smell and hear. “We know each other pretty damn well, wouldn’t you agree?”

I duck my head, nodding. I breathe in his clean, masculine scent, my body leaning into his. “Very well.”

“We haven’t made anything official.” He’s touching my hair. The side of my face, careful not to brush his fingers against my wound. “But I think we should.”

His fingers curve around my neck, tilting my head up so our gazes meet. He looks so serious, and I’m suddenly scared. “Wanna be my girlfriend, Daze?”

I nod.

He smiles.

And the relief I feel at hearing him call me that, at feeling his lips brush against mine immediately after…

I’m not scared anymore.

Of anything.