Free Love, Always by Yessi Smith

only made worse at the thought that I won’t see Josie or Adam. This separation sucks and is only made tolerable by the random videos Adam sends via text and our daily Skype sessions.
    Dr. Rios is leading our group today, so it is only appropriate for her to call on me during the session because she already knows how I feel and thinks the next step to improving my mental health is sharing those feelings. It’s not that I care about sharing, it’s more that I hate speaking in front of an audience. All those eyes looking at me. And what if they’re actually listening to me? I shudder at the thought.
    So how do I feel? Dr. Rios expects an answer. “I’m sad,” I tell the group and chuckle at myself. “I miss Adam and Josie and hate that they’re on tour without me.”
    “So do you want to go on tour with them when you leave?” Dr. Rios asks.
    When I leave. I want to leave so badly, but I am terrified of leaving the confines and safety of the hospital.
    “No,” I answer honestly, but expand upon that because I know one word answers aren’t sufficient for Dr. Rios. “I can’t stand the idea of being on tour with them. I don’t wanna meet the new drummer. I don’t want to see them perform or listen to their songs, songs Josh and Adam wrote together.” I wave my hands in the air, but set them still on my lap so I can compose myself. “But I’m scared. Every day I worry something will happen to Adam while he’s on stage. Or to Josie. And I’m so far away I won’t be able to help them.” My body trembles at the thought of them being in an accident, but I force myself still so the others won’t see this momentary lapse of weakness. It’s not like I’m capable of doing much if I were there anyway. Josh is proof of my inability to help anyone.
    “Poor little rich girl’s got it so bad,” I hear someone say and stare at my hands on my lap.
    “Do you have something you’d like to say, Samantha?” Dr. Rios asks, and I hope Samantha declines her offer. My breath quickens in anticipation for the oncoming battle.
    “Yeah,” she says, and I clench my hands into fists as I continue to stare at them. This isn’t happening. I don’t do confrontations. “She gripes on an’ on about her dead boyfriend, while she cries about missin’ her alive boyfriend who’s the daddy to her baby. How much did she miss her dead boyfriend while she was screwin’ her baby daddy? I don’t got time for stupid rich girl problems.”
    I feel the tears well up in my eyes, but I refuse to let them loose. I will not be weak. I will not let her know she can hurt me with her words. I will not cry. I ignore Dr. Rios as she addresses Samantha and only focus on my breathing until I am sure that I will not cry.
    “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I hear, and am surprised when I realize the voice came from me. I look over at Samantha who is attempting first degree murder with her eyes. “I’ve listened to you whine about your alcoholic daddy and your absent momma. You’ve been in foster care? Big deal. I don’t care about your life any more than you care about mine.” I lose control of my limbs and can’t force them to stop when I suddenly stand up and walk until I am standing directly in front of Samantha. “I don’t give a damn about your life, but I’ve politely listened and pretended to give a damn about your recovery. So now it’s your turn to give me the same respect.”
    “Respect? I don’t respect—”
    “I’m not done,” I interrupt her. “So shut up and listen. You wanna hear about poor rich girl problems? About absent parents? I got postcards for my birthdays while my parents traveled the world, because they were afraid they’d miss seeing something important before they died. I was raised by so many nannies, I speak three different languages. I took singing listens, but never had anyone to sing for. I got good grades, but never had anyone to care. My parents' attorney bought me a car for my