Page 98 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

I look at the floor.

How do I explain that it's all of it? That on the days she laughed easily around me, I felt like a functioning human being, and on the days she wasn’t around as much, I felt lost, unable to focus much. When I was with her, I liked who I was. Easy Colt, someone who can be seen, who is liked. Someone people want to be around.

“All of it. I think.”

She doesn't look surprised. Doesn't look sorry for me either, which I appreciate more than I can explain.

“There's a term,” she says, voice quiet and even. “It's not a clinical one, but it's widely used, and I think it's going to make a lot of sense to you.” She watches my face. “Favourite person—It describes someone to whom an individual has formed a particular kind of attachment. The person on the other side of that attachment, without necessarily meaning to or knowing, becomes the centre of everything to the individual, impacting how the other person acts and feels.”

I don’t move, because every word feels uncomfortably familiar.

“The attachment can become so intense that it starts affecting how you see yourself.”

My throat tightens.

I think about every good day I've had these last few months. Almost every one of them had Maeve somewhere in it.

“I can see this is resonating,” she says gently.

“So, what does this mean?” I say.

Dr. Pamer sits back in her chair, placing the notebook back in her lap, hands folding in on each other. “Before I say anything else, Colt, I want you to hear this part first.”

I bob my head, filling my lungs with air, reminding myself I can breathe. There’s no need to panic.

“There is nothing wrong with you.” She offers me a smile, bending slightly down, drawing my wandering eyes back to hers. “Colt, I've spent a long time getting to know you. You're thoughtful. Loyal. Caring. You feel things deeply. None of those are bad qualities.”

I break eye contact, going back to looking at the plant in the corner. That seems to be the safer place to land on.

“Then why’s it that I feel this way? Why did everything you just say make sense to me?” There are more questions I want to let slip, but I stop myself. We’d be here all day otherwise, and I need the answer to the main question. What is wrong with me?

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to understand, and to do so, I’d like to refer you for a formal assessment.”

My brows furrow, eyes dart back at her with panic setting in my chest. Breathe, Colt. Breathe.

“For what?”

“For Borderline Personality Disorder.”

The room feels very still, the words hanging in the air between us. Surely, I’ve heard that wrong.

“What?”

Dr. Palmer’s voice remains calm, her eyes still soft and kind. “It doesn’t mean you definitely have it, but I think it’s worth exploring.”

I rush to my feet, heart hammering as I pace the room. “You're saying my personality's disordered?”

“That’s not what it means, Colt.”

“Then why call it that?” my voice cracks.

I think about my mother leaving. About the years of silence with Wade. About how Naomi broke things off. About how I’ve convinced myself that every person I've ever cared about had one foot out the door.

Too much, too sensitive, too damn broken for anybody to want to stick around.

My own words from last night come back to me, and for the first time, I hear them differently. Not as truth, but rather a fucked-up thought my brain has formed over the years.

“Colt—”