Page 1 of Love Medley (Med Wreck Romance #1)

Chapter one

Lucy

A s Weston pounds on the locked bathroom door, I suddenly realize that my life has become one of those far-fetched thrillers on the Lifetime channel.

I thought the hardest part of med school would be cutting into a cadaver or staying awake during third-year rotations.

Hiding to escape an enraged boyfriend never crossed my mind as a possibility.

My shaking hands cover my ears in an ineffective attempt to block him out.

I glance at the floor—the tiles are gleaming from multiple rounds of scrubbing.

Maybe I can wipe down the toilet while I'm in here. Wincing from the sound of another crash outside, I mentally list which cleaning supplies I’ll need in the aftermath.

“Why do you insist on doing this to me?” Weston hisses, his lowered voice somehow still clear through the door. “You make it seem like I’m the bad guy, but all of this is your fault.”

My fault.

Is it? Obviously, my judgment is flawed or I wouldn’t be here in the first place. But am I truly to blame for the dark space Weston and I now inhabit? We were happy once upon a time, weren’t we?

Each one of Weston’s words is a heavy blow, specifically honed to get me to speak. Because once I answer him, we both know it’s game over. It's a game of chicken with the odds stacked against me, and I'm the first to cave every single time.

Feeling like a zombie with leaden limbs, I struggle to a standing position, steadying myself against the cool porcelain of the sink.

In the mirror, there's a sad-eyed stranger with stringy, unwashed hair and a slumped posture, the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Where is the makeup-ready and capable medical student that Weston was proud to parade on his arm?

I come from a stable, upper middle-class Chinese-American family, and I’m attending Blackwell School of Medicine, one of the top medical schools in the nation.

I have an impressive boyfriend, top scores at a prestigious institution, and a promising career path—only twenty-five years old with a bright future ahead of me.

Being locked in a bathroom was never part of the plan.

After all of my precautions, I’ve still ended up here.

Mentally, I tick off Weston’s preferences that I’ve followed to a tee.

I wore the dress he laid out this morning, yet another black number.

The apartment was gleaming and in perfect order—that is, until he started trashing it in his rage.

I’ve long ago eliminated all booze, sweets, and takeout from my diet, and have continued to track my calories so that I remain right around 120 pounds, the weight that he likes most. And finally, I never, ever tell him the truth about my test scores.

And yet, it wasn’t enough.

In the beginning, it was a relief to know which boxes to check, especially when it made Weston happy and content. If I just colored within the lines, everything was right in my world.

After all, I learned the hard way what happens when I go astray.

“Do you remember when we met?” Weston asks now, his voice low and dangerous.

Of course I remember, but I don’t want to think about it. Instead, I recall a different time—a day when I felt the thrill of the world opening up to me, full of possibilities—the moment I set foot onto the Blackwell campus as a newly minted medical student.

A kaleidoscope of images pop into my head: the bright faces of other students, the White Coat Ceremony where I donned the suit of our profession for the first time, the microscopes and glass histology slides, and even the smell of my new books.

I was thrilled to be in Blackwell, Missouri, the place named after the first woman to graduate medical school.

During orientation, I met Zoe Connors, Amelia Kim, and Isabelle Sutton, who quickly became my favorite people in the world, and we solidified our little group within the first month.

We did everything together—sat together in the auditorium, ate together, partied together, gossiped together, even had sleepovers.

We were inseparable—that is, until Weston Ashcroft changed everything.

Now, his words permeate the door like an insidious fog. “You were in that white dress with the pink flowers during the first day of orientation. We were standing in line together waiting to get our books.”

I blink. We met then? I mean, I knew of him early on—our class is only composed of 125 people, so we all knew everyone.

But wasn’t our first true encounter the summer between first and second year at that dance club?

I have no recollection of meeting him before that. What is Weston even going on about?

“I could tell you wanted me even back then, but I wasn’t ready to settle down at the time. But because you were patient with me for so long, I rewarded you with a dance at Club Spirit that summer after our first year. And then I knew it was time for us to be together forever.”

Maybe it’s because I’m so tired that I cannot comprehend Weston’s words.

None of this makes any sense. I don’t remember us interacting at all before the night at the club.

And even then, he had to grab my hand before I even noticed he was asking me to dance.

I’m typically oblivious when it comes to guys.

“The only reason I get so mad is because when you talk to other people, you seem to forget what's important. Remember all of our plans together? We have a future etched in stone, and that trumps everything else. Come out, so we can talk.”

My brain latches onto the word “plans” with more certainty. This, at least, is a truth I can cling to. Our future is all mapped out—Orthopedics for him, Dermatology for me, residencies together wherever we can match as a couple. How can I throw all of that away?

As if dealing with Weston isn’t enough, my phone starts buzzing with an incoming call.

It’s my mom.

Panic grips me. What does she need? I obviously can’t call her back now, but she’ll freak if I don’t answer.

But then the call mercifully cuts off, and a text quickly follows.

Mom: We need to talk about Peter.

Oh no.

Peter, my older brother by two years, is always in some sort of trouble. He’s flunked out of community college, accumulated a few DUIs and other minor misdemeanors, and has now gone radio silent. That is, he ignores my parents.

But not me.

Peter responds to me, sooner or later. Because of this, I’m the bridge between them; it’s the least I can do—my parents have put up with so much, and I refuse to burden them with more.

Truth is, it’s because of me that Peter began his downward spiral.

As soon as the familiar shame floods through me, I suppress the thought.

Weston bangs on the door again, jerking me out of my reverie. “Lucy! Are you fucking listening? Talk to me!”

Think, Lucy, think. My head is about to explode, trying to deal with Weston, my mom, and whatever Peter’s gotten into this time. My fingers fly over the phone, quickly typing out a text to my mom.

Me: Working at the hospital, can’t talk now, will call you later. Don’t worry, we’ll figure out Peter.

Mom: Thanks. I can always count on you.

The words make my heart spasm. For a brief moment, I imagine what it would be like if we had the type of mother-daughter relationship where I could call her for help.

But my parents have enough going on with Peter.

They don’t need to deal with my crap too.

Plus, what would they even say? They adore Weston.

He’s exactly the type of son-in-law they would pick for me—wealthy, connected, and an up-and-coming surgeon.

By not working things out with Weston, I’ll be failing them too.

Again.

After a moment’s hesitation, I write another text.

Me: Peter, just checking in. Are you doing okay ?

I close my eyes briefly. I don’t expect a response, at least not yet, but I still mark that off as one crisis dealt with—at least temporarily.

Now, how do I get out of this bathroom in one piece? Weston eventually has to calm down, right? It’s never been this bad before, and I have to admit to myself his moods have been getting progressively worse no matter what I do.

But I love Weston, and our futures are lined up in perfect synchrony.

People fight, people get mad, so maybe this will all just blow over like all the other times.

It’s got to, because the alternative isn’t even fathomable.

But despite my efforts to calm myself, I feel my heart rate only accelerating.

Like most things, Weston's explosions started small.

The first time I scored higher on a test than him, he broke one of my vases.

The second time, he cut up my favorite dress.

The third time, he keyed my car. As the stress of upcoming third-year rotations loomed progressively over us, his eruptions became more dramatic, lingering when previously they were short-lived.

Now we're here. And even I have to admit something’s not quite right.

The banging on the door suddenly stops.

“Lucy.” Weston’s voice is darkly sweet and cajoling.

“Come out so I can explain things to you. You always get so confused. How many times do I have to tell you that you need to leave all the talking to me? You aren’t a good communicator like I am.

You mean well, but when you speak about our relationship, you muddle your words and then people get the wrong impression. ”

What is he even talking about? Who would I even talk to? I haven't interacted with any of my friends for months.

Maybe I am confused. After all, my comprehension of anything right now is slower than molasses. But nothing about this makes any sense.

“Amelia told me that I needed to stop holding you hostage and let you out once in a while,” Weston hisses. “She wouldn’t say something like that unless you turned her against me. Why would you hurt me this way?”

My thoughts stutter to a halt. That’s why he’s so upset?

I immediately envision the scene. Amelia, seeing Weston, approaching him, worried about me.

She was half-joking, of course, but probably had no idea what she was unleashing on me.

I also know Weston took it poorly—obviously.

He was incredibly offended, probably because it hit closer to the truth than Amelia ever imagined .

Against my better judgment, I cry out, “I haven’t talked to Amelia or anyone else, Weston. I swear!”

Responding to Weston never helps, but every time, I break my silence in the hopes that maybe this time it will be different.

And then because I can never keep my mouth shut like I should: “Maybe…maybe we can get together with Amelia! We can show her how great we are together, that there’s nothing to worry about!

Maybe go to dinner? Or coffee? Oh! What about karaoke?

I wouldn’t sing of course, duh, that’s what showers are for! ”

I start giggling like a madwoman, overcome by the crazy idea of me singing in public, which Weston should know is a complete joke because of how incredibly silly it is.

But as the laughter fades, I feel it—that familiar sinking, like I’ve said too much again.

Weston growls, “Are you fucking kidding me? Karaoke? Who the hell would ever want to hear anything coming out of your mouth?”

Something inside of me dies right then, and I wonder if anyone would even hear me if I screamed.

And then the final twist of the knife: “Forget about ever talking to her again.”

The idea of never speaking to Amelia again shakes me to my core, even though I haven't talked to her in ages. While I’m mostly resigned to my situation, the loss of my friends has hurt the most.

After I started dating Weston, I kept making last-minute excuses for why I couldn’t make it out to our girls’ nights. Our once daily talks trickled away to nothing by the time third year of med school began. Even Amelia stopped checking in, probably the biggest red flag of all.

Maybe a bigger fear is—if I reached out, would any of my friends even respond?

If they didn’t, I'm not sure I could survive that kind of rejection. And what if they did answer my call? I’d have to admit that my life wasn’t the pitch-perfect scenario that I pretended it was.

The truth is embarrassing—I don’t know if I could voluntarily undergo that kind of scrutiny, even from them .

But what options do I really have at this point? Do I open the bathroom door? Is there a way Weston and I can still repair our relationship to salvage that golden future we’ve dreamt up together? A combination of desperation and curiosity entices me to take a peek. That can’t hurt, right?

My fingers fumbling and slow, I unlock the door and peer through the crack.

Weston’s furious face appears, and I know instinctively he doesn’t want to talk.

With a shudder, I somehow have the sense of preservation to slam the door shut again before he can wiggle his way through.

Why do I keep doing this to myself? Why can’t I just silence that curious, inquisitive side of myself that is perpetually shoving me into bad situations?

Why don’t I learn that it never, ever ends well?

The pounding and screaming start up again as soon as the lock clicks home.

“Don’t you remember who my father is, you fucking whore? If I decided to, I could ruin you.”

Weston isn’t exaggerating. The Ashcroft name is synonymous with wealth and power; he probably could destroy my life if he wanted to.

With trembling fingers, I scroll through my frequent contacts. The “frequent” part is a misnomer, as I haven’t called any of the numbers in a long time.

My hands shaking, I stare at the phone. When has the idea of merely phoning a friend become such an insurmountable task ?

If I do the very thing Weston is accusing me of, I can never turn back. He’ll never forgive me.

Then Weston’s voice again, flat and menacing. “I own you. You are nothing without me.”

Some small, buried part of me cries out in protest. I’m still an individual person with hopes and dreams of my own…right?

Gnawing on my lip, I stare at the green telephone symbol, my heart pounding fast. Should I? And even as I’m telling myself not to do it, my finger presses the button anyway. Now that it’s ringing, I feel committed, even though I could easily just cancel the call.

But she would know I had called.

Instead of hanging up, I murmur, “Come on. Pick up, pick up.”

There is no guarantee that she’ll be available. Our hours are atrocious even with the 80-hour restrictions.

But then my body sags when her familiar, warm voice fills the line. “Luce?”

“Amelia, I need help.”