Page 3 of Love Medley (Med Wreck Romance #1)

Chapter three

Lucy

I stare at my reflection in the white IKEA bureau mirror. The pale blue sundress, patterned with delicate white flowers, which should be cozy and soothing, instead makes my pulse jump.

Unaware of my inner turmoil, Amelia perches on my bed, flipping through a magazine. With each page that she turns, the uncomfortable silence between us grows.

Five months ago, on that fateful night when I called Amelia, she arrived ten minutes later with two guys from her apartment complex.

Within a few seconds, Amelia quickly assessed the situation in her typical analytic fashion, kicked Weston out, helped me clean up my trashed place, and decided we'd pack up his stuff immediately so that he’d have no reason to return.

If it were up to me, I would have just left it there—I was too overwhelmed by all the events of the evening. But because of her clear, determined directive, we bundled, transported, and dumped his belongings outside his apartment that same night.

Even so, it took a few more breakups to leave Weston for good.

Each time I returned to him, I sensed that Amelia took it as a personal failure.

Because she’s amazing, however, she still took me on a shopping trip to replace any remaining traces of Weston (spoiler alert: no decor purchased, but I did snag a lavender-scented body lotion on a whim).

I just found it difficult to make changes of any kind.

Weston exiting my life was a big enough adjustment.

With some distance, I eventually realized I was in denial about the extent of Weston’s anger, especially since it was only getting worse—hiding in a bathroom certainly wasn’t normal.

And after that night, he never did move back in, which meant Amelia’s efforts were more effective than she gave herself credit for.

But even though my moments with Amelia have been awkward at best, I know she’ll always show up. My friendships with Isabelle and Zoe are much more uncertain. My stomach twists when I realize I’m not sure Zoe would have even come if I had asked .

“I love your dress,” I say, trying to fill the empty space between us. She looks stunning in her magenta body-con number. “It fits you so well.”

Amelia gives me a small smile. “Thanks. This is the first time I’ve gotten to wear it. I love yours too. That shade of blue has always looked so beautiful on you.”

At her comment, I have an almost visceral reaction to tear off the dress, my heart hammering at a quick clip.

Earlier, when I was standing indecisively in front of my closet, I kept hearing Weston’s voice telling me to put each option back.

My ex hated pastels—he said they weren’t flattering to my body type—so he always picked out darker shades for me.

If he saw this puffy confection of pale blue and white on me, he wouldn’t have let me leave the apartment until I changed.

In the end, my hands snatched the dress off the hanger anyway, moving of their own volition, my brain too sluggish to stop it from happening.

Amelia notices the change on my face immediately. “Lucy, what’s wrong?”

I sigh and close my eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t wear this—it’s not really my style.”

Her brow immediately furrows, and she hesitates a moment before speaking in a gentle, measured tone. “Really? You used to always wear stuff like that. I miss seeing you in dresses like these—the color is super flattering on you.”

I’m a bit suspicious that Amelia is psychoanalyzing me again like she has been the past few months. I’ve mostly evaded her persistent probing into my emotional chaos, but it’s true that I haven’t worn something like this since first year.

“You’re right,” I say, pushing aside my discomfort, uncertain why her comments are getting under my skin. “I’m too lazy to change, anyway.”

Amelia nods, and I can sense she wants to say more, but then, to my relief, she remains quiet.

I quickly pivot before she has time to change her mind. “Is it true that your surgical team removed that seventy-five pound ovarian tumor when you were on Gyn Onc a few months ago?”

Amelia and I haven’t yet caught up on the past year, and I’m only aware of this surgical case because of the med student grapevine—unique presentations like this always make the rounds.

Amelia grins, the wrinkle in her forehead smoothing out. “The tumor required its own hospital bed so it could be wheeled down to pathology! Crazy, right?”

Relief surges through me. Thank goodness this change in subject was successful. "How did your patient react when she found out?"

“Oddly enough, she was ecstatic; she told us it’s the fastest she’s ever lost any weight, not that I would recommend that as a standard weight loss plan.”

We giggle, some of the tension between us broken.

“How did the rest of the rotation go?” I ask. Because Gynecological oncology is notoriously one of the most brutal rotations in our third year, I’m pretty sure Amelia didn’t sleep at all during those two weeks.

Amelia makes a face. “It was grueling. I had to pre-round on all the patients at 4am before the OB/Gyn residents arrived, not to mention stand for hours in surgery just to retract tissue. I mean, a clamp could do a better job than I could. Pretty sure it’s merely a hazing technique.”

“Oof,” I say. I’m glad I had a different rotation during my time on OB/Gyn. I guess Weston selected the right one for me. “Were your residents at least nice?”

Amelia sighs. “I think we were all too tired to interact. I guess I shouldn’t complain because the residents had it way worse than the med students. One of them actually inserted himself with a urinary catheter during a ten-hour procedure just so he wouldn’t have to break scrub to pee.”

My eyes widen. “No way. That’s crazy!”

“Tell me about it. I’m so relieved to be done with that rotation and third year in general. And that I never have to take another shelf test.”

“But your color-coded notes are legendary!” I tease. “Don’t you want to create a few more binders of study sheets?”

Amelia throws a pillow my way, and I duck, laughing. “Pass.”

For the first time in ages, I feel almost normal, joking with Amelia. But I should have realized the reprieve wouldn’t last forever.

“How are you really doing with all of this, Luce?” Amelia’s eyes reflect her concern .

Sighing, I refuse to meet her sharp gaze.

While I love Amelia, maybe I should have invited Iz over instead, merely to dodge the questions.

But there’s a reason Amelia’s been dubbed “the synthesis queen” by my friends.

I’m sure if I answered her question with my typical incoherent word vomit, she’d immediately give me an eloquently-crafted explanation for my inner conflict.

But voicing my demons out loud makes them more real, and to be honest, the last thing I want right now is an Amelia analysis, despite how insightful and helpful it might be.

“I’m fine,” I lie with a tinge of bitterness. “Just glad I’m back to normal.”

Who knows what normal is, but it sounds like something I should aspire to.

“I’m so sorry. I just… I wish I had known.” The stricken look on her face pierces me to my core.

“You couldn’t have known,” I say, softening. “And I know I’m being a brat right now, just ignore me.”

I’m not really angry at Amelia. I’m just frustrated that I’m still struggling with my conflicting emotions about Weston, and until I sort them out (if that ever happens), I don't want to talk about them. How do I explain that I still feel loyal to Weston, even after everything? We’ve shared a lot, and somehow those memories, both good and bad, feel private to me.

Plus, I know that people won’t understand why I stayed in the relationship for so long.

As unlikely as it seems, Weston isn’t all bad.

His dad has incredibly high standards, and nothing Weston ever does is good enough.

Many of his outbursts occurred after taking a verbal beating from his father.

I’ve cut Weston a lot of slack because of that pressure—I’ve seen firsthand with Peter what that kind of stress can do to someone.

In any case, I’m mortified that Amelia has seen the dark underbelly of our relationship; I hate that she even knows the small piece she does.

Amelia reaches over, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I know Weston’s been a big part of your life—his being gone is a huge change. I mean, he basically lived here.”

“Yeah.” Certainly, the space he used to occupy seems to swallow me whole.

A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Wait! What if I got a dog? Then it wouldn’t feel so empty here.”

Images of Mocha, my twelve-year old bichon frise mix who still lives with my parents, flood through my head, warming me with a desperate hope.

Why haven’t I thought of this before? The loneliness wouldn’t be quite so oppressive with a warm, wriggly body in my arms and would also ease the ache of missing Mocha.

Amelia bites her lip. “Lucy…you have a lot going on. Are you sure that’s a good idea?

Owning a dog is so much responsibility.” At my downcast look, she hurriedly continues, “Believe me, I want a dog too, but I'm waiting until I have a backyard and more time to take care of it. You might want to wait a bit?”

“You’re probably right.” I slump a little in my chair.

Why does Amelia have to have such a sensible head on her shoulders?

While I know she means well, sometimes I wish she wouldn’t be so logical and rational about everything—doesn’t she just ever feel like just doing something spontaneous because it just feels right in the moment?

“One day we’ll both get one, and they can have doggy playdates, I promise,” Amelia says.

This is a peace offering, and I give her a small smile to let her know I appreciate her gesture. She’s trying really hard not to overwhelm me with advice, and I’m grateful for her restraint.

“Has your mom been supportive? I know she liked Weston.”

Once again, Amelia has highlighted a problem I’ve been trying to ignore. It’s crazy how she knows just which questions to ask even though I’ve barely told her anything.

“I haven’t told her that we’ve broken up yet,” I admit, dodging Amelia’s too-aware gaze. “I don’t want her to worry about me.” In fact, I’d like to sidestep any confrontations. Is that too much to ask?

Probably.

Amelia nods. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to tell her either. In fact, my life would be easier if my mom would stop calling for a while.”

We share a wry smile. Amelia’s parents are the textbook definition of Korean tiger parents. I’m grateful that my parents don’t berate or belittle me the way Amelia’s parents do to her.

Of course, Peter is a different story.

“Yeah, my mom isn’t going to take it well,” I say. “She and Weston really hit it off. She won’t understand why we broke up. If she could have her way, we’d already be married. ”

Amelia shudders. “Well, I, for one, am really glad you never married him. It would have been so much harder for you to leave.”

An odd pang of regret sears through my chest. Weston and I were going to get married after we graduated from medical school, prior to residency; we were going to have 2.5 kids and bustling and lucrative practices until I stopped working to raise the kids; we were going to live happily ever after.

Until we weren’t.

“And Peter?”

It’s scary how well Amelia can read my mind. “He’s in an alcohol rehab facility in Arizona,” I admit. “I feel terrible that my parents have to deal with that.” Amelia doesn’t know the whole story about Peter, but she knows that I worry about him.

Amelia’s eyes are sad. “It seems when someone drinks too much, it’s to escape something.”

Guilt floods me again. Maybe part of the reason I haven’t told my parents about Weston is because I don’t want to disappoint them. I’ve already made that mistake once, and I refuse to make it again.

Amelia collapses back on the frilly pillows on my queen-sized bed and closes her eyes, and I wonder if she hasn’t been sleeping well.

“I see you have a new bedspread.” She pats the frilly pink fabric she’s lying on.

I take Amelia’s comment as the positive affirmation that it is—the last bedcover was black and chosen by Weston. After struggling with any change, I’ve managed to do this one thing. Being Amelia, of course she noticed it.

“I know it’s super girly, but it speaks to me,” I say, offering a small smile.

“After all, I’m not made of stone,” we say in unison and burst into a gale of laughter.

“It’s too bad Iz isn’t here,” Amelia chokes out.

Our friend Isabelle, born and bred in Georgia, has lots of hilarious sayings that none of us had ever heard of until we met her. This particular expression may not have originated in the South, but it is one-hundred percent an Isabelle catchphrase.

“She and Zoe are still meeting up with us at Dessert Debauchery in half an hour, right?”

Dessert Debauchery is a favorite hangout of ours—a specialty bar that serves spectacular dessert-themed mixed drinks. It’s only a few minutes walk from my apartment.

“Yup! I’m so excited to see them. I just wish I weren’t so tired. My last rotation was an outpatient elective, literally a nine to five, and yet I still feel like I’m on Gyn Onc.”

“I’m going to give you some typical Amelia advice and tell you to take it easy,” I say, giving her a faux-stern look.

Amelia spends a lot of time caretaking those around her—me included—and sometimes we forget she’s not superhuman. I know I do.

“You’re a whiz at to-do lists,” I say, “but try not to overplan your life to the point of exhaustion.”

Amelia sighs. “You’re right. ”

“See, I know how to dispense good advice too, Mother,” I grin.

We both laugh at that.

“We don’t have to meet up tonight, you know,” I add. “We can reschedule.”

Trepidation seizes my chest when I realize this is the first time we are hanging out as a foursome in almost a year. I’ve met up with Iz a few times, but Zoe only once; remembering that tense meeting makes my insides clench.

Part of me actually wants Amelia to cancel, so that I’m off the hook for another night, away from Zoe’s judging stare. It’s bizarre that a simple girls’ night out feels more like an intimidating challenge rather than a celebration of friendship.

But Amelia shakes her head. “We’ve postponed our girls’ night for too many months, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Amelia opens her eyes again and sits up. “It’s been ages.”

Dread and guilt seeps into my bones as I register that Amelia has expressed my thoughts out loud, and the truth of it rings in my ears. While I know she isn’t blaming me, I feel the accusation nonetheless.

It has been too long. And it’s my fault.