Page 1 of Love Medley
Chapter one
Lucy
Third Year-February 2025
As 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 tilesare 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 thrilledto 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, hehad 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 futureisall 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.
