Page 3 of Love Medley
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 theydidanswer 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 couldruinyou.”
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.”
Chapter two
Jake
February 2025
The Whitlock family dinner takes place on the last Thursday of the month, and I’m late again. Not on purpose, but not really by accident, either.
But missing this particular dinner was not an option, although it was tempting. In the end, this choice was the lesser of two evils.
Instead, I steel myself for the barrage of criticism that awaits me.
Sam, my girlfriend of a year, thinks I’m studying, and I still don’t know why it’s so hard to talk to her about myshitshow of a family.
It’s probably a sign. But that’s a problem for later me.
After exiting my beat-up 1991 Toyota Camry (one of the many dings against me, according to my parents), I run my fingers through my unruly hair. My mother will probably have something to say about its uncombed disarray, but hey, I’m here. And in clean clothes.
