Page 2 of Love Medley
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—myparents 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 callherfor 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 Iamconfused. 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 ofyourmouth?”
Something inside of me dies right then, and I wonder if anyone would even hear me if I screamed.
