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 herapartment 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 persistentprobing 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 rotationsin 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.
