“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 fromhis 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 justdoing 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.
