Page 15 of Dr. Attending

“I don’t know . . . SSRIs have been sounding pretty good recently.”

Morgan glances up with a smirk. “It sounds like you just need to up your daily dose of pleasure. I’ll send you some vibrator recs.”

She shoots me a salacious wink before returning her attention to her phone.

I take the opportunity to do the same, ignoring the messages from my college friends to open my notes app—I know exactly what I’m happy about today.

A new friend who loves margaritas

It’s not that I’m avoiding my old friends, I just have a hard time being able to contribute to conversations with them at the moment. My life has changed so much over the past year, and it’s hard to relate to messages about influencers and pop culture when I don’t have time to think about anything other than school.

I’ve tried to meet people in my class, and even found several that I get along with, but everything feels like a competition. Our program doesn’t give grades other than passing or failing,so the best way to differentiate ourselves is through research or extracurricular projects. And since I was already sabotaged with one opportunity, I have a hard time knowing who to trust. I’ve found that it’s easier to just keep most people at a distance.

Morgan’s emerald-green eyes flash up to mine. “Wait, are you actually depressed? Or is this just because of that dickhead George? Because you know . . . I have a solution for both problems.”

“If you say orgasms, I’m going to throw this drink in your face.”

She laughs. “I was actually going to say a shot of tequila. But if the shoe fits, wear it, baby.”

I drop my head into my hands and let out a long sigh because I have no idea what’s wrong with me.

I thought going out tonight would pull me out of my funk. I put on makeup for the first time in weeks. I straightened my hair. I even wore nice lingerie under my white polo mini dress. But I still feel like I have for the past year—empty and isolated.

It’s like there’s a gaping hole in my soul that I can’t quite place, and I don’t know if it’s because of my career choice, or something else. But for the first time in my life, I’m questioning myself. I’m questioning who I am, what I want, and where I’m going. It feels like I’m spiraling out of control, and nothing seems to be helping.

“I’m fine,” I lie, plastering on a practiced smile as I look up at my friend. “Though, I fear George wouldn’t be if I showed you what he said to me last week.”

Morgan’s face lights up, and she tries to reach over the table to swipe my phone. I snag it as her hand passes the fake candlestick, batting her away.

If she knew what my ex-boyfriend said, I’m pretty sure there would be a felony committed on my behalf. She once threatened to key his car after she saw a text from him, and that was justa small fraction of the bullshit he would spew, soI can only imagine what she would do if she got her hands on the message I’m talking about.

“Hey,” she whines, returning to her seat with a pout. “It’s not nice to edge people like that.”

“I handled everything, don’t worry.”

I wasn’t actually going to show her the messages, I just wanted to change the subject. I might share more with her than anyone else, but I still struggle with letting people in—it’s just not comfortable for me.

“Are you sure?” She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “I have . . . resources. All you have to do is say the word.”

Considering how loyal she is, I have no doubt that she would follow through on whatever outrageous idea is currently swirling through her mind if I asked her to. But I have enough on my plate at the moment without the added stress of having to bail my friend out of jail.

“Positive,” I reply, giving her a look that hopefully conveys how serious I am. “Down girl.”

“Wait, why was that kind of hot?” Morgan smirks and bats her dark, clumpy lashes at me. “Say it again, but this time make it sound even sluttier. Call me a bad girl.”

I feel my cheeks heat even though this isn’t the first time she’s made this joke. She told a group of guys at the pool party in Vegas that my name was Mistress Medicine and that I needed to, “Check their pants for lumps and bumps.”

“I am not a dominatrix, Morg. Never have been. Never will be.”

“Come on.” She grunts in frustration. “But you would be so good at it.”

I ignore her and lean forward to grab the final slice of salami from our charcuterie board.

“You literally only think that because I’m tall.”

I slump back against my chair, feeling slightly dizzy as my alcohol catches up with me.

Ugh.

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