Page 55 of Dr. Attending

But what I actually typed felt more poignant. More raw. And now it feels more overwhelming . . . because it’s exactly what Weston just said.

Someone knowing what you

need before you do

I don’t have any idea how he knew. Or why he took it upon himself to turn my day around and give me the perspective that I needed. But he did. And it worked.

“It was,” I confirm, unable to hide my smile as I think back on the past few hours.

I finally got to put some of my knowledge into real-life practice instead of using it to solve generic scenarios that seem so far away. It made my constant studying more tangible somehow, like I could see the fruits of my labor firsthand as I followed what was happening throughout the case.Sure, an umbilical hernia repair is one of the easiest procedures that a general surgeon does, but that didn’t make it any less magical to experience for the first time.

Weston’s smile matches mine, and I swear it’s like he’s replaying the moment in his head, too. “You did great. You’re a natural.”

I stretch my arms above my head, trying to alleviate the uncomfortable tension in my chest. “You don’t have to say that just because I’m your friend’s sister.”

My family was never big on words of affirmation. That’s not to say that we didn’t have love in our home—it was just never expressed with overt praise or verbal statements of satisfaction. It was silent. Steady. Understood. So whenever someone praises me, I don’t know how to naturally respond.

Typically, I brush them off or change the subject. But for some reason, I take it upon myself at this moment to do something even more absurd—stare at the ceiling with my arms in the air, thinking about how the stain splattered across the white tile got up there. I guess looking like a lunatic is easier than holding Weston’s golden gaze and listening to words that I don’t believe.

“That’s not why I’m saying it, Caroline. And we both know it.”

His tone is serious, and I force myself to swallow down the ball in the base of my throat.

“So,” I say, letting my hands fall to my travel coffee cup as I finally return my focus to him. “Do you have students often?”

Weston’s eyes flicker with something unreadable, but he ignores it and takes a sip of his drink, like he needs a moment to contemplate a challenging question.

“More often than not,” he finally replies. “It’s either that or residents these days. But I don’t mind having them around.”

I feel myself frown. “Really? Because I’m pretty sure Parker hates it.”

I’ve always assumed that most physicians loathed teaching because I’ve listened to my brother complain about how much of a burden it is for years. But nothing about today felt like a burden—it felt like a gift. A gift for both of us.

Weston chuckles as he leans back against the booth. “Yeah, it’s not his strong suit. I’m kind of surprised you never shadowed him, though. I figured he would be itching to get you in the OR.”

“Believe me, he tried to make it happen.” I huff a laugh, remembering an argument we got into a few years ago after I learned I’d gotten into med school.

Parker wanted me to spend spring break in Atlanta so I would have a leg up on my classmates when I started. He wouldn’t shut up about his grand plans of having his angelic sister follow in his footsteps, even though I told him a million times that I wasn’t skipping a cruise to Mexico with my friends. The concession wasto let him teach me how to scrub and suture over summer break—theidealway to spend my time off from school.

Weston’s expression turns curious, but he doesn’t say anything.

“What?” I ask.

“I just figured you would want to learn from him instead of me, that’s all.”

I purse my lips, trying to work out just how candid I want to be.

I’m sure from the outside, it probably seems like my brother and I are closer than most siblings. And, in a way, we are—we understand each other in a way that my sister doesn’t. But even with that degree of understanding, we tend to keep our relationship very surface level. It’s just safer that way.

“Parker can be . . .” I trail off, searching for the right word. “Suffocating.”

I shake my head and sigh, tracing my thumb along the plastic lid of the coffee cup. “I don’t know . . . it’s like all he wants to talk about is my career. Or boards. Or getting into a good residency. I appreciate that he cares, and I love that we have that in common, but it’s exhausting to pretend everything is okay all of the time.”

“So don’t.”

I cock my head like I misheard him, even though his words were loud and clear. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend.”

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