Page 68 of Dr. Attending

Sometimes it feels like medical school is always one step forward and two steps back. Just when I think I’m doing well, I get knocked back down again.

It’s exhausting.

“Or,” Weston drawls as he slowly traces lines over my skin. “Imagine how much better it could have been. It’s all about perspective.”

I let out a hot huff of air because that’s easier said than done.

“Right.” I swallow, lowering my gaze to meet his.

“Listen, those practice tests are bullshit. I failed all of them and still passed my exam.”

He chuckles and waves his hand like he’s showing off his body. “And look at me now. A big hotshot doctor . . . just like you’re going to be.”

My eyes roll instinctively, but before I can get a jab in, he continues, “Plus, your exam isn’t until, when? The day before Halloween? I guarantee you’re better off than everyone else.”

I feel my chest tighten.

I’m not surprised that he remembers the date of my exam when I only told him once. Because I’ve come to realize that ifWeston Southerland is one thing, he’s intentional. With his time. With his attention. And with me.

And even though I want to thank him for believing in me, I blow off his compliment with a forced laugh. “You don’t know that.”

He wags a brow at me playfully, not taking my bait. “I’m a surgeon. I know everything.”

I scoff and reach for the pillow to playfully hit him, but he beats me to it and somehow tackles me to the bed before I have a chance to react. The laughter that comes out of me this time isn’t forced—it’s raw and real, just like the feelings I’m starting to have for this man.

***

I’m watching a YouTube video on pathology at 2.5x speed while flipping through Anki flashcards when a text from Weston pings on my phone.

This isn’t funny.

Seconds later, a picture comes through that makes me smile.

The moment I saw the toddler push car at Niemans, I had to get it for Carter’s birthday. It matches his dad’s perfectly, and I knew without a doubt that Weston was going to hate it.

So obviously, I bought it right away.

Unfortunately, I completely forgot to bring it with me when I stopped by last night, so I found some time to drop it off as a surprise this afternoon while they were at the playoff baseball game with his family.

My smile widens as I type out a response because I know that Weston probably isn’t texting me about the gift—he’s talking about the card I left sitting on the seat, which said somethingabout how this car came without airbags so he wouldn’t have to worry about bumming a ride from me ever again.

Note to self—men lose their sense of humor when they hit middle age.

I press send, having no regrets about the fact that my message is going to push his buttons.

Weston and I might have turned a corner last night, but that doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten about the years he spent doing the same thing to me.

His reply comes through almost instantly.

Seriously? I’m thirty-two.

I wish I could see his expression right now. Is it amused and playful, like he is the majority of the time? Or is it stern and sexy, like he was last night?

My fingers fly over the keyboard, hoping for the latter.

Addendum to the note - some men never had a sense of humor to begin with.

His response is immediate, and it sends an anticipatory shudder up my spine even though I have no reason to react that way—we have no plans to see each other.

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