5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Caroline
“ C heers to debt and depression,” I say as seriously as I can manage after two espresso martinis.
The alcohol is pulsing through my veins, and I probably shouldn’t have asked for a third drink since I’m definitely going to be hungover in the morning. But I can’t bring myself to care. That’s a tomorrow problem. Tonight, my mind needs to wander far, far away from the monotony of neuroendocrine disorders and toward a little bit of fun.
Morgan peers up at me over the rim of her massive glass.
She’s already on her third grande margarita, but she somehow holds her liquor much better than I do. I’ll never understand it because I’m a solid eight inches taller than her at five foot ten, so logically I should have a higher tolerance based on body mass. But when we went to Vegas together for my brother’s bachelor party this spring, she outdrank me by a mile. And who spent the night cradling the toilet? Little old me.
“I’m all for the dramatics,” Morgan replies with a sloppy grin, “but we both know that you don’t have debt. And you’re not depressed. You just need to take a trip to pound town.”
I let out a snort and lean back against the wooden restaurant chair.
“Remind me to tell that to my patients when I get to clerkship.” I point my finger at her for emphasis. “You’re not sick, Mrs. Doe. You really just need to get boned.”
“Finally, a doctor who gets it.” Morgan giggles into her drink before placing the glass on the sticky table. “Also, clerkship is a stupid fucking name. Why not just call it clinical and preclinical? They make it sound like you’re counting money at a bank, or something.”
“You know us doctors . . . gotta ruin everything.”
Including our mental health.
I have to keep reminding myself that there’s light at the end of the tunnel. That my perspective will shift once I get out of the classroom and into the hospital. But damn . . . there are some days that I come dangerously close to calling it quits and applying for a job at the QuikTrip near campus. At least I’d have access to unlimited energy drinks.
Morgan raises her glass for a toast as the waiter hands me a fresh drink. “Couldn’t agree with you more. Cheers to that. And cheers to orgasms.”
Her glass clinks against mine so hard that her frozen margarita sloshes over the rim and onto her hand. On instinct, I reach down to offer her my napkin but she waves it away, instead licking the drink off her hand like it’s the salt from a tequila shot.
“Orgasms might not make you richer, but they will make you less depressed.”
I laugh because I never know what’s going to come out of her mouth. That’s actually why I called her to see if she wanted to get dinner tonight—she breaks me out of my shell. Technically, she’s my sister-in-law’s best friend, but we became close when we roomed together during the Vegas trip. I like being around her because she doesn’t take anything too seriously. She reminds me that life can be fun. That I don’t have to be the perfect Barbie doll that I was conditioned to be my entire life, and I wont be judged for it.
“You think orgasms cure everything.”
“Because they do,” she argues, pulling out her phone to reply to a text message. “Best drug on the market.”
“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 just a 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.
The 8:00 a.m. library wake-up call is going to hurt like a bitch.
“Not true,” Morgan counters. “It’s because you’re the most gorgeous runway model I’ve ever met.”
“Pretty and tall. Got it.” I roll my eyes. “Truly legendary debate skills you’ve got there, Morg.”
Her foot kicks at my shin under the table, and I instinctively retaliate by stomping on her toes with the heel of my Veronica Beard wedges.
“Ow!” she wails a little too loudly, causing the couple beside us to turn in our direction.
I plaster on my best country-club grin to assure them that everything is okay while Morgan mutters something dramatic under her breath.
Once they return to their meal, she leans in and whispers, “See? You’re into causing pain. It’s giving . . . slutty sadist.”
I don’t have a clue how to respond to that, so I take a sip of my drink, hoping she gets bored with the conversation.
She doesn’t.
She pulls up a website on her phone and shows me a picture of a model wearing a shiny black latex bodysuit with matching thigh-high boots, proudly displaying it for the entire restaurant to see.
Discretion and Morgan have clearly never been introduced.
“It says if you’re a 34C, we need to get a medium, but I need you to confirm because the fit is super tight. I think it comes with special lube to get it on.”
“No.” I try to sound as stern as possible, but it’s really hard to keep a straight face around her. Especially when she’s blatantly staring at my chest, trying her hardest to assess my bra size.
“Too bad. I’ve already decided this is going to be your Halloween costume.”
“It’s not even September yet,” I argue, even though it won’t make a difference to her. “And the answer is still no.”
I’m not against dressing up—I actually love the outfit. But dominating someone isn’t something I’ve ever tried, nor is it something I’ve ever fantasized about.
All of my partners in the past have been guys who took control, and I liked that—I liked being able to turn my brain off and not think for a while.
Were they the super kinky hookups that my friend loves to brag about? No. I’ve never had anyone I could try that kind of stuff with. But they were enough to make me recognize that I don’t want to be the one who makes decisions about my pleasure. I want a man who will do that for me.
“Please?” Morgan whines, drawing out the word for far too long. “I feel like putting this on will change your mind. You’ll be transformed into Kinky Caroline for the night.”
She pushes her lower lip forward as far as it will possibly go.
“Fine,” I concede, knowing she’s probably going to forget about this in the next two months anyway. “But only if you do it with me.”
“Can’t,” she huffs. “The last time I tried to top Walkie, I learned the hard way that a cane isn’t a fun punishment tool—it’s a torture device. And since I have no intention of reliving that particular experience, my domme days are over.”
“I’m not dom—”
As I’m about to have to make the same point for the millionth time, my phone starts vibrating with a text from my brother.
You’re still coming to our wedding this weekend, right?
I gesture to Morgan that I need a second to respond, and she takes it as her cue to head to the bathroom.
Parker and I haven’t spoken since our last family dinner almost a month ago. While minimal communication isn’t abnormal for us, especially because Cassidy sends us updates on his life in the group text, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he might be upset with me after our last conversation.
When he first shared the news at Christmas two years ago about what happened between him and Weston, I remember feeling so much rage on his behalf.
What Weston did to me was one thing. And while I definitely haven’t let go of my resentment for him over the years, I could at least understand why he did it. He was immature, selfish, and we barely knew each other.
But what I couldn’t understand was Weston’s choice to deliberately ruin his best friend’s career. It was a betrayal on a level that I didn’t think was possible, even for him.
Turns out I was right.
Because when Parker finally came clear about his omissions in the saga of their friendship, everything made sense—Weston wasn’t the only person at fault. And I think I surprised the both of us when I said those words out loud.
Parker and I ended our conversation on good terms, but sometimes he has the tendency to let things simmer until they finally spill over. So as I type a message back, I add in a teasing joke to soften the tension.
Yeah, after my exam on Friday.
Assuming I’m still invited.
His reply comes through quickly.
Of course.
You know you’re my favorite.
I can’t help my smile because my brother might drive me nuts with the constant pressure he puts on me to be just like him, but I still love him to death.
Remember that the next time I piss you off.
Also, is it really a wedding if you’re already husband and wife?
I’m just messing with him because I know how much it irritates him that they accidentally tied the knot in Vegas. I think if he had it his way, they would have done everything much more traditionally like they had originally planned.
Considering the guest list is now up to nine, I’d say so.
I frown as I type back.
Sorry. Did you say nine?
I could see where we might have five people because it wouldn’t surprise me if my sister begged to be able to bring her boyfriend. But nine? That seems like a big jump.
We’re getting the band back together.
As soon as I read the message, Morgan slinks into her seat with a heavy sigh, and everything clicks into place—she and Walker are coming too. I still have no idea who the final two people are, but I decide to table the issue for later.
I look up from my phone and narrow my eyes on my friend. “Something you want to tell me, Morg?”
I’m honestly impressed she made it this long without saying something. She’s the biggest yapper that I know, and it’s probably been killing her to keep this inside.
Morgan twirls a strand of loosely-curled chestnut hair around her finger as her lips twist into a suspicious grin. “I didn’t order blow job shots. Scouts honor.”
I decide to ignore the fact that she’s holding up a peace sign instead of a scout sign to focus on the more pressing issue.
“Whatcha doin’ for Labor Day? Hmmm? Got any big plans?”
She shrugs, puffing out her cheeks to hold back her giggles. “Oh, you know. This and that.”
God, I love her—she’s such a brat.
A massive grin creeps across my face. “I can’t believe you kept it a secret.”
“Oh my god,” she finally blurts, slamming her hands down on the table. “I felt like I was going to explode the whole time, but Parker told me not to say anything until he could talk to you.”
“Why would I care? I’m glad you guys are coming.”
Am I surprised that my brother agreed to let them join the festivities? A little—especially considering the fact that he hasn’t always had the best relationship with Morgan. But this just proves that he’s grown . . . or at least, he’s trying to grow. After he told me what happened with Weston, the jury is still out on his change arc.
“Well, because . . .” Morgan starts but then trails off, curling her lips behind her teeth like she’s forcing herself to stop talking.
I cock my head, trying to figure out why she’s being so cryptic. “Because what?”
Morgan’s eyes dart around, like she’s searching for something to distract her. Her attention lands on our waiter who is walking toward us with the shots she promised she didn’t order.
“Because . . . you’re about to be very hungover.”