Dr. Attending (Midtown Memorial #4)

22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Caroline

I f I could speak to the manager of my life, I would ask a rapid-fire list of questions starting with, “Why the hell am I doing this?”

And while there are multiple scenarios over the years that this question could relate to, it’s currently directed at the fact that I just pulled into Weston’s driveway.

Do I have a plan? No.

Is this a bad idea? Yes.

Should I turn around? Probably.

I turn my car off and unbuckle my seatbelt, but I don’t make a move to get out. Instead, I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, closing my eyes as my head and my heart engage in a debate more heated than a presidential election. Once I give both parties ample time to give their speeches, I come to the conclusion that there isn’t going to be a winner declared tonight, so I might as well head inside.

I take a few steadying breaths and then grab my purse from the passenger seat, not bothering to text Weston to let him know that I’m here. The front porch light is on, just like he said it would be, so I’m assuming that his offer still stands.

The back of my sleeveless black and tan dress gets caught on something as I try to exit the car, and I curse in frustration because the thin heel of my bootie almost snaps off when I plant it a little too forcefully onto the pavement to keep my balance.

Fuck me, it’s been a long day.

I’ve been wearing this incredibly cute outfit since I got out of bed, even though I normally wear nothing more than an oversized T-shirt when I spend the day studying at my apartment. But since I was planning on coming to Carter’s party after I finished my practice test and the timing was tight, I got ready in advance. I even put on a full face of makeup and blew out my hair with my Dyson, figuring it would save time later on.

And it would have . . . if I had made it to the party.

I wanted to be there. I really did. I even planned it perfectly so that I would finish right around the time everyone else was on their way. But as soon as I got my score back, I knew I couldn’t go.

Sixty-five percent.

I had barely answered more than half of the questions correctly.

Our school says that sixty-three is a good indicator of passing, but it felt too close for comfort. All I could think about was how a rainstorm of defeat was soaking me to the bone, and I had no idea what I could have done differently to prepare.

My phone has been permanently on the Do Not Disturb setting. I’ve barely seen or talked to anyone other than my family. I’ve remained focused and diligent as I’ve combed through every resource imaginable to prepare.

And I still nearly failed.

All I could do was lay under my comforter and cry until I couldn’t cry anymore. And when I finally pulled myself together, touched up my makeup, and looked down at my phone, I realized that the party was nearly over.

So I did what all girls do when they’re sad, I drove to Target and roamed the aisles aimlessly. I was mindlessly smelling fall-scented candles with a cart full of things I didn’t need when Weston texted me.

I expected him to make some snide comment about my absence, but he didn’t—he put me first.

So that’s what I’m doing now.

I’m showing up for Weston like he showed up for me. I’m letting him know that he’s important to me.

His front door opens as I’m halfway up his sidewalk, and it feels like I’m having déjà vu from the last time I climbed these stairs a month ago. I remember being so irritated when I looked up from my phone because I was in a terrible headspace after my neuro exam, and the last person I wanted to spend time with was Weston Southerland.

And while tonight is similar, it’s also different. I might still be overwhelmed and exhausted because of school, but the last thing that I feel when I meet his hazel eyes is irritation—I feel relief.

Weston must be thinking back on the moment too, because he greets me the same way he did that day, standing in the doorway with a wide grin.

“Hey, princess.”

He’s still wearing the outfit he must have had on for the party—a light blue button-down, khaki shorts, and loafers. His voice is warm and accepting, like coming home after a long day, and it ignites an instinctual need within me to drop my purse on the porch and race into his arms.

I close my eyes and bury my face against his shoulder, inhaling the muted citrus of his cologne as he pulls me in close.

I don’t have any tears left to cry, but if I did, the way he tenderly strokes my head might spur them on again. The simple comfort of his embrace is everything I didn’t know I needed . . . everything I didn’t know I wanted.

I’m not sure how long we silently stand in the open doorway, but I eventually force myself to step back and meet his gaze.

“Thank you for leaving the porch light on.”

It’s the first thing that made me happy today, so I make a mental note to write it down on my list when I have a chance.

Weston nods, staring at me for what feels like an eternity before he responds. “I’ll always keep it on for you.”

His expression is so earnest that I almost hear my heart scream at my head to shut up and give in.

But instead, I offer him a smile and turn to grab my purse.

“Wow,” I say absentmindedly as I follow him into his house for the first time, scanning the modern foyer. “This is . . . stunning.”

Whoever he paid to decorate everything did an incredible job.

The art on the walls is tasteful. The furniture matches the modern traditional aesthetic. Everything somehow comes together perfectly to feel functional and homey while still being high end.

“Thanks.” Weston closes the tinted glass door behind me. “I like interior design.”

“You did this?”

It shouldn’t shock me.

An eye for interior design and personal style seem to go hand in hand, at least they do when it comes to him.

“Don’t act so surprised,” Weston teases with a chuckle as he stops beside me. His voice is soft, but it sends a shiver of uncertainty up my spine. “Do you want a tour?”

I want to say yes. But considering how fast my heart is beating right now, I don’t trust myself walking through a dark hallway with him.

“I wouldn’t want to wake Carter up,” I respond quietly, staring at the geometric chandelier above my head with awe.

Weston nudges me gently to get my attention. “Baby monitor. Remember?”

“Right,” I swallow, turning to look at him.

It was a bad excuse because I’m well aware of the fact that his son sleeps well through the night. But I brought it up as a reminder for myself because Weston and I can be friends. We can enjoy each other’s company. Hell, we can even hookup. But we absolutely cannot cross a line into anything more—it’s for his own good.

I can feel the heat of his gaze on me, and I fight the urge to squirm as I wrack my brain for another reason I shouldn’t let him give me a tour. When nothing immediately comes to mind, I finally concede.

“Alright, sure,” I agree, offering him a hesitant smile. “Show me around then, Daddy.”

What the—

I feel my skin prickle with embarrassment because I have no idea where the hell that came from. It felt so wrong, and not in the good way—in the way that kills the mood entirely.

But I guess maybe that’s a good thing?

That’s what I’m going for, right?

Right.

Weston cocks a brow at me. Clearly, he thought that was weird as fuck too, and I’m thankful that he doesn’t comment on it as he starts his tour.

He takes me through every room except for the one where his son is sleeping, explaining the design choices and changes he made after he moved in. I can tell that he’s proud of it, and I enjoy seeing this side of him. The more time that we spend together, the more that I find he’s so much more than the shallow, lackadaisical persona he put on for years—he’s stunningly complex.

We finish in the master bedroom located on the main floor. It’s moodier than the rest of the house, with a dark ceiling and walls covered in intricate molding. There’s a beautiful fireplace on one wall and a massive leather king bed opposite it with stained oak nightstands on either side displaying framed black-and-white photographs of him and his son.

Weston bends over to pick up a pile of clothes from the ground. “Sorry about the mess.”

I look at him like he’s crazy because his house is spotless.“This is nothing. You should see Claire’s room.”

A few clothes on the floor are trivial compared to the category five hurricane that lives in my sister’s closet.

Weston laughs as he drops the clothes in a wicker hamper. “My sister is the same way.” He gestures toward the mantle. “It’s worse now that she has a kid, too. I’m pretty sure I got hives the last time I visited.”

I follow his gaze, noticing the array of framed pictures above the fireplace. I made it a point to avoid listening when he would talk over the years, so I never knew that he had a sister.

“Are you guys close?” I ask, studying one that looks like it was taken at a wedding a few years ago.

“As close as we can be.” Weston smiles as he walks toward me, focused on the same image. “She lives in Cali with her family, and we’re both busy. But we talk when we can.”

I nod with understanding because my siblings and I are the same way. Even though the monthly dinners have helped us stay fairly connected, it sometimes feels like I’m getting left behind as we get older. It’s almost like they’ve formed their own family units, and I’m just an ancillary character that they remember from time to time.

I scan the rest of the photos on Weston’s mantle, feeling myself smile as I move down the line because his family seems so similar to ours. Each image captures happy moments, but there’s a familiar formality to each one, almost like they’re staged to portray perfection.

All of the breath nearly leaves my lungs when I get to the final frame. The only one that isn’t of his family—it’s of mine. “What—”

My eyes dart to him, searching for an explanation because the photo seems so out of place, not only because of the people, but because of the chaos in the captured moment.

Weston smiles as he picks up the frame.

“I think this one is my favorite,” he murmurs softly, his expression almost wistful as he studies the image. “Cass sent it to me a few days after the wedding.”

The entire group that celebrated my brother’s wedding at the lake is standing in our formal attire on the back porch. Cassidy is fixing Parker’s bowtie while Claire and Morgan adjust her updo. Walker has Carter on his shoulders, pointing at Beau, who’s waving back at them. And Weston is leaning against the railing with a shit-eating grin on his face, staring at me while I hold the bridal bouquet and stick my tongue out at him.

I shake my head. “I’m surprised you didn’t crop me out.”

Weston glances at me, and his face falls slightly. “Why would I do that?”

“Uh . . . because I look ridiculous?”

“You don’t look ridiculous,” he says, placing the frame back in its original spot as he turns to me.

“And I would never crop you out.” His voice is steady as he holds my gaze. “Other than my son, you are the most important person in that picture, Caroline.”

“Yeah . . . okay, Wes.”I chuckle.

Even if I were to ignore the fact that my brother is in the picture—someone who should definitely sit higher on the importance scale than me—Weston and I only just found our footing as friends, if that’s even what we are.

“I’m serious,” he counters, reaching out to dust his fingers against mine. “Every morning, I look at it, and it grounds me. You ground me.”

I suck in a harsh breath because his sincerity makes me feel a little dizzy. I know he thinks that I’m always honest with him, but that’s not always true. Because if I were to be truly honest at this moment, I would tell him that maybe, just maybe, he grounds me too.