Washed Up (Bayside Heroes)

And without anything to distract me, I can’t help but think about her.

My stomach tightens at the memory of her on her couch, of how it felt to see her and David both in that house that held such a mix of memories for me. On the one hand, it was one of my escapes from my own family, from the pressure of my father’s pride and expectations for me. It was just a place to hang with my best friend, to watch movies or play video games or sneak a beer on his roof.

But on the other hand, it was where I was introduced to the ugly side of alcohol, to what a father the polar opposite of my own looked like.

My hands tighten where I hold the handlebars, and I shake off the memories before they can dig their claws too deep. Parking my bike on the rack outside my apartment, I lock it up and cover it before making my way inside.

“You’ve got a package here, Dr. Weston,” Abigail says when I walk through the lobby.

Abigail is one of the staff who works the front desk of my condo, a young girl studying at the University of Tampa. She offers me a flushed smile as I retrieve the padded envelope from her.

“Thank you.”

“Have a great evening, Dr. Weston. Let me know if you need anything.”

Her cheeks turn an even brighter red with that, and the way her eyes widen, I can tell she didn’t mean to say it — or at least, not the way she did.

I smirk. “Will do. Don’t study too hard,” I add, nodding at her open textbook.

She giggles, plopping down in her chair as I scan my key fob and head toward the elevators.

I’m dropped off on the twenty-second floor, and I make my way down the long hall to the condo at the end.

It still feels odd walking into my condo, even as I hang my bag on the same hook I’ve hung it on for the last two years.

I imagine it should feel familiar by now — the expansive windows showcasing the city and the river, the tall, industrial-like ceiling and cement columns, the art I’ve collected hanging on the walls. It’s my sectional, and my television, and my record player in the corner. It’s my California king bed, and pictures from my white coat ceremony hanging over my desk.

But even as I strip out of my scrubs and toss them in the hamper before jumping in the shower, it doesn’t feel like home.

Nothing ever has.

I grew up in a household where my silence was valued.

Dad was a hedge fund advisor, and mom was the perfect wife at his side, and the house was always ready to entertain at a moment’s notice. All that meant for me was that other than a few family photos hanging in our sitting room, you couldn’t tell I actually lived there. I never left my books or toys or any belongings out in common areas, and even my bedroom didn’t feel like mine, with a comforter I didn’t pick out, and not an ounce of my personality shown through posters or trophies or anything of the sort. Mom always wanted it ready for guests, should that be necessary, and so I was to keep it tidy and neutral at all times.

When I moved out, it was straight into a college dorm with Dane, a shared space that felt more like a hotel than anything else. The same was true when I was in med school, and again when I was doing my residency in Chicago.

Everywhere I’ve been, I’ve felt like a tenant passing through, like a nomad with nothing to really unpack when I arrived, or pack with me when I left.

When I got the job at Bayside, I took it as permission to finally set up roots.

The problem is… I’m not exactly sure how to.

It looks like something my mother would approve of — a tidy space with artwork pleasing to just about anyone, and little to no proof that someone lives here at all.

My neck and shoulders ache as I wash away the day, the week, the hours of operation and casework. My phone sits on the bathroom counter, ringer turned all the way up just in case. I could be called back into the hospital at any moment, and I know eventually my phone will ring. I’ve yet to have a night or weekend on call where it didn’t.

I take it with me once I’m done with my shower, setting it on my bed as I dry off and change into dark gray sweatpants and a light blue Buck Mason shirt. I flop down on my bed then, eyes on the ceiling.

“Don’t do it. Don’t call her,” I mutter to myself, but my fingers are already reaching for my phone, already pulling up her contact in my address book.