Page 40 of The Medic
Momma’s smile didn’t falter. “Darling, you know we mean it as a compliment.”
“I always know what you mean,” I said under my breath, pushing my sunglasses higher up my nose.
We were escorted inside—past the hostess desk, past the smiling staff trained to notice wealth before names—until we reached the veranda. Shade-drenched, fan-cooled, and so perfectly manicured it felt more like a movie set than a dining patio.
The Hartsfields weren’t there yet.
“Right on time,” Daddy said approvingly, checking his watch. “Gives us a chance to settle in.”
He pulled out a chair for Momma like a scene from a manners book, and she sat with her usual champagne composure. I followed suit, arranging myself like furniture—legs crossed, back straight, chin slightly lifted. Presentation before emotion. Always.
They were a perfect pair, my parents. Not in the fairy-tale sense, but in the way two people who understood the rules of power could be perfectly matched. He made decisions; she made impressions. They rarely touched in public, but they didn’t have to. Their language was subtler—lingering glances across fundraisers, coded nods across dining tables, the occasional brush of fingers when no one was looking.
Love wasn’t loud for them. It was legacy. Steady, stylish, and so quiet it could almost be mistaken for cold. I didn’t want that. Not exactly. But sometimes I wondered if I even knew how to want something else. Something with mess. With teeth. Withrisk. The kind that didn’t play well in press clippings or society pages, but still made you feel like you’d been struck by lightning.
“I know you don’t love this,” Momma said after a moment, reaching for the lemon water the server brought without being asked. “But it wouldn’t hurt to be open.”
“To what?” I asked, folding my hands in my lap. “A life of beige linen and dinner parties with people I actively avoid?”
“To someone who might surprise you,” she replied gently.
Daddy took a sip of iced tea, then set it down with a thoughtful clink. “Sweetheart, this isn’t an ambush. You’re allowed to say no. We just thought—well. He’s … promising.”
“They all are,” I murmured. “Until you realize they care more about their hedge funds than the woman sitting next to them.”
Momma tilted her head. “You sound like you’ve already decided he’s a bore.”
“I sound like someone who’s been through this dance before.”
Daddy looked at me then—not the way a strategist looks at a chessboard, but the way a father does when he’s trying to figure out where he might’ve gone wrong. His eyes softened. “We want you to be happy, Sloane. I know it doesn’t always feel like that, but it’s true.”
I blinked. The words felt almost too generous for the heat, the setting, the conversation I thought I was bracing for.
Momma reached for my hand across the table, her fingers cool and elegant, her grip surprisingly firm. “And maybe … we want to make sure someone is looking out for you when we’re not.”
That landed somewhere deep. Somewhere tender.
My chest tightened as I looked between them—this poised Southern power couple who had spent their entire lives building a legacy, curating a life of comfort and clout. They loved me, I didn’t doubt that. But their love came wrapped in velvetexpectations and gold-plated futures. It was warm, but it was heavy. And it didn’t always leave room for me to breathe.
Sometimes I used to imagine what it would’ve been like if I hadn’t been the only one. I’d begged for a sibling when I was younger—someone to share the weight, to roll their eyes with me behind Momma’s back during etiquette lessons or sneak chocolate truffles from the dessert tray before charity galas.
I used to picture a big, messy family with noisy dinners, hand-me-down stories, and the kind of inside jokes that came from years of shared chaos. I wondered what it would’ve felt like to have a brother who teased me or a sister who whispered secrets across satin pillows. But instead, it had always been just me. Just Sloane Carrington—perfect, polished, and profoundly alone in a house built to entertain but not to nurture.
Before I could say anything else, the server returned to say the Hartsfields had just pulled in.
Momma re-applied her lipstick in one smooth stroke. Daddy straightened his collar. I took a deep breath.
Let the next performance begin.
The Hartsfields arrived with the kind of breezy confidence that only came from generations of inherited property and zero personal scandals. Phillip and Marianne, both in their sixties but clinging to their forties with Pilates and peony facials, stepped onto the veranda in coordinated blue and cream—tasteful, nautical, forgettable.
Marianne carried a straw clutch the size of a novel and wore pearls like they were her birthright. Phillip offered a practiced smile, the kind that came with decades of board seats and country club diplomacy.
“Sylvia, Thatcher,” Marianne cooed as if we were old friends instead of old obligations. “Sloane, darling, you look positively radiant.”
I stood to greet them, cheek-kissing Marianne and shaking Phillip’s hand with just the right amount of grip—firm enough to suggest capability, soft enough to suggest demureness. The balancing act I’d been trained in since childhood.
“You’re too kind,” I said, letting my voice lilt upward on the word kind like it might cover the disinterest I couldn’t quite suppress. “Lovely to see you both.”
