Page 10 of The Love Operation

When Anna opens the door—I know it’s her just by how slowly it opens—she peeks her blond head in. “Sorry to disturb.” She looks at me, sans suspicion. Success! “But Dr. Wren, your other patients are waiting.”

I’m just so thankful it was her. Most anyone else would’ve barged in. No knocking. No warning. If Dahlia had needed me, she would’ve caught me and the COO of this hospital in flagrante delicto.

This can never happen again. My brain has been restored to its full upright position, and it is now safe for me to land on the appropriate course of action.

“Perfect timing, Anna. I was just telling Mr. Thompson that we were going to start him on a course of physical therapy. Get that set up for him, will you?”

I turn back to my “patient.” “I feel confident that the PT will do the trick in your case. I don’t think we’ll even need a follow-up. Good seeing you. Take care now!”

And then I shoot out the door, shame and questionable life choices tucked into the pocket that burns near my hip, where his hand was. But I’m not just walking out, I’m locking this door behind me. Professionally, at least.

Bravo, Dr. Wren. Bravo.

Chapter 3

#DisasterpieceTheatre

What fresh hell is this?

There are certain sights a person should never have to witness. A crime scene, for example. Your significant other in bed with someone else. The scale after the holidays.

And then there’s this—my parents performing an unspeakable act, the kind of thing that makes you want to pop your eyeballs out, wash them thoroughly, splash them with hand sanitizer, then hesitate before putting them back in . . . just in case.

Fine, I’m exaggerating. But there’s a swimming pool in the middle of their entryway.

A swimming pool.

Inside their house.

Now, my parents have a big-ass house, the kind with a double staircase, you know, just in case a bunch of people want to travel upstairs at once and one set of stairs simply will not do.

But despite all that space, not once have I thought, You know what would really tie this entryway together? A large, inflatable kiddie pool. And not just any kiddie pool—oh no. Let’s go for the full aesthetic. Let’s make sure it’s only partially inflated, and let’s fill it with six inches of water for ambience.

My father is in said pool. Fully clothed. Dramatically flailing. Wait—scratch that. He’s calmed down. Now he’s just . . . floating. In six inches of water.

Next to him, my mother, draped in an old-timey shawl, clutches an ironing board to her front like she’s on a raft as she whisper sobs into a tiny microphone. They’re both soaking wet and pretending to shiver.

Mom (chin quivering): “I’ll never leave you, Jack. Never. Never. Never.”

Jack? My dad’s name is Lucas.

It’s then that I spot the tripod. They’re filming this. And they don’t even register my arrival.

Dad: “You have to do what you have to do. I mean, that ironing board is pretty dang tiny. And let’s be real—I’ve put on some weight. All that fancy food on that crap ship. I should’ve paced myself.”

Mom: “I didn’t want to say anything, but . . .”

Dad: “See? I knew it. Welp. That’s that, then.”

Mom: “No, I won’t let you go. I’ll never let—wait, I’m getting a cramp. I might have to let go.”

Dad snickers, then composes himself. “Rose, I’m freezing my ass off in this water. I changed my mind. Scoot over.”

Mom: “Jack! Jack! Jack! We’re tipping!”

And then they fall into the . . . inches of water.

Dad: “I guess this is it.”