Page 106 of The Love Operation

“Oh, that’s right. I remember all those figurines he carved at your house. He’s talented.”

“Very. I’m trying to get him to branch out—work with me more. I’ve got some pretty upscale clients who love his stuff, but he doesn’t yet see his value. He thinks it’s too simple.” Benedict shrugs. “Anyway, my parents wanted more for me. So after I stopped pursuing medicine, I got a business degree, met my ex-wife, and did the suit thing for a while.”

“How did you meet your wife?” I don’t want to know, but my lips move without my full consent.

“Ex-wife,” he clarifies. “Mom needed rehab after her accident. Chelsea was always around—organized, compassionate, kept things running. She helped my mom, got my sister to eat again, tracked meds. She was the calm in the storm.”

I nod, even as something shifts in my gut. Jealousy, probably. Not that I have a right to it.

“We talked in those weird in-between moments—after dressing changes, during coffee refills. We were a team. She’d just gotten out of something messy. I knew what that was like. We bonded.”

I swallow hard.

I’m seconds from telling him I don’t want to hear more when he says, “And I think . . . that was the problem.”

I stare at him as he massages the back of his neck. “What do you mean?”

“I think we mistook comfort for something bigger. Our relationship was built on trauma, forged in crisis. When everything settled, and we found a new routine, no one wanted her to leave. It was like she was already a part of the family, so I proposed because . . . it felt like the right thing to do.”

A dull ache pulses in my belly. I don’t want to hear about his relationship with his wife, but I asked, so here we are.

“Chelsea and I tried. But after a while, we both knew we were going through the motions—doing what we thought we were supposed to, not what we actually wanted.” He glances at me, then adds, “She also knew too much about me.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t couples supposed to know too much about each other?”

His look holds a whole lotta meaning. “It has to do with us. You wanna go there tonight?”

My stomach seizes, and the urge to cry is so strong and abrupt that I have to turn away to get myself together. This is exactly what I want to talk about, but when actually faced with it, it’s clear I’m not ready. Finally, I say, “Eventually . . . but not tonight.”

He nods, accepting this as if he expected it. “Anyway, after we figured out we weren’t right for each other, I moved out. I thought about moving in with my parents—it would’ve made helping them easier—but I needed space. For my own mental health.”

“That was smart. And brave. Did you have any kids?”

“No. We both wanted them, even talked about it. But weirdly, we never did anything about it. Maybe a blessing in disguise. After the split, I bought a house, a complete fixer-upper, and threw myself into it. For the first time in a long time . . . I felt whole. Happy.”

“So you found your calling?”

He nods. “It’s not spine surgery, but—”

“That’s the second time you’ve said something like that. Like it’s not enough. Isn’t that what you said your dad does? Diminishes his own work?”

His smile is sheepish. “Oh, I know it’s enough for me. I’m proud of what I do. I help people. I think it’s what I’m meant to do. It’s just . . . I know how much you care about changing the world. Working to your max.”

“True,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I look down on people who don’t.”

His eyebrow lifts, and there’s so much insinuation in it. That one look, as if I’m delusional, makes the food sour in my stomach. Does he think I look down on other people? Is that the vibe I’m giving off? It feels like criticism. Worse, it sounds like what my siblings have said.

“I didn’t mean to sound like I was criticizing you,” he says quickly, presumably seeing the shift in my face.

“Well, your eyebrow sure seemed to be.”

“I’m sorry. It’s probably my own insecurities showing.” He smiles, his tone going lighter, like he’s ready to change the subject before this leads to an argument. “Tell me about you.”

I shift in my seat and jerk when something presses against my foot, like gravel on raw nerves. Once again, the sensation is overly intense, but I’m almost grateful for the interruption.

“Ugh. I think I have something in my shoe.”

I pull off my clog and turn it upside down over my armrest between us, and out falls . . . oh boy.