Page 138 of The Love Operation

She startles at the bluntness of it. Her eyes instantly glisten—not crying, but that glisten of too many emotions fighting for space. “You promised me,” she says. “I trusted you.”

“I know.”

Even expecting it, the weight of her disappointment cuts deep. I didn’t just cross a line. I exposed her to professional ruin. I can’t think about it too hard, but what I’ve done . . . Had it gone another way—if I’d actually lost consciousness—Delenn would’ve had to come forward and admit what we’ve been doing.

We stew in the silence until I can’t take it anymore.

“What was I supposed to do?” I whisper. “I needed to remember a suture and patch type. I dipped into my memory and got what I needed. No one got hurt.”

Her lips part, but I keep going.

“I shouldn’t have had to, but given the circumstances, it was the best move for the patient. I refamiliarized myself with a technique and executed it. It worked. This is what our study is all about. I proved it works.”

“And now you’re on probation,” she says flatly.

I believe what I’m saying. Mostly. All except the part where it was my only option. In hindsight, there were countless other things I could’ve done, but in that moment . . .

“I’ll be cleared tomorrow,” I say. “The eval will show nothing’s wrong. This’ll blow over.”

I sound more confident than I feel. But saying it helps. There’s logic to hold on to. I made a mistake, but I can contain it. I can keep her safe.

“You have to know,” I continue, “I’d never purposefully put you at risk.”

Delenn’s shoulders drop. “No, I did that on my own. We should’ve never done this.” She exhales hard. “I don’t understand. You know what happens to you during a full immersive memory recall. You know it. This isn’t like you, Cord. You don’t make mistakes like this.”

She’s right. I don’t. I never make mistakes.

I sigh and give her the same true (if not all-inclusive) excuse I’ve given everyone else: tired, dehydrated, overworked. Blah, blah, blah.

Her eyes narrow. “What were you doing all weekend?”

I freeze. Here’s where I have another choice: the truth or another lie.

I drop into the chair across from her. “I spent the entire weekend exploring my memories,” I say. “I went back into every relationship. Every breakup. I needed to know why they all failed, Delenn.”

Her face contorts—hurt, disbelief, fury. But I don’t let her speak. I tell her everything. About Isaac. About Benedict. About how I asked her to run electrical current the last time, even when I didn’t need it. About the side effects. About how I feel like I’m finally finding answers.

Surely she understands. Two men have told me they love me. I’m broken and desperate for clarity. How could I not use the only tool that might help me see clearly?

But when I finish, she doesn’t look understanding. She looks wrecked. Her body’s tight, her face flushed, her jaw locked.

“I’m so mad at you right now,” she says, her voice low and taut. “Like—truly, deeply angry and so unbelievably frustrated.”

I nod. I see her anger. I feel it radiating from her like heat off a sunbaked sidewalk.

“You always think you’re right,” she continues. “You bulldoze forward, convinced your way is best. But this is so much more than that. It’s dangerous. You had side effects you withheld from me. You broke our agreement and so much more.” She fixes me with a stare that pins me in place, then drops into her desk chair and buries her face in her hands.

I pray I haven’t broken our friendship.

After a long silence, Delenn speaks, still cradling her head in her hands so her voice is muffled. “I know you think you’re finding answers by going back, and maybe you have found some. But there’s something I probably should’ve told you from the beginning. And it’s not just about the study.” She lifts her head. Her face is drawn, her eyes shadowed by something deeper than anger. It feels like grief.

I sit straighter, dread crawling up my spine.

“Cord . . . your memories aren’t reliable,” she says slowly. “You don’t have the clarity you think you do.”

The words hit like a dropped scalpel. Cold pressure wraps around my ribs. My heart stutters.

“What do you mean?” I can’t pull my voice above a whisper.