Page 39 of The Love Operation

She’s proud. Of me.

And that pride? I’d do anything to keep it. Because if I was brilliant, determined, exceptional—then I was worthy. Worthy of their legacy. Worthy to carry the same weight the strong women in my family before me carried.

“Your grandmother used to always tell me to go after what I wanted with skill and relentless determination,” she begins, her voice low and steady. “And when I got there, I was to be the best, to step over anyone who tried to hold me back.” She takes my hand, squeezes lightly. “You can do anything. You can do it all.”

The intensity in her face indicates that she believes this. She believes in me.

“I think you’re stronger than any of us. You will change the world with your curiosity and hunger for knowledge, my strong Cordelia.”

I believe because she does.

“I will,” I tell her. And I mean it with every cell in my body.

Then—just as suddenly as I was there—I’m back, but the trip to the past has given me what I need for the present. A reminder of the force I come from. Of the women who built me. Of the expectation carved into my bones. I can overcome obstacles.

A small stone lands in my otherwise smooth pond. Would my mother still say those same things to me now, when she’s stepping away from the very path she once told me to charge down? If she no longer believes in what she built her life on, how can I trust the ground beneath mine?

I throw the nagging concern back with the covers and stand, scrubs rumpled but resolve razor sharp.

Yesterday is gone. I am in charge of today.

Today, I operate.

Tonight, I face Isaac.

And in both cases, I will be ready.

Last night was a misstep, but I will do what I’ve always done. I’ll make lemonade out of these damn lemons. Or at the very least, squirt them directly into the eyes of my enemies.

And when I’m done, I’ll stand taller. Because that’s what women like my mother raised me to do.

By the time I get to the hospital, I’m pumped, riding on the high of my determination. I took extra care with my appearance, even though I’ll be mostly covered in the OR all day. I feel like Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada—minus the handbag, plus a scalpel.

I’m early and decide to make rounds after my first case so I can stop and see Delenn, something she requested, and I feel I owe her, especially after forgetting to call her last night.

After Isaac.

My body wants to devolve into embarrassment, but I stop it in its tracks. This is my day.

And, because the universe is a petty little gremlin, the second I walk in, I see him—standing in a small huddle of men, including one of my biggest rivals for chief: Slick Shephard.

“Good morning, Cord,” Dr. Tenpenny greets, his tone warm.

I like Tenpenny. I’d even go so far as to say we’re friends.

My friend, the ortho wonder: Dr. Camden T. Tenpenny (forty-one), general orthopedic surgeon specializing in knees and shoulders.

Chief identifying characteristics: Ambitious. Sharp. Easy to like. We survived residency together, so I know exactly how he operates—both in the OR and out. I refer all my joint patients to him. He manages home and work life with enviable acumen. Most notable: He’s on the Chief Selection Committee.

Physical exam: On the shorter side, sandy-haired White male. Scrubs always a little rumpled. Wears sneakers instead of clogs. Perpetually holding coffee. Never wears a white coat.

Impression: A team player. The guy who roots for everyone to win. Likes to be involved. A changemaker with his priorities in the right place. The surgical staff always requests his room because he checks his ego at the door.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” I say smoothly.

But the moment my eyes connect with Isaac’s, my insides betray me. I pretend I’m unaffected—pretend his hand wasn’t under my scrubs mere hours ago.

From the way he stands, the tension in his frame, and the way his Adam’s apple moves when he swallows, I know he’s just as affected by my presence.