Page 81 of The Love Operation

I’m standing at the closed exam room door, my palms damp, my internal circuitry sparking. It’s funny—not in a ha ha way—that I can slice into someone’s back, root around inside their body, install titanium into their spine, but I can’t seem to open this damn door. And the longer I wait, the worse it gets because both Elizabeth and Dr. Sharif are watching, waiting for me to go in.

So, I do what I’ve always done when doubts try to barricade my way forward. I take a deep breath, think of the people before me, those who fought harder battles, faced steeper obstacles, and then I do the thing.

Because I’m Dr. Cordelia Wren. And this is just another patient.

I push open the door.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Wren,” I say, sweeping in as I would with any other patient’s room.

But that’s where the similarities end. Because my eyes find his—like a pigeon finding its way home despite the long journey. In an instant, I’m stripped of my title and my degree. I’m simply Cordelia. Twenty years old, barefoot in his dorm.

I am his.

Everything in the room stills. We’re just staring at each other, frozen in place, caught in the gravity of the past. His eyes—blue, endless, familiar—lock onto mine.

In my shock, I didn’t stop to think if he’d be surprised to see me walk through that door. But my name hasn’t changed. He had to know. Unless I meant a lot less to him than he meant to me, he should’ve expected this.

But the way he’s looking at me now—surprised, unguarded, a little unraveled—tells me maybe he didn’t.

Oh shit, it’s: Benedict Calder. Thirty-six. First love. Heartbreaker.

Chief identifying characteristics: I don’t know anymore. He used to be spontaneous. Easygoing. Kind. Caring. So full of heart. Daring. Now there’s a stillness about him that wasn’t there before. A steadiness. He feels . . . finished.

Physical exam: Broader-and-more-defined-than-I-remember White male. Looks like the man your younger self would’ve had on a poster above her bed. The one she secretly smooched every night before falling asleep. Sun-kissed skin deepens the contrast of electric-blue eyes. Kaleidoscope-brown hair that shifts shades in the light and is a little longer now—messy in a way that feels made for fingers. I can’t tell if it’s intentionally tousled or just falls that way. The beard and mustache are new—short, well kept, rugged. They frame his lips in a way that feels almost indecent.

Impression: He has no business still affecting me like this—but here I am, half winded. I just hope the walls of this clinic exam room are strong enough to hold everything in.

“Ooohhh,” Wilton Calder groans, hunching forward on the table.

Benedict’s father: Wilton Calder. Age: Seventy-one. My patient.

Chief identifying characteristics: Never got to know him well, but from Elizabeth’s workup—stubborn, independent, lifts things he shouldn’t. Downplays pain until it nearly kills him.

Physical exam: Likely tall but currently stooped White male. Gray hair thinning at the temples. Grimace lines etched deep. A voice like gravel wrapped in slightly Southern charm. Smells faintly of menthol and maple syrup.

Impression: Strong willed. Proud. And now in enough pain to ask for help, which apparently says everything.

I snap to attention, locking down whatever this is.

I step toward Wilton, my clinical instincts slamming back into place. “Mr. Calder, let’s start from the beginning,” I say, flipping to a clean page in my mental script.

Elizabeth already gave me his history, but I need to hear it from him. I need to reset the room, establish control.

“I want you to chart,” I tell Elizabeth, signaling trust, even as I just undid her entire presentation.

Wilton grunts. “Good to see you again, Cordelia. Wish it was on different terms. Damn fridge wasn’t supposed to be that heavy.”

“It’s good to see you again too,” I say, ridiculously pleased that he remembers me. “How long has this been going on?”

Wilton waves vaguely toward Benedict. “He’ll tell ya.”

I turn to Benedict, all business now. Or trying to be.

“Dad’s been in pain a couple weeks. It’s getting worse. I’ve been trying to get him to come see you, but he wouldn’t budge until he fell this morning.”

I study his face as he speaks and try to keep the rush of feelings at bay, but his voice is triggering. There’s no trace of his father’s Southern accent. Benedict never had one. Most people our age in Nashville don’t.

I realize my thoughts have drifted when his words land a few beats later. He brought his father to me. Not just the hospital. Me.