Page 85 of The Love Operation

“Hi.” I kiss Isaac on the mouth and inhale the scent of pizza. “This is exactly what I need.”

He sets the box on the counter and looks at me, worried.

My muscles seize. Does he know?

“I feel like we need to address earlier,” he says.

“Earlier?” I ask, my voice lifting.

“Don’t be cute, Cord. I know I messed up.”

My stomach flips. Oh goodness. I’d completely forgotten, which seems impossible.

I close my eyes and rub my forehead. My headache from earlier has intensified. Damned Benedict. I will not let him disrupt my life like this.

“Listen,” I say, my weariness gaining weight. “It’s been a long day. I just want to eat pizza with my boyfriend and let the rest of the day go. Can we do that?” It’s a question for myself just as much as it is for him.

“Okay, but I want you to know that I’m sorry, really sorry. You were right. I got scared and didn’t think it through. I wasn’t even thinking about what was right for the hospital. I don’t want this to affect us, going forward.”

“It won’t.”

“It still seems like something’s bothering you. You’ve truly forgiven me?”

I give him a look. “Isaac, yes.”

“Okay. If that’s the case, then I’ll drop it, but I learned from my parents that the best way to handle conflicts is to talk through them, resolve them before they fester. So, if there’s something else we need to work through, I want to do it.”

His words make my stomach clench, but I smile anyway. He’s being sweet. So . . . relationshipy.

“No. I think we’ve said all we need to say.”

He cups my chin, kisses me softly on the nose. “Why don’t you go take a shower, get comfortable. The pizza can wait. I’ll warm it up when you’re ready.”

I grab his face with both of my hands. “Thank you.” This feels like the perfect time to tell him I love him, too, but I don’t. The words feel heavy in my mouth, like they’re stuck in the quagmire of the day.

If we keep talking, if he keeps looking at me like that, keeps being so attentive, I might break. And I can’t break. So I head to the shower, thankful that he doesn’t suggest joining me.

I need time alone.

In the shower, I let the water beat against me. I cup my hands, fill them in the spray, then release the pool so that it slaps on the shower floor. I do this on repeat, chasing blankness—until thoughts of Benedict sneak in like smoke under a door.

At some point, I will continue my project—jump back into memories, study a different relationship, gather more data. But I wonder if it would be beneficial or detrimental to remember college and my relationship with Benedict.

Now isn’t the time, not when I’m going to see him tomorrow. I don’t trust myself. My body betrayed me the second I saw him. I can’t let that happen again. I can’t revisit those memories and potentially make things worse.

I’m with Isaac. I need Benedict out of my head. I need this appointment over with. So I attempt to redirect thoughts and gain clarity by closing my eyes, breathing deep, and trying to dive into a memory. Any memory.

Nothing happens.

I squeeze my eyes tighter. Nothing. A wall. A dead zone where my past should be. Either I’ve lost the ability, or my mind is refusing to cooperate because I’ve simply overused it—memories, worry, expectation, and a host of other things I’ve put it through. Or maybe it’s just this damn headache.

Another day, I’d be devastated. Right now, I’m almost glad.

So, instead, I pray. I pray that Wilton’s MRI is normal, or at least normal enough that I can send him to physical therapy and not have to coordinate a surgery and post-op care with his son.

It’s not normal.

But I knew it wouldn’t be. His exam, the pain he was in . . . it was going to take a miracle for me not to recommend surgery.