Page 111 of The Love Operation

“Why?”

“Cordelia, just answer the damn question.”

Irritation is a hell of a switch. I go from cracked open to armor clad in under a second.

I glare, eyebrows arched in full excuse me mode. “You can request. You can plead. You can beg. Technically those last two are the same, but what you cannot do is demand.”

I spin toward the bathroom, slam the door, and blast the faucet. Water splashes everywhere. By the time I’m done scrubbing my face, my top is soaked.

I can’t tell him what really happened, that I was inside a memory—our memory—reliving the moment he shattered me.

The words replay like a damned jingle I can’t shut off: I don’t want to be with you.

Delenn was wrong. I’m not misremembering.

I yank on clothes, every motion clipped and furious. Benedict Calder hurt me once. He doesn’t get to do it again.

I roll my shoulders back, lift my chin, and stride out like I haven’t just been gutted.

Seeing him sitting on my bed stops me cold—but only for a second. “I need to get to work,” I say evenly. “If you’re determined to babysit me, we leave in five.” I walk past him into the kitchen. Then I turn. “I’ll eat at the hospital.”

“Can I eat with you?” he asks.

“Why?” I snap.

His brow furrows. “Why has your attitude changed toward me? What did I do?”

“You broke my heart, Benedict. I’d nearly forgotten about that day,” I lie, lie, lie. But I can’t let him know how much I haven’t forgotten, how much it has always bruised. “But last night, I recalled the whole thing. I remembered the horrible things you said.”

His face drains of color. Of course he remembers. Did he think I wouldn’t? That time would smooth the edges? That his failed marriage gave him permission to circle back and try again?

“Can we talk about it?” he asks, voice soft but steely.

“I’m rested. I can talk about anything.” I toss the words like a dare. “But right now, we need to leave. Are you coming?”

He follows me out.

We don’t speak again until we reach the hospital.

“There’s something magical about the combination of eggs and Tater Tots,” I say, sliding into a booth across from Benedict in the hospital cafeteria.

“Mass-produced eggs are magical?”

“Fine. I’ve developed a nostalgic tolerance. What are you having?”

He lifts his spoon, lets the gloopy gray substance slide back into the bowl. “I think this is supposed to be oatmeal, but I’m not convinced. Not that it matters. I’m not hungry.”

“No? I’m famished.”

He eyes me like he doesn’t quite buy it. “So . . . can we talk about back then?”

I lean forward. “You mean when you told me you didn’t want to be with me?”

“I told you I didn’t think I could be with you.” His gaze is too direct, and I swallow a half-chewed piece of Tater Tot. It scrapes all the way down.

He was right. I didn’t even want the bite, my usual favorite tasting like damp cardboard in my mouth.

“That’s not what I remember. I remember—clearly—that you didn’t feel the same way I did.”