Page 114 of The Love Operation

“How are you feeling, Wilton?” I ask.

He covers his face with both hands. “Mortified.”

“Why?”

“Benedict told me I stuck my finger up your nose when you came in here yesterday. I—I practiced an apology, but now that you’re actually here, and I’ve just said that out loud, I’ve got nothin’.”

“I don’t know why he’d say something like that,” I tell him, feigning innocence.

He gives me a sharp side-eye. “Don’t tell me he was yankin’ my chain. That son of a gun!”

“Sounds like your son’s messing with you.” I wink, and Wilton’s cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink.

We’ve bonded. It’s cemented.

“Can I get out of here?” he asks. “I’m ready to go home. I feel great.”

“Your surgery was yesterday.”

“It feels like I’ve been here forever. And tomorrow’s the weekend—Benedict can help me get settled.”

I run a quick exam, watch him walk, and put in the discharge order. Then I get off the surgical floor before Benedict shows up.

The light on Isaac’s front porch flickers like a torch. It’s inviting, which feels very naive, like it didn’t get the memo that this is not a delightful social call.

I ring the doorbell. Another wrong maneuver because if today had gone differently, I’d walk in, find him at the stove, and wrap my arms around him.

I didn’t ask him about dinner, and he didn’t offer it. So here I am—still in scrubs, standing on his porch like a stranger, waiting to be let in.

Much to the dismay of my geriatric ovaries—which would like to remind me that babies after thirty-five come with increased risks for miscarriage, chromosomal abnormalities, preterm birth, gestational diabetes, and surgical delivery—I’ve decided this conversation requires honesty.

Because honesty is a vital sign in a relationship. Without it, there is no pulse.

He’s somber when he opens the door, but I smile anyway. Isaac just . . . pulls the corners of my mouth up.

He starts to smile but then looks away. He doesn’t want to smile right now. And I can’t blame him.

He doesn’t invite me in. The stubborn part of me wants to initiate the conversation on the porch. Fine. Have it your way. But I recognize that I am in the wrong here.

He turns, so I follow him inside, and we sit on his plush white furniture.

He’s shed the jacket and tie, but he’s still in a button-down, slacks, and dress shoes. I look down at myself—wrinkled scrubs, end-of-day sweat—and feel like the spot on an otherwise pristine space.

“Thanks for letting me come,” I say, wishing he’d offer me a glass of water, something, anything to show he wants me here even a little bit.

“Did you sleep with him?” His voice is low and rough. Not accusatory, just raw, like this is what he needs to know before we go any further.

My eyebrows register the question before my brain does. I suppress the initial flare of anger. He’s been cheated on, twice.

I answer calmly. “No.”

His body uncoils. Just a little.

“But he did spend the night at my house.”

He stiffens again.

I don’t know why I say it, except that I need to lay it all out. I don’t want guilt fogging my decisions.