Page 121 of The Love Operation

I assume he means the panel I pushed him to moderate.

We’re on campus—on one of those perfectly manicured walkways between the English building and the quad. I’m still in my scrubs and white coat, fresh from a community health talk, where I sat on a panel Dominique moderated like a pro.

A single leaf skitters across the stone path. The breeze tugs at the hem of my coat, like it’s trying to guide me elsewhere.

“But you did a great job,” I say, wishing he didn’t need to be reassured so much.

He’s in his usual cable-knit sweater, arm across his body, gripping his messenger bag strap, knuckles turning white.

The college professor: Dominique Carden. Thirty-five-year-old associate professor of medical ethics at Lockewood School of Medicine.

Chief identifying characteristics: Vocabulary so rich it could qualify for its own endowment. Prides himself on eloquent handwritten notes, long walks, and knowing obscure authors no one else has read. Always deeply present in conversation, a huge turn-on.

Physical exam: 5′11″ White male. An everyman’s body—not muscular, but he takes care of himself. Wears tweed with elbow patches because it’s a professor cliché. Soft spoken. Sharp eyes. Capable hands.

Impression: Easily underestimated until he starts talking, then it’s clear that he’s the smartest one in the room. So much untapped potential, but a little complacent in life. Beloved by students for making medical ethics feel like a living, breathing thing. Whoever he’s looking at, he makes them feel seen.

“I know I did a great job,” he tells me. “But that’s not the point.”

He stops walking, turns fully toward me, widens his stance, and plants his feet like he’s been waiting to stand up to me and has finally decided today is the day.

“Then what is your point?” I cross my arms and wait.

“I didn’t want to do it. You wanted me to do it.”

“You’re mad that I wanted us to do something together? You work here. It made sense.”

“We don’t have to do everything together!” It comes out louder than it needs to, and I glance around, unsettled.

“Fine,” I say. “I didn’t know it was so horrible being with me. I won’t make you do it again.”

“That’s right. You won’t. And I won’t be doing any of the other things you want me to do either.”

“Is this about the tenure stuff?” My voice rises, defensive, but also wary—because I know how sensitive he’s been about it. “I was trying to help you build the future you deserve.”

“You’re trying to build the future you think I should want.” His words are blunt, stripped of the polish he’s usually so proud of.

I open my mouth, but he cuts me off.

“I’m tired of putting in effort just to feel like I’m failing some test I never signed up for.” He gives a bitter laugh. “I’m a confident guy, Cordelia. But I’ve never questioned myself more than I have with you.”

A hot flush creeps up my neck. “I’ve only ever believed in you. You’re the one who needs constant reassurance.”

He rolls his eyes, like I’m missing something, then observes me with disgust on his face. “Go be Dr. Wren without me. I can’t stand this anymore. I can’t stand you anymore.”

Then he walks away. Fast.

There’s a bitterness rolling off him I’ve never seen before. And even though I know I should let it go, I can’t. I feel wrongly accused, as if something deeper is driving this that he’s not admitting.

“Dominique! Where is all this coming from?”

He throws his arms up and tosses the words over his shoulder: “You are so fucking clueless.”

My mouth flops open, speechless.

And then I’m watching myself stand there—frozen, silent—as Dominique stalks off. I don’t follow him.

My chest feels like a nest of tangled curls—one of those snarls where you can’t find an end, and trying to pull anything free just makes it worse.