Page 124 of The Love Operation

The memory fades. But this time, it leaves something different behind—not devastation, not numbness, but something unsettled. The past still doesn’t match the present. Not completely.

I roll to my side and press my palms against my temples.

The truth isn’t here. Or if it is, I can’t see it.

So I rewind to the beginning of our relationship, ready (and not ready) to find the cracks that took us to that picnic table.

The beginning:

“I need sleep,” I say, fresh off a brutal biology exam. But Benedict has other ideas.

It’s late. We should both be heading back to our dorms and collapsing into pillows. The first biochem exam of the new school year looms like a vulture over nearly dead college students. But Benedict acts like none of that matters—like school is just background noise to something far more important.

I’m just tired enough not to resist the pull of him.

His smile makes my stomach tumble. There’s a twinkle in his eyes that rivals the stars overhead, like he knows he’s about to get away with something delicious.

I should say no.

I don’t.

“I brought your favorite,” he says, holding up a cooler.

“And what would that be? I don’t even know what my favorite is.”

“Brain food,” he says, grinning. “Something very cerebral.”

I trap my bottom lip between my teeth, a smile blooming despite myself. Out of everyone on this campus, I found him, the gem among the gravel.

He leads me to a patch of grass half draped in moonlight, half lit by the amber glow of a lamppost. He lays out a threadbare blanket—his grandmother’s, the one he still uses when he’s sick or sad or cold. With this blanket beneath us, we feel immune. To what, I’m not sure.

I sit cross-legged and lean back, sinking my palms into the worn fabric. Benedict leans forward and traces a fingertip along my chin, lifting it until our eyes connect. My stomach swoops. My breath goes shallow.

“You are beautiful.”

I feel my face redden in the dark. When he says it, I believe him because his eyes don’t just skim the surface, they penetrate.

He smiles, then opens the cooler and pulls out two containers with foggy lids.

“Is this—”

“Celebratory banana splits?” he says, triumphant. “Yes.”

I blink. “From our favorite place off campus?”

He nods. “The one with the criminally good fudge.”

I don’t ask how he got them. He’s magic. He just does things.

“This is cerebral?” I arch a brow.

“Walnuts,” he says, tapping the lid. “Tiny brains. Basically medicine.”

I laugh. My shoulders relax. Maybe banana splits really are what I need right now.

He’s added extra syrupy walnuts—my favorite. They never give this many.

I moan after the first bite. “Okay . . . why is this one better than any I’ve ever tasted?”