Page 161 of The Love Operation

Because I shouldn’t have told Isaac that. It feels like a promise I wasn’t ready to make.

And I know what’s coming next. I have to tell Benedict.

I can’t keep standing here.

“I better go,” I say. “I’ll see you tonight.”

If Isaac says anything else, it’s drowned out by the roar of my own pulse.

Chapter 42

#DisasterpieceTheatre, Part 2: Absurdity with a Heartbeat

The door’s unlocked. This time, they’re expecting me.

My muscles tense as my fingers curl around the knob, but I don’t turn it.

If I don’t open the door, I can pretend that this house is as it has always been. That it holds two doctors, two wickedly smart humans who raised their children with laughter, discipline, and just enough magic to make us believe we could change the world.

If I don’t open the door, the story behind these walls stays frozen. No drift. No decline. Just . . . the way we were, the way we have always been.

But that’s not how time works.

The reminder of what life truly is rattles my bones. It is a series of changes—sometimes gentle, sometimes magnificent, sometimes unremarkable, sometimes devastating. And we don’t always realize the moment we’re living is one we’ll ache for later.

Because the future is always coming. It doesn’t knock. It just walks in.

My mother has always been untouchable in my mind—part warrior, part myth. But now, one of the very diseases we’ve spent our lives fighting is turning inward, and I’m at a loss. Because being a doctor means learning how to fix problems and treat illness. But nothing prepares you to watch the strongest person you know slip away.

I take a breath and open the door.

And—déjà vu.

It’s not a kiddie pool this time. It’s a full-size canoe, parked in the entryway, wedged between a rubber plant and the coat rack. One of their phones is strapped to a tripod.

I pause on the threshold. My former dismay is gone, replaced by curiosity and wonder.

They don’t notice me. Or if they do, they don’t break character.

My dad rows the canoe against the hardwood with a mop handle, grunting for effect. Across from him, my mom shakes a metal-looking sheet over the edge of the boat, simulating thunder.

What on earth are they reenacting now?

Dad grabs a spray bottle and frantically mists Mom in the face. She sputters, gasping with theatrical indignation. He grins. But in a swift, clearly unscripted move, she snatches the bottle, unscrews the cap, and dumps the water straight onto his head.

He chokes on a laugh, soaking and spluttering, but refuses to break character.

A chuckle escapes my mouth. They still don’t notice.

They climb out of the canoe like seasoned stage actors exiting a Broadway set. Mom is barefoot on a yoga mat in a damp sundress, arms flung wide, hair haloed with frizz. She whirls toward my dad, eyes blazing.

For a second, I freeze. I’m not sure if it’s part of the bit or a sudden break in her mental state.

“I waited for you!” she yells. “Two hours!”

Dad mists her again. Okay, still acting. And now I recognize it—the iconic rain scene from The Notebook.

Her hands fly to her hips, head swirling like a proper diva. “And you never showed up!”