Page 86 of The Love Operation

It’s Terrible Tuesday, and it’s time for afternoon clinic.

I move through each patient systematically, keeping Elizabeth close to distract me. No sign of Dr. Sharif.

By the second-to-last patient, my stomach is in knots. It’s just a med refill—quick and easy—which means it’s now time. Benedict and Wilton arrived early. They’re already in a room.

Elizabeth leans in at the workstation, voice lowered. “So . . . Mr. Calder’s son. You know him, right?”

There’s no point in lying. “Yeah. It was . . . unexpected to walk in and see him yesterday.”

Her brows rise. “Wait—did you guys date?”

I blink, caught off guard by her boldness. I can’t help but think of Sharif—what did she pick up on?

I approach with caution. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugs. “It was obvious. When you stepped in the room, you kept looking at each other. He was watching you—but it was . . . more. Sorry. That’s probably inappropriate of me to say. He’s just cute, and I wondered if—”

“No,” I cut in. “There’s nothing between us anymore.”

Elizabeth lets out a knowing chuckle. “If you say so . . .”

I shoot her a glare. Her smile drops.

“Let’s go give Mr. Calder the bad news.”

In the patient room, Benedict opens a notebook, and I pull up the MRI on the computer. We go over both sets of images. Wilton has a severe disc herniation. I explain the findings, the need for a two-level fusion, the risks, the recovery.

Yesterday, Wilton was against surgery. Today, he doesn’t even hesitate. “If you can do it tonight, I’ll be there,” he says, voice thin with exhaustion.

“He’s in a lot of pain,” Benedict adds, slipping the pen into the spine of his notebook. “We filled the Percocet, but he hates how it makes him feel.”

“That’s understandable,” I say. “We’ll get him on the schedule ASAP. I typically book way out, but I’ll see what we can do.”

“I figured you’d be busy,” Benedict says. “I was originally told it would take six months to get in to see you.”

Hmm. I didn’t know I was that busy.

“Any questions before I go?”

Wilton shakes his head.

“How long will he be down?” Benedict asks.

“Six weeks is standard, but everyone’s different,” I say. “We’ll give you a post-op packet with all the info.”

He nods, then adds, “What do I need at home for him? I’ll be the primary caregiver. Pain meds, wound care, restrictions . . . will that be in the instructions?”

I blink. “Wow,” I say. “Most people aren’t this proactive.”

His mouth tilts, but there’s no humor in it. “I like to get ahead of things.”

There’s weight in his voice. Experience? Has he done this before?

I suddenly wonder about his mom. Why isn’t she the one taking care of Wilton? Why isn’t she here? Her face materializes in my mind, not the superpower way, just the regular vague remembrance I have from the one time he took me to his family’s house for dinner. They were kind. The house was warm and inviting, somewhere I felt I could belong.

“Most of it’s in the discharge packet,” I say. “And I’ll review it all with you when the time comes.”

“How long will he be inpatient?”