Page 64 of Love Overdose: St. Louis

“I was getting there.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Elijah.”

“Tell me.”

“A rust-colored wrap dress.”

My hand tightened around the phone. I had pictured the dress on her earlier that week when she mentioned buying something for Friday. Rust against her brown skin. Her legs beneath the hem. Her heels crossing as she sat across from me.

“I want to see it.”

“Well, unless they let me into the operating room, that won’t be happening tonight.”

“I would ask for a picture, but that would make me suffer.”

“Then maybe I should send it to you.”

A smile touched my mouth despite the pressure tightening my chest.

“Is your mother already there?”

“She’s downstairs with Malik.”

“Keep her there.”

“Why?”

“Because the reservation is already made, and the three of you still need dinner.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. Do either of them have food allergies?”

“No, but⁠—”

“What does Malik eat from restaurants?”

“Macaroni and cheese is usually safe. Why?”

“I’ll call you when I finish.”

“You don’t know what time that will be.”

“No.”

Another pause.

“What happened to your patient?” she asked.

“I can’t give you identifying information, but he developed bleeding that’s putting pressure on his brain.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“I’m going to do everything I can to make sure he is.”

The words left me with the certainty my patients’ families needed. Beneath them sat the truth every surgeon carried into an operating room: skill and preparation improved the odds, but neither made promises.