Page 65 of Love Overdose: St. Louis

“Then go,” Frankie said. “Take care of him.”

“I’ll make this up to you.”

“I know you will.”

“I want you to say when you’re disappointed.”

She released a breath. “I am disappointed. I wanted to see you.”

“I wanted to see you too.”

“But I’m not angry.”

“That makes me feel a little better.”

“And you called. You didn’t leave me sitting somewhere with a waiter refilling my water while I wondered if you were dead.”

“That happened to you?”

“Different man. Different life. He wasn’t saving anyone’s brain either.”

“I’m sorry he did that.”

“I’m not. Now I know what I won’t accept.”

A nurse appeared at the end of the hallway and signaled that the operating room was ready.

“I have to go.”

“Go save your patient, Dr. Valentine.”

“I’ll call you afterward.”

“Even if it’s late?”

“Unless you don’t want me to.”

“Call me.”

The line remained connected for one quiet second.

“I will.”

She ended the call, and I opened the restaurant’s reservation link, and changed the reservation to delivery. I added macaroni and cheese for Malik, converted the remaining entrées to family-style portions, and chose the dessert with the most chocolate.

Then I put my phone away and entered the scrub area with the rest of the evening disappearing beneath bright lights.

10:51 P.M.

Mr. Dawson’s bleeding had come from a vessel near the edge of the surgical site.

We controlled it, evacuated the collection, relieved the pressure, and moved him back to intensive care. His vitals stabilized, but he remained sedated and intubated.

His wife sat in a consultation room with both hands clasped beneath her chin. Her eyes lifted the moment I entered.

“Dr. Valentine?”

I sat across from her.