Chapter 3
CHAMPAGNE he’s just young. He’s two years older than Latika and me, which means he’s still figuring his shit out, as is Latika. They fight quite a bit, and she ends up in my King-size bed at least a couple of nights a month.
The sex between them is mediocre—they were each other’s first, and they don’t have enough intimacy to actually talk about what they like.
Not that I would know—because I haven’t had time to get laid between school, my mother dying of cancer, my brother’s medical school bills, and the odd jobs I had to take to support myself until I got my nursing degree.
“Rohan can go fuck himself.” I pop another pakora into my mouth.
She snorts. “Well, considering we haven’t done it in two weeks, he probably is.”
I look at my friend and grin. “You know what we need?”
Latika groans, shaking her head, but really, it’s all acting. I know my best friend.
I reach for the remote and go straight to Apple iTunes. I find the movie I want and press play.
Instantly, familiar music fills the room.
Shah Rukh Khan’s face appears onscreen, young and earnest and impossibly romantic.
“Do we have to always watch Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge*?”
“Not always, just most of the time,” I quip.
She sighs dramatically. “You know, there are some really good new Hindi movies? We don’t have to watch this one from 1995 on repeat.”
I ignore her and hum along to the opening song, Mere Khwaabon Mein Jo Aaye*.
Five seconds later, despite all her protestations, Latika is singing louder than me.
We eat. We drink. We sing terribly.
Somewhere after our heroine returns from Europe and her father decides that duty matters more than joy, Latika says, “This is the part where everything gets unnecessarily serious.”
“Unnecessarily?” I scoff. “This is where the aunties thrive.”
Latika refills our glasses. We’ve demolished all the pakoras. Eventually, we’ll drink enough to want to eat more, which is why I have Hyderabadi chicken biryani, Dum style, in my oven.
“So. Why the emergency pakoras?”
I take a breath. “There’s a new attending.”
Her eyes light up. “Ooooh.”
“He’s awful.”
She frowns. “Ooooh?”
“And handsome.”
“Ooooh.”
I send her a withering look. “And he humiliated me in the OR.”
Her smile drops. “Arrey*, what’s his damage?”
I tell her everything. The way he spoke. The way the OR was shaking in its boots.
“So, now I have the word incompetent echoing in my head rent-free!” I aggressively down the rest of my bubbly.
Latika’s jaw tightens. “Name.”
“Evan. Dr. Evan Vincenzo.”
A giggle bursts out of her. “His name is straight out of a soap opera.”
I huff out a laugh. “Speaking of soap operas, he apologized to me, grandly.”
Her brows shoot up. “No way!”
“In front of Carmen…and then when it was just us.” I give her the Indian head bob. “No excuses. Took responsibility.”
Latika studies me. “And?”
“And”— I suck in a breath and let it out in frustration—“he asked me out to dinner.”
She screeches. “No way!”
“Apparently, I can forgive him by going out for dinner with him,” I say, mouth twitching.
“Dr. Evan Vincenzo…handsome…Italian?”
I nod.
She closes her eyes, heart on her hand, “Like Shahrukh Khan said, ‘Pyar hota hai deewana sanam*.’”
I shoot her a flat, unimpressed look. “I just met the guy, he was a complete chutiya, and you’re already at pyar*? Honey, we’re not even at like, love is far, far away.”