Chapter 10
THE GROUND RULES
EVAN
The sex is—
No. Not sex. That word flattens it.
It’s heat and laughter and urgency and the kind of connection that leaves my hands shaking. The kind that makes me forget time. Forget sense. Which is exactly why I don’t stay in bed with her afterward.
We lie together for a few minutes, breathing slowly, the city murmuring through her open window.
Her hair is a dark spill across my arm. Her skin is warm, familiar already in a way that unnerves me.
She snuggles into me. “Stay the night with me.”
I want to, very much. She’s warm and smells great. I just want to be here, sleep with her, wake with her….
Cazzo!
This is how mistakes begin. I have to make it clear to Navya that we’ll only ever be this. Companionship and sex for a limited time. This is not a relationship and never will be.
Now that we’ve been doing this—sex at her place, dinners in places no one would recognize me, stolen moments in on-call rooms—the intimacy is beginning to scare me. It can’t coexist with my responsibilities as a Vincenzo.
I clear my throat. “Navya.”
She hums, content. “Mm?”
“We need to talk.”
She props herself up on one elbow, studying my face. “Tell me,” she invites sweetly.
“I don’t want people to know about us.”
She looks puzzled and waits for me to explain myself. This is the great thing about her—she listens to understand, never to merely respond.
“I don’t want gossip,” I explain. “At work. Especially not at a hospital like ours.”
She nods slowly. “I get that.”
“And…this is just what it is. Sex and fun. I…I’m not someone who can be in a relationship….” I don’t say with you because it sounds pompous, and it’d be cruel.
“So”—she gives me a measured look—"sex and fun?”
I watch her carefully, aware that she’s young and I am her first lover; she could have woven some fantasies around that.
“And,” I add, because I have to, “I don’t stay the night.”
A beat passes. Then another.
“Is that a rule,” she asks, curious, “or a habit?”
I hesitate. “Both.”
She studies me for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”
Just okay?
I hate the flicker of doubt that comes with it.
Earlier—before the rules—we were supposed to go out. I’d suggested dinner, something easy, neutral.
She’d smiled and said, “You already took me out. My turn.”
I wasn’t used to that. Women in my world don’t take turns. They accept. They expect. They let you lead.
She cooked.
Made delicious food that was new to me. Indian flavors, spices, aromas. Delicate rice pulao with a lamb curry, and a side of sauteed okra.
It was simple and unpretentious like her.
I like coming to her place. Small it may be and in the Tenderloin, far away from my life, it’s peaceful.
She’s light and sunshine—easy going. I don’t have to ever pretend to be anyone but myself.
She doesn’t take offense for the sake of it, or at all.
She has an excellent sense of humor, and her love for books is scattered around the house and in our conversations.
Navya is a surprise.
Now, lying beside her, I wonder if she feels the same way about me.
She hasn’t said anything since she said, okay, in a flat tone, and that worries me.
Is she going to kick me out? Because I’m not ready for that—not ready to give up these wonderful evenings I have with her, where we eat and make love.
There are no expectations, just us, just uncomplicated passion. I’ve never had this before.
“Look, if you want more from a relationship, then”—I sit up—“then I’m not the right person for it, cara.”
She tugs at my arm until my face is close to hers. She brushes her lips against mine, a whisper. “Sex and fun, doctor, I’m good with that.”
Relief makes me weak. She isn’t asking me to leave. She’s going to let me keep her.
I give her a soft, contemplative glance, searching to make sure she isn’t pretending. I’ve been with women like that. They say one thing but hope I’ll fall in love with them and….
“You’re wondering,” she says, her eyes bright with amusement, “if I’m a bunny boiler, aren’t you?”
I give her the classic “Huh?” face.
She laughs now. “From the movie Fatal Attraction? You know this married man has a one-night stand, and this woman stalks him…boils his bunny… and no, that’s not a metaphor, she boils an actual bunny rabbit.”
And just like that, she takes the tension out of the moment.
I burst into laughter.
When I leave, later, after round two, because I can’t keep my hands off of her, she’s sweet about it. Kisses me at the doorstep while she’s wrapped in some Indian robe-like thing that’s got elaborate embroidery on it, looking like a debauched Indian princess.
A part of me wonders if I could stay, if I could keep her, but I know better.
“Goodnight, cara.”
“Good night, Evan.”
I step into her hallway and don’t look back.
You did the right thing, Evan. This is how it has to be—control is kindness and leaving is the responsible choice.
But as I walk away, I know one thing with absolute clarity: rules only work when no one’s already breaking them.