Chapter 12
DOING WHAT’S RIGHT
EVAN
This works.
That’s the thought that settles in my head one Sunday night as I button my shirt in Navya’s apartment. It’s a great relationship, if you can call it that.
Uncomplicated.
Exactly what I need.
We have a rhythm now.
Sunday nights at her place because she doesn’t have a night shift. And maybe another night in the week if I’m free.
Weekday mornings when our schedules collide just long enough for coffee and a look that means more than it should.
The occasional stolen hour in the on-call room when the hospital breathes out and no one is looking too closely.
She doesn’t text unnecessarily.
She doesn’t ask where I’ve been.
She doesn’t try to merge lives that don’t belong together.
She never seeks me out; it’s always the other way around.
I like her independence. The way she fits me in rather than rearranging herself around me. The way she never pushes, never demands, never asks me to explain what I’m not ready to say.
If I’m honest, that’s the most dangerous part, because it would be easy—too easy—to start wanting more.
I always leave right after we finish. She’s usually half-asleep when I kiss her goodbye, her hand curling briefly into my sleeve like muscle memory.
I tell myself that doesn’t mean anything.
When I tell her that I won’t be seeing her one weekend because I’m going to see my family in Napa, I see the hurt in her eyes—that she’ll never be invited into my life, the real one—I ignore it.
I laid down the ground rules, and if she gets hurt, that’s her problem.
But I don’t like it. I don’t like seeing her eyes darken with pain. I want to see them bright and shining, full of mischief and laughter. I want to make Navya happy.
Dangerous wants!
Also, unrealistic ones, which becomes even clearer when I meet my family in Napa.
I love wine country—it reminds me of childhood and home.
The air smells like earth and sun and money that’s been sitting still for generations. My family’s estate stretches out—vineyards rolling low and endless, the mansion unpretentious in the way only real wealth can afford to be.
Nonno sits on the terrace wrapped in a wool cardigan despite the mild weather, a glass of wine at his side.
He looks smaller than I remember.
Thinner.
Time has been working on him with steady hands.
I hug him and kiss his cheek.
“Evan, come stai, figlio mio*?”
“Nonno, I’m good.” I sit beside him.
“And the hospital?” he asks. “Are they treating you well?”
“Yes.”
He places his hand over mine—thin skin, bony, frail. “I don’t think I have much time left.”
Emotion rises fast, clogs my throat. “Nonno—”
“I don’t,” he interrupts gently. “I know it. You know it. The gods know it.”
He’s eighty-seven. He’s had a seizure—his first generalized one. The MRI showed cortical scarring, likely old ischemic damage that finally crossed a threshold. The EEG was abnormal. The brain is resilient, but it keeps its own ledger.
“We can manage this.” I squeeze his hand gently. “The seizure came from temporal lobe irritation. We’ve adjusted your medication. You’re stable now.”
He smiles faintly. “You always talk medical bullshit when you’re trying to be brave.”
I swallow. “I talk like that because I’m a damn good neurosurgeon. And that’s the truth.”
“And what else is true?” he asks quietly.
I can tell him white lies but not real ones. I respect him too much for that.
“That seizures at your age are rarely…isolated,” I admit. “That the brain doesn’t announce its exits ahead of time. But you’re not dying today. Or tomorrow.”
He pats my hand once.
We sit in silence for a moment.
“I need something from you, Evan.” His voice is frail, and his gaze is on the vineyards ahead.
“Whatever it is, I’ll do it.” I know what’s coming. I’ve been avoiding this for years, but now with Nonna gone….
He turns to look me in the eyes. “It’s time.”
I nod.
“Arabella is here,” he continues. “She came with her parents. She is a good woman. Strong. Loyal.”
“Nonno—”
“She works hard for the family,” he speaks over me. Feeble as he is, there is steel in his voice. “She wants you, and I want her for you. I want this settled today.”
I hear Nonna’s words when she told me to follow my heart. “The brain is clever, Evan, but the heart—when ignored—becomes dangerous.”
And when I look inside me, I see Navya smiling. It’s a cliché. Like a scene from a B-movie.
Have I fallen in love with her?
I don’t dare answer that question, so I put it away, compartmentalizing it between my needs and wants and the expectations my family has of me.
Nonno’s nurse wheels him in. I stay and scan the vineyards, the Vincenzo olive groves.
Am I really going to marry a woman because my grandfather expects me to? I know the answer to this question, at least, and it's that I will.
“Evan.” Arabella walks up to me and kisses my cheek. Lingers.
She’s beautiful. She wears a cream-colored figure-hugging dress, her golden hair pulled back artfully. She’s produced to look this way, though—most people in my world are. I think again of Navya in the Indian caftan that she uses as a robe, her hair tousled, barefoot, asking me if I want chai.
I have no idea how Arabella would look right after we have sex.
And the thing is, I don’t want to know.
“Arabella,” I greet, putting a small distance between us.
“It’s so good to see you.” She bumps up against me.
I nod, still unsure about what I’m planning to do.
“Nonno mentioned that we’re going to announce our engagement today.” She’s smiling brightly.
How can she accept this? How can she want to be with me if I don’t love her?
“Is that what you want?” I ask.
She laughs lightly. “All my life, Evan.”
I arch an eyebrow because that is bullshit.
“I have,” she insists. “I’ve loved you forever.”
“But….” I’m about to call her cara, but it feels wrong to call her what I call Navya, what she is to me. “Arabella, I don’t love you.”
“Not yet,” she says confidently. “But you will. I’ll make sure of it.”
I usually like a woman with confidence, but this is arrogance because a woman her age and with her experience should know that you can’t make someone love you if they don’t.
* How are you, my son? (Italian)