Chapter 16
MY LIFE IS RUINED…NOT
NAVYA
He took her to the opera.
And he took her to some fancy Michelin-star restaurant. I know because the surgical director and his wife, who’s a nurse, saw them there.
Everyone is talking about the glamorous power couple. She’s some big shot at his family’s business, and he’s a big shot at the hospital.
He’s dark and brooding, and she’s blonde and chirpy.
Maxim and Rebecca, if you’ll have it.
And what does that make me? The second Mrs. De Winter?
No, Navya, it makes you no one. You’re no one in their story.
The sad truth is that we didn’t even exist—no one knows about us. The only person I can talk to about him is Latika, and I don’t because I’m pretty sure she’s sick and tired of me going on like a female Devdas, lovesick for Paro…Evan in this case.
So, I don’t talk about him at all…to anyone.
There are no memories to share with others. Nothing he gave me to hold on to—or burn and throw away to get over him. We didn’t give each other anything…tangible, just…sex, food, and companionship. Maybe some fun.
Cut it out, Drama Queen, you’re not in some Sanjay Leela Bhansali movie.
Your life is not ruined.
Heartbroken? Yes
Sad? Obviously.
Ruined? Please.
You’re an Indian woman raised by a single mother in Fremont. You’ve survived worse than a man who thinks being with you is shameful.
With that happy thought, I pull on gloves and scan my patient list for the day.
My first patient of the morning is Gaston Moreau, an American-French transplant who’s lived in San Francisco longer than I have been alive. He’s in his late seventies, sharp as a tack, and post-op day one from a burr-hole evacuation of a chronic subdural hematoma.
He’s propped up in bed when I walk in, glasses on, newspaper folded with unnecessary precision.
“Good morning, Gaston.” I sanitize my hands. “How are we feeling today?”
He eyes me over the top of his glasses. “Like someone drilled into my head without asking my permission.”
“You signed a release saying we could, so you did give permission.” I smile as I check his wristband. “Any headache?”
“Less than yesterday. More than I’d like.” He shrugs. “Acceptable.”
I check his pupils—equal, round, reactive to light.
I ask him to squeeze my fingers. He does, with surprising strength.
“Any nausea? Dizziness?”
“Only when I think about hospital food.”
I laugh softly and move on, lifting the edge of his bandage to assess the incision.
Clean. Dry. No seepage.
“Can you tell me your full name and where you are?”
“Gaston Moreau,” he says promptly. “Unfortunately, still at Bayview.”
“And do you know what day it is?”
He sighs. “Wednesday. But if I say it’s Friday, can I get a glass of Bordeaux with my dinner?”
“Wednesday,” I confirm. “You’re doing great.”
I check his vitals, note them in the chart, then help him sit up a little straighter, adjusting his pillows.
“You should be walking later today with physical therapy,” I tell him. “Slow and steady.”
“Always,” he says. Then, after a pause, “You know you’re my favorite nurse?”
“You say that to all the nurses.”
“No,” he says solemnly. “Only the competent ones.”
I snort despite myself.
“Are you married? Single?”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Gaston, you just had brain surgery—it’s going to be a while before you can go on a date,” I tease.
He wiggles his eyebrows. “I have a son. He’s only twenty-seven.”
“Good for you.”
Gaston winks at me. “He might be good for you.”
“I’m not looking for anyone to date right now.” Ain’t that the truth, sister!
He hums. “Is this because of Dr. Vincenzo?”
I freeze for half a second. “What?” I ask, feigning innocence as I adjust his IV.
He smiles knowingly. “I knew it.”
“You know nothing.”
“I do.” His expression gentles. “I hear he’s engaged.”
“He is.”
Gaston sighs. “Men are foolish. They chase the wrong things and then wonder why they are unhappy.”
“Men don’t chase,” I mutter. “They pick.”
He chuckles, a wheezy but warm sound. “No, ma chérie*. In the proper world, women pick, and men chase. When they stop chasing, it’s because they believe they already own the prize.”
I scowl at him. “That sounds faintly… misogynistic.”
“Oh no, I’m a total feminist,” he assures me. “And in any case, you are not the kind of woman who waits on a shelf.”
I wave him off. “I’ll see you at five today, Gaston.”
He inclines his head. “I’ll be here…hole in my skull and all.”
When I come back, there’s a man in the room with him.
Gaston’s son, I assume.
He’s leaning against the window, jacket draped over a chair. He’s easy on the eyes in a way that’s effortless, and he carries himself with the quiet confidence of someone who has never had to apologize for taking up space.
Like someone else I know!
It’s hard to clock wealth when someone is lying in a hospital gown, like Gaston. It’s considerably easier when his son is wearing a Patek Philippe and shoes that likely cost more than my monthly rent.
I notice these things because Latika and I shamelessly celebrity-watch.
Bollywood actors, mostly.
These days, half the discourse isn’t even about the movies—it’s about couture sightings, who’s wearing what, and whether it’s quiet luxury or screaming for attention. Spoiler alert: it’s usually screaming for attention.
“She’s the one,” Gaston beams. “Navya, meet my son Pierre.”
The man rises. “You’re the nurse my father is trying to adopt.”
“Only because he’s delightful,” I quip.
Pierre offers his hand. “Thank you for taking such good care of him.”
I shake it. “Of course.”
I spend some time talking to Pierre while checking on my matchmaking patient.
“You should take her out to dinner as a thank you,” Gaston suggests cheerfully.
I roll my eyes. “Mr. Moreau—”
“Absolutely,” Pierre cuts in, already smiling at me like this is a perfectly reasonable idea.
And the thing is—he’s looking at me like he wants to take me out. Not like he’s doing charity. Not like he’ll take me to the far end of Berkeley or Sausalito so we don’t bump into anyone he knows.
It’s unsettling. In a good way.
Maybe Dr. Vincenzo doesn’t think I’m attractive. Or maybe he did, once, but decided it was inconvenient. Either way, Pierre clearly does—and he doesn’t seem remotely bothered by the fact that I’m a nurse. Also, he’s wearing a watch worth more than my annual rent, so…take that, Dr. V.
Before I can answer, there’s a knock on the open door.
I know it’s him before I turn.
It’s a physical thing. A prickle at the back of my neck. Like my body recognizes him before my brain catches up.
“How are you doing, Mr. Moreau?” Evan walks in, white coat crisp, presence filling the room the way it always does.
He nods at me. I hand him Gaston’s chart without a word.
He scans it quickly, efficiently, then hands it back to me. Our fingers don’t touch. I make sure of it.
“I’m doing well,” Gaston says. “Thanks to my excellent nurse.”
Evan inclines his head. “I see that.”
Gaston bobs his head, and then, because subtlety is clearly not his strength, he gestures toward his son. “Dr. Vincenzo, this is my son. Pierre, this is Dr. Vincenzo—the neurosurgeon with the serious face.” Then he adds, almost mischievously, “I’m trying to set up the wonderful Navya with Pierre.”
I briefly consider faking a medical emergency.
Evan freezes.
Pierre, oblivious, extends his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Doctor.”
Evan takes it a beat later. His grip looks firm. His smile does not.
“So, what do you think?” Gaston pushes. “Pierre should take her out as a thank you, right?”
Hai Bhagvan, strike me down now.
“That’s…thoughtful,” Evan says slowly, his eyes flicking to me for the briefest second before snapping back to Gaston.
“I think so,” Gaston agrees.
Silence stretches.
“Well, you have a good evening, Mr. Moreau,” Evan says brusquely and walks out.
Gaston winks at me again. “See, I told you, men chase.”
Or run away, I think, irritated.
* My darling (French)