Chapter 17
I AM MY FAVORITE
NAVYA
Getting dumped, I have learned from hard-won experience, does wonders for clarity.
“I want a makeover for my date with Pierre,” I tell Latika when she’s over at my place on a Saturday morning.
She squeals with delight. “I’m so glad you’ve decided to date again.”
“I’m not dating, per se, I am…he’s picking me up at the hospital, and I want to….” I am too embarrassed to even say it.
Latika smirks. “Oh, you wanna show Dr. Very Shitty what he’s missing?”
I swallow. “Does that make me a shallow person? You know, he flaunted his fiancée and…now I get to show off with my date, who is taking me to a fancy dinner, out in the open, thank you very much.”
“That harami* doesn’t deserve your attention…but you definitely deserve his!” Latika declares.
“I feel stupid,” I admit to her.
“Arrey, meri jaan*, you need some fun in your life after all these months of moping around.” She picks up her purse. “Let’s go. Mama needs new hair, new shoes, and a new attitude.”
I pick up my purse and strike a pose, one hip popped, chin lifted. “Let’s go, darling,” I say, rolling the r like I’m auditioning for an NRI Indian auntie role.
“We’re so cool,” Latika announces
“Cool and fabulous,” I correct, fluttering my eyelashes.
We decide my hair is going to be the first casualty at the Patrick Evan Salon.
We do a walk-in, fully prepared to be turned away, but the universe—apparently in a forgiving mood—throws me a bone. A stylist has an opening due to a last-minute cancellation.
The salon is all glass and clean lines, bright without being harsh. Everything smells faintly of expensive product, and the mirrors are unforgiving but honest.
I sink into the chair, watching my reflection as the cape is snapped around my shoulders. The stylist runs their fingers through my hair, assessing.
“What are we thinking?” they ask.
I glance at Latika in the mirror, who shrugs. “You call the shots, babe.”
I take a deep breath.
I’ve spent all my life taking care of others. My brother. My mother. My patients. But now, I want to do something for myself that will remind me to put myself first.
“I want it different…but still me.”
They smile cheekily. “My favorite request.”
We discuss. I point to various pictures in the catalog I’m shown. Finally, we decide to take the leap.
When the scissors make the first decisive snip, the grip on my chest loosens.
It’s just hair—but it’s also control.
A small, defiant declaration that I’m allowed to change, allowed to take up space, allowed to feel new.
By the time they’re done, my hair seems to finally match how I want to walk back into the world.
Latika whistles softly. “Okay. New hair unlocked.”
It’s not a dramatic chop—no post-breakup bangs, please—but a sharp, intentional cut that makes my cheekbones look like they’ve been working out while I slept.
My blowout is glossy. I can’t stop touching my hair, looking at it in every storefront I can catch a glimpse.
We go to Sephora next, because everyone knows that a new attitude requires a full pilgrimage.
A very nice woman with perfect skin and zero judgment greets us.
“I know…very little,” I admit, gesturing vaguely at my face. “Like…mascara level little.”
Latika snorts. “She owns exactly one eyeliner pencil. It’s older than our friendship.”
The woman smiles like she’s heard this confession a thousand times. “That’s okay. We’ll keep it simple.”
She asks about my job, and when I tell her I’m a nurse, her whole demeanor shifts—practical, respectful.
“Which means I can’t look…done up. I need to look awake. And…ah, professional.”
“Got it!”
She talks me through it like a lesson, not a sales pitch.
A lightweight tinted moisturizer instead of foundation—skin, but better.
Concealer only where I actually need it—under eyes, around the nose.
A cream blush in a muted rose.
“Something that looks like blood flow, not like someone slapped you,” Latika comments.
“Brows brushed, not drawn.” My friend’s running commentary continues, “More Priyanka Chopra and zero Nadira.”
Nadira was a yesteryear Bollywood femme fatale who had the most arched eyebrows in the history of Indian cinema.
“No heavy contour,” the Sephora lady says firmly. “It won’t look right on you.”
Since I have no idea what a contour is, I nod sagely.
“For work,” the makeup expert continues, “you want people to trust you. This says: I’m competent, I slept enough, and I know what I’m doing.”
I look in the mirror as she blends, and the difference is subtle—but evident.
“And for after work?” Latika wonders.
The woman smiles. “That’s when you add a lip.”
She hands me a sheer berry tint. “This won’t smudge, won’t scream lipstick…but it will get you noticed.”
I swipe it on. It works really well with my skin tone. The Sephora lady knows what she’s doing when it comes to Indian skin.
“Oh,” I say quietly.
Latika beams. “Wow! You look good, Navya.”
I don’t look like a different person. I look like myself—just…better.
And that feels dangerous. And nice.
We go shopping for clothes at Macy’s.
It’s a splurge day. And Latika is picking up the tab. An early birthday present. I’m not complaining. I need this, and it’s nice to have a friend who wants to take care of me.
I try on a burgundy dress we found in the Anne Klein section. It’s on sale—seventy percent off—and it fits like it was made for me.
It’s simple and unfussy. Soft fabric that skims instead of clings. A modest V-neck that shows just enough collarbone to feel feminine without trying. The hem hits right above my knees, practical but pretty. Sleeves that sit perfectly on my shoulders, no tugging, no adjusting.
It’s the kind of dress you could wear to dinner…or when you bump into someone unexpectedly…not that it’s my goal or anything.
“Oh,” Latika gasps when I step out of the dressing room to show it to her. “He’s going to lose his mind.”
“Who?” I ask with mock-innocence.
She grins wickedly. “Oh, you know who.”
Since it’s summer in San Francisco, I wrap a shawl around my shoulders. It’s a cashmere one with delicate gold embroidery. It belonged to my mother. It’s warm and matches my dress.
I’m going out for dinner with Pierre Moreau.
Yep. In public. In the open.
He’s picking me up at the hospital.
He’s taking me to his favorite French restaurant—one owned by a friend.
He’s not hiding me away in some little place in Marin like some other people I know.
I change in the locker room after my shift and enjoy the compliments from my colleagues. It’s not every day I get them—or even every other day, so why the hell should I not preen?
Of course, I am really hoping a doctor I know will see me because….
Stop it, Navya. He’s in the past. Let it go.
“Main apni favorite hoon*,” I whisper to myself as I catch my reflection one last time before heading toward the hospital lobby.
It’s a line from an old Bollywood movie, delivered by the one and only Kareena Kapoor, who is unapologetic in her confidence when she declares she’s her own favorite person.
It isn’t about vanity, it’s about choosing yourself, Navya.
I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and walk out as if I believe it. I stand outside the hospital lobby, phone in hand, ready to have a great evening.
Just when I decide I don’t care if he sees me looking this hot, he finally does—and I immediately care far more than I want to.
“Navya?”
I turn and flash a smile, berry-berry lipstick and all. The smile, I’m hoping, hides the stupid fact that my pulse just tripped over itself.
“Doctor Vincenzo, how are you this evening?” He’s in a suit. I guess I’m not the only one going out. “The opera again?” I muse airily.
His gaze flicks over me. I know what he sees. The dress. The hair. The confidence I didn’t have the last time he saw me outside of scrubs.
His jaw clenches. I know him well enough to know that happens when he doesn’t like something.
“Just dinner,” he murmurs. “And you?”
“Same.” I try for light, hoping I’m not coming across like Elizabeth Bennet insisting she’s perfectly indifferent—when she very clearly isn’t.
He nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. “You look…nice.”
“Thank you,” I say, saccharine sweet.
There’s an ache inside me, as the insecurities he planted flare to life.
Nice enough for your elite circles, Dr. Vincenzo?
Will Pierre see me and decide I’m not what he expected?
Will he smile politely and make an excuse to dump me?
Will he look past me, like Evan did, already calculating where I don’t fit?
I hate that the doubt still lives in me. Hate that it learned Evan’s voice so easily.
I straighten my spine. If Pierre leaves, then that’s information—not a verdict.
Evan looks at his watch and smiles at me. “I’m waiting for my car.”
“I’m waiting for my date,” I counter.
Did he go a little pale, or am I imagining it?”
“Date?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Yes. Is your fiancée coming by? She’s very beautiful.”
Take that, you bakri chod*, I think viciously.
“Yes, she is.” He looks sad when he says that. I immediately want to ask him what’s wrong.
Stop it, Navya. You don’t care about him, remember? He treated you like shit.
“Are you going out with Gaston’s son Pierre?” he asks suddenly.
I raise an eyebrow in enquiry.
He chuckles in what I think is self-deprecation. “Everyone’s talking about how Gaston has been pushing his son to date his favorite nurse.”
Fury crashes over me. “Well, obviously, unless a man is pushed, he wouldn’t date me.”
He gasps. “No. That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m sure,” I sneer.
“Navya, cara, that’s—”
“Hey, I’m not your cara or your anything, alright,” I snap. “So, watch it.”
He closes his eyes and then gives me a wan smile. “I’m sorry, Navya. I just meant…fuck.” He exhales, scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I just….”
He trails off when a Maserati stops in front of us. The door opens, and Pierre hops out.
“Navya.” His smile is huge, and his appreciation is evident.
He reaches me, kisses my cheek. “You look…fabulous.”
I giggle. “Thank you.”
He nods at Evan. “Hi, Doctor Vincenzo.”
Evan looks just about ready to break something. “Pierre.”
It’s very satisfying.
Another car stops, this one behind Pierre’s. It’s one of those Cadillacs. A car with a driver.
The window rolls down, and Arabella is inside. “Evan,” she calls out.
Evan waves at her, but his focus continues to be on me.
“So…where are we off to?” he asks Pierre.
“O' by Claude Le Tohic.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Navya mentioned she’s never been to a Michelin-star restaurant.”
I mentioned it to Evan as well, but he never bothered to change that.
“Evan?” Arabella sounds impatient.
“Have a good evening,” he says brusquely and walks away.
* Bastard (Hindi)
* Oh, my love (Hindi, not a direct translation)
* I am my favorite (Hindi)
* Goat fucker (Hindi)