Chapter 19
THE LONG WAY HOME
EVAN
Igo for a walk.
I can’t stay at the hospital, not after that conversation. The walls are closing in, like I’ve used up all the oxygen.
I don’t have a destination. I just need to clear my head.
I walk downhill as I recall everything Navya said.
I don’t remember my conversation with Massimo all those days ago in the bar, not clearly—but it’s obvious that Navya hasn’t forgotten a single word.
I go past Nob Hill’s manicured facades and doormen who nod as if they recognize me—even if they don’t.
The city loosens as I descend. The polish fades. The real edges show.
Cable car bells clang.
I hear three different languages on one block.
I’ve lived in quite a few cities, but San Francisco is my favorite. It’s compact and honest. New York has honesty, too, but it sprawls—every neighborhood is its own mini township with its own personality. The Golden City, despite its disparate areas, has more cohesiveness.
“I promised myself that I’d live in San Francisco when I grew up,” I remember Navya telling me as we lay in her bed, satiated.
It was raining that day, and it was cozy in her place, with her.
“And does the city live up to the expectations?”
She kissed my shoulder, the one she was resting against. “Yes, very much. There is this quote by William Saroyan. You know it?”
I shook my head.
"If you're not alive, San Francisco will bring you to life.”
“Is that from a book he wrote?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure…maybe Inhale & Exhale?”
She always surprised me with her knowledge of esoteric books and works. Then she’d turn around and say something that was utterly colorful and Bollywood-Esque.
I remember remarking that I don’t often hear her swear.
“I do…in my head,” she told me. “All the time.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
She rolled her eyes. “Doctor, I’m not as innocent as I look. I can swear in Hindi…with the best of them. And compared to your tame swear words in English, we’re way superior.”
“Favorite Hindi swear word?” I challenged.
She thought about it, hesitated and then said, “I think it’s behn chod*.”
“And that is?”
“Sister fucker.”
I burst out laughing at the unexpectedness of it.
I cross into North Beach, the smell of espresso and garlic curling through the air.
Old men argue over soccer outside cafés.
Windows display books instead of jewelry.
Navya would like this, I think, and realize how much space she takes in my head and my heart.
Did I really say she couldn’t compete with Arabella?
Porca puttana*! How blind could I’ve been?
Arabella comes from privilege. She’s lived a life padded against impact, where obstacles are negotiated, not endured.
If life had thrown at her even a fraction of what it put in Navya’s path, I doubt she would’ve had the fortitude to build something meaningful from it.
I doubt she would’ve learned how to survive without becoming bitter.
I doubt she’d still laugh the way Navya does—openly and with joy.
How small was I to even think in terms of competition?
Navya wasn’t lacking.
I was.
I still am.
I took her to places where no one knew me because I didn’t have the courage to admit that I chose her.
The realization is ugly in its clarity.
I keep walking.
Chinatown bleeds into the Tenderloin, and the contrast is brutal. Tourists give way to people living exactly where they are, whether the world approves or not.
This is her neighborhood.
I come full circle after a while, close to the hospital, and walk past the bar where I shattered her with my careless words.
Yes, Navya was…is a distraction, the best one I’ve ever had, the one I never deserved.
I talked about sex with her like she was an object. Massimo is who he is, but I should have been more respectful. Massimo owes Navya nothing—but I owe her regard and decency, even in private.
“Sex was great. I mean…considering I was her first.”
Those words I uttered sit in my mouth like poison.
There are more epiphanies that follow.
I gave up a woman I admired and respected, one who made me feel like I could be myself because I was…afraid.
Afraid for my grandfather’s feelings.
Afraid of wanting something that didn’t fit neatly into the life planned for me.
I chose control over courage.
I chose pretense over honesty.
I chose Arabella over Navya.
But wait…I didn’t even choose Arabella. She was chosen for me. And she’s entirely wrong for me.
But Arabella isn’t the villain of this story. I am.
I walk faster now, as anger at myself threads through regret.
By the time I reach Market, my legs ache, my thoughts have stripped me bare.
I can’t undo what I said.
I can’t un-make the way I hurt her.
But I can stop lying.
To Arabella.
To my grandfather.
And most importantly, to myself.
I pull out my phone, and my thumb hovers over Arabella’s name.
I decide against it.
No, this deserves more than a call. I’ll have to do it face-to-face, accept the consequence of my cowardice by hurting yet another woman.
* Sister fucker (Hindi)
* Fucking hell (Italian)