Chapter 22
REGRETFULLY YOURS, E
NAVYA
Dr. Evan Vincenzo is giving everyone at the hospital something to talk about.
He broke off his engagement with the sexy blonde.
And even before that forest fire of a gossip simmered down, there’s a new one circling.
The hospital has a sixth sense for drama—especially romantic drama—and Dr. Evan Vincenzo’s pursuit of me may as well have been announced over the PA system.
He doesn’t hide himself, me, or that he wants an us.
He’s put it out there for everyone to see.
Hai Bhagvan!
He brings me coffee in the mornings. Not left anonymously at the nurses’ station, like he did when we were having our secret affair, but hands it to me directly, like a man who has decided subtlety is overrated.
“Latte. Whole milk. No sugar.”
I stare at the cup. “You’re going to get me written up.”
“I asked HR,” he says mildly. “Gifts under twenty-five dollars are allowed.”
I glare.
He smiles.
Sala harami!*
He pauses before he leaves and leans, so we’re eye to eye. “Did you just call me a goat fucker in your head in Hindi?”
I will not smile.
I will not smile.
I will. Not. Smile.
“No.” I keep my lips from twitching with great effort. “I called you a son of a bitch.”
He seems to think about it and then nods appreciatively. “Goat fucker to son of a bitch…I think I’m making progress.”
With that, he strolls away, whistling.
Flowers follow.
And notes. Lots of notes. Over the next two months, it’s an assault on the senses.
Every time there are flowers, coffee, or a smoothie for me, my colleagues smirk and smile.
The doctor, they say, is trying hard—and if I don’t want him, someone else will pick up the slack, they joke.
When I say they can have him, they laugh because it’s evident, apparently, to everyone but me that Dr. Evan Vincenzo is off the market because he’s gone for me.
It’s confusing. Like, really, really confusing.
He isn’t asking for anything. Not my time.
Not my forgiveness. He just keeps telling me his truth—in handwritten notes on thick, high-end card stock.
I guess he doesn’t own anything else. Most people write apologies on sticky notes with a ballpoint pen.
This man writes confessions on heavy paper with an ink pen.
It’s…kind of hot.
I know you don’t want to talk. I understand. But I’m not going anywhere, cara.
—E
I crumple this one and throw it in the trash. But the words stay with me.
Coffee isn’t an apology. It’s just coffee. But I owe you much more than caffeine.
—E
I roll my eyes. I take a picture of the note and send it to Latika. She responds with a middle finger emoji.
Then there was the one that made me sniffle…a little.
I keep replaying every moment I chose silence over courage. Turns out silence can be loud as hell.
—E
I reread that one several times. I shove it inside my locker and pretend it isn’t there.
The next ones hurt because he made me feel small for not being able to afford medical school.
You once told me you wanted to go to medical school more than anything. I should’ve told you then how much that impressed me. I’m saying it now.
—E
I know what I did. I made you feel as if you’re not good enough for me. But you are. In fact, what I have learned is that I’m not good enough for you. But I’m working on myself, cara. I will be worthy.
—E
Latika makes a face when I show them to her during one of our Saturday Bollywood-movie evenings. “Sounds like ChatGPT wrote that last one.”
“No,” I tell her, because I know Evan and I know this is all him. “He did.”
“Ugh.” She reads the note again. “Fine! So…are you going to like…forgive him?”
I shake my head. “I can’t, Latika. You know I can’t. What he did was…no, I’m not going down that path again.”
She gives me a pointed look, and I sigh, fling my hands up. “Fine! He’s making it really hard to stay angry with him. He just…he’s being….”
“Cute?” she offers with her brows furrowed.
“Annoying,” I lie.
After that last note about him working to be worthy of me, I avoid even saying good morning to him.
A part of me wants him to stop doing this and leave me alone, so I don’t make another mistake with him and get hurt worse than I did before. Another part, the little randi* inside me, she’s all, let’s bang him.
The gossip reaches fever pitch in week six of his relentless note writing when he leaves a jewelry box with a note.
“It’s not a ring,” I tell my colleagues who are eagerly waiting to find out. “And don’t you all have patients?”
Carmen just shakes her head. “This is all too much drama.”
“It’s him.”
“It’s always the attendings,” she agrees. “You want him to stop? I can make that happen.”
I bite my lower lip.
She chuckles and leaves me with my jewelry box and note.
The jewelry is a pair of earrings. Handmade.
I saw these at a sidewalk stall. The designer is Indian. She said they were inspired by jewelry made for a princess. They made me think of you.
—E
I didn’t wear the earrings at work, but I wore them in bed.
Then came the note that made me think it was indeed over. The past few weeks gave me hope—that we could get back together, even though I couldn’t imagine how, not after all that we’d been through. But I’m a big Bollywood fan—and we love our happy endings.
If any of this costs you something, tell me, and I’ll stop. I won’t hurt you again—not for my pride.
—E
I don’t tell him to stop. I don’t want him to stop. I pretend I didn’t read that one.
I never slept with Arabella. I couldn’t. Even holding her hand made me feel like I was cheating on you. I’m sorry I gave her a ring. I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to claim you, to tell you that I love you, to accept your love for me.
—E
That makes me feel better because I’ve had these scenes in my head where he and Arabella are going at it, porno movie style.
Wait! Did he say he loves me?
Oh Bhagvan! Now what am I supposed to do?
The next one makes me cry. Like, really cry, so I have to sneak into an on-call room.
I used to think discretion was kindness. Now I know it was fear. And I was afraid of losing the wrong things.
—E
And then comes the note that cracks my heart, though I don’t tell him. I keep it to myself. He was afraid then. I am afraid now.
You don’t owe me forgiveness. But if you ever wonder whether you mattered—you did. You still do. I think you always will.
—E
I don’t show this one to Latika. I keep it to myself.
The notes, the flowers, the everyday visits, it’s all foreplay—I just don’t know what the endgame is.
Nurses giggle. Residents smirk. Carmen raises one eyebrow at me like she’s waiting to see if I’ll implode or explode.
I fear I’ll do both.
* Son of a bitch, bastard (Hindi slang, not a direct translation)
* Slut (Hindi)