Chapter 27 Champagne & Pakoras, Italian Style
CHAMPAGNE & PAKORAS, ITALIAN STYLE
EVAN
Iwarned her.
More than once.
“My parents are…narcissists,” I tell Navya as we drive up the long, gravel-lined driveway toward the house. Vineyards stretch out on either side, neat and disciplined. “They’ll be polite. Civil. But they won’t hide how they feel.”
Navya looks out the window, unbothered. She’s wearing a rust-colored dress that comes to mid-calf with “room to grow,” as she put it, because we’re going for Thanksgiving dinner, and everyone knows “you have to wear pants you can unbutton.”
The ease with which she doesn’t do one damn thing to pretend she’s more put together than she is makes me comfortable as well.
So much so that instead of wearing a suit—because, as she put it, “Who wears a suit to Thanksgiving dinner when you’re planning to gorge?
”—I’ve dressed down. I’m matching her in a brown sweater and comfortable blue slacks.
We’ll stand out. Everyone else will be buttoned up like they’re going to a royal ball. Not Nonno. He’ll be in his usual slacks and sweater.
“That’s fine.” She takes my hand in hers and squeezes. “I’m not here to win a pageant.”
I glance at her. Christ, I love this about her.
I know she wished Arjun could be here with us, but he’s visiting a friend in Vermont for Thanksgiving. A special friend. It’s a girl he likes, Navya told me in a loud whisper the last time we met Arjun, when we visited him in Los Angeles.
He accepts me. No drama. Just nice to meet you, Navya’s boyfriend.
Same with her friend Latika and her husband, Rohan.
I’m sure Thanksgiving with any of them would be simpler—and a lot more fun—than what’s coming our way.
In the Vincenzo house, there will be assigned seats, decanted wine, and multiple courses timed like a military operation. There will be stilted conversations. There will be barbs. There will be sighs. No one will be unbuttoning their pants because they ate too much.
My mother smiles when she sees us. “Evan. You’re late.”
I kiss my mother’s cheek and don’t bother responding. We’re not late, but it’s her thing.
You’re late.
You’re rude.
You’re not being a good son.
It’s one lament after the other.
“Mama, this is Navya, my girlfriend.”
Mama holds out her hand like she’s a queen, and Navya shakes it, amused. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Vincenzo. Thank you for having me.”
“You’re the nurse.”
“Yes,” Navya replies, and I hear laughter in her voice.
In the past three months—while we’ve been dating, rebuilding—she’s gained confidence, which she says comes not only from knowing I’m not going anywhere, but also from knowing she was whole before she met me and would be after.
Not that I’m leaving her…ever. The months without her were bad. I’m not going through that again.
“Ex-fiancée at three o’clock,” Navya whispers.
I had told my parents not to invite Arabella and her family for Thanksgiving because it would make me uncomfortable. Obviously, this is some kind of power play—telling me that what I want doesn’t matter, and telling Navya that Arabella is still the preferred partner for their son.
“Navya, bella mia*, come give this old man a hug,” Nonno bellows from the far end of the room.
He and Navya have become friends. They spend time together—alone—without me.
Last month, when we came to visit, I went to check on something in the cellar with Leo while Navya, Leo’s wife, and Nonno watched a Bollywood movie about reincarnation.
He even has a Spotify playlist that mixes Indian classical music—which Navya introduced him to—with opera.
It’s the best of both worlds, according to him.
I wish Leo and his wife could be here, but they’re back in Florence. Thanksgiving is really not their thing. Also, they’d just about had enough of my parents last month.
“Her parents?” Navya asks as I lead her toward where Arabella is perched near the fireplace.
“Si.”
Arabella is in a designer dress that doesn’t look comfortable, and there’s definitely no room to grow in it—not that she’ll be gorging on turkey and stuffing. Her parents flank her like backup dancers. When she sees us, her lips curve, and there’s a sneer on her face.
“Welcome,” she says insolently. This isn’t her house, and yet she’s behaving like the hostess.
Whatever. We don’t care.
Navya meets her gaze and smiles widely. “Hi, Arabella.”
She then proceeds, without hesitation, to introduce herself to Arabella’s parents, who have no choice but to shake my girlfriend’s hand because not doing so would insult Nonno’s new favorite person in the whole world.
Dinner is an experience.
It’s pleasant until Nonno leaves to rest before dessert. After that, the sharp elbows come out.
Navya doesn’t seem to care. The insecure young woman I used to know has blossomed into a stronger, more secure one, and I’m honored to have played a part in her growth.
I, on the other hand, owe my transformation—from a man weighed down by expectations to one who lives for himself, as himself—entirely to her.
“Are you going to remain a nurse forever?” Mama asks, like it’s a skin condition.
“Yes,” Navya says cheerfully. “I love being a nurse.”
Arabella tilts her head. “Isn’t being a doctor more prestigious?”
Navya looks at me. “Is it?”
“Apparently,” I tease.
Navya shrugs. “I don’t think so. I think nurse, doctor, EMT specialist, radiologist—everyone in healthcare is there for one reason: to help people live better lives. I think it’s reductive to scale them on a level of prestige, which is inherently how people see us and not who we are.”
“So true,” I agree.
“You know, it’s like what Michel de Montaigne said,” Navya continues, mischief sparkling in her eyes. “On the highest throne in the world, we still sit only on our own ass.”
“Who the hell is Michel de Montaigne?” Arabella demands.
Navya puts a hand to her heart like she can’t believe someone doesn’t know Montaigne. I don’t either, so I’m curious as well.
“He was one of the most significant philosophers of the French Renaissance,” she says sweetly. “He’s known for popularizing the essay as a literary genre.”
She’s showing off. It’s entertaining.
“I think,” I add, “C. S. Lewis said it best when he said, ‘Prestige is a poor substitute for love.’”
“Bravo.” Navya claps.
I kiss her then and murmur, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I love you, cara.”
She gives me one of her blinding smiles—the ones she saves for me. “I love you, too, Doctor.”
My father coughs.
Mama looks scandalized.
Arabella seethes, stews, and waits for her chance.
She gets it when I step away for a moment.
I’m not worried. Navya can handle her. So instead of running interference, I enjoy the show.
“I imagine this must feel…ambitious,” Arabella says lightly. “Being here. With this family.”
“Oh no.” Navya tosses her shoulder. “Not at all. Or maybe it did for a second when I found oysters in the stuffing. Never had that before.”
Arabella’s smile tightens. “You know Evan has a…history.”
“Don’t we all.”
There’s a pause. A delicious one.
“He and I were—”
“Engaged,” Navya leans closer, her voice dropping, though I can still hear her. “And he never fucked you, did he?”
My girl has claws.
Arabella gasps, straightens.
“You know what they say?” Navya’s tone is dripping with sarcasm.
Arabella’s jaw tightens.
“If a relationship is on the rocks, the rocks are in bed.” Navya’s words are loaded with mock sympathy. “He told me he couldn’t get it up for you. I told him he should’ve tried medication—but you know, men. They’re so sensitive about their…dicks.”
I can’t hold back a burst of laughter and step out from the doorway where I was eavesdropping.
Arabella turns, shocked to see me—realizing that I’ve been listening.
She regroups quickly. “Is this who you left me for, Evan? A crass, low-class woman?”
“You know, Evan is way crasser than me,” Navya says earnestly. “The other day, he wouldn’t stop talking about how much he likes my…you know. It was embarrassing.”
I slide an arm around Navya and squeeze her waist. “You done having fun?”
She looks up at me, grins. “What can I say? She was trying to intimidate me, and you know me—I diffuse with humor.”
Arabella hates how we’re talking about her in front of her like she isn’t there. Well, to give her credit, anyone would in her place.
“You’re a nobody, and he’ll get bored—”
“Arabella,” Navya cuts her off, “no offense, babe, but you need to stop being such a cunt about losing my man.”
Navya does not swear—certainly not like this—and usually only in her head…and in Hindi. She’s doing this to push Arabella’s buttons, which I can’t blame her for.
“How dare you talk to me like this?” Arabella thunders, loud enough that everyone turns to look at us.
“If you don’t like it, sister, keep walking. You’re the one who initiated this ridiculous conversation.”
With a furious hiss, Arabella storms away.
Navya turns to me. “Can we get more pie?”
Awe floods my chest.
“Yes,” I say hoarsely, holding back a laugh. “We absolutely can.”
Later that night, as we walk through the vineyard under a cold, clear sky. Rows of vines stretch into the black like secrets kept well.
The air smells like damp earth and late autumn.
I lead her down a narrow path, my fingers curled around hers.
“I meant what I said,” I tell her. “They may never fully approve.”
She squeezes my hand. “That’s okay. I didn’t come here for them.”
I stop walking. Pull her gently into me.
“I came here for you,” she adds.
At the edge of one of the parcels of vines, tucked between two old olive trees, is the gazebo.
It’s enclosed, glass and wood, built decades ago when my grandparents needed somewhere warm to sit at night and argue about music and wine.
I flick on the soft interior lights.
“Oh wow,” she breathes.
A small table waits in the center. Champagne rests in an ice bucket. Two flutes. And between them—wrapped carefully in foil and cloth—pakoras.
Her eyes widen. “Are those…?”
“Piping hot,” I say, grinning. “Nonno’s chef made them. I got the recipe from Latika. He also made a tamarind chutney…which he says may taste a little like cranberry sauce.”
She laughs, delighted, and the sound changes the night.
She reaches for one, breaks it open, steam curling into the air. “You smuggled pakoras into a vineyard in Napa,” she says, incredulous. “With champagne.”
“I contain multitudes,” I deadpan.
She shakes her head, smiling as she takes a bite. “These are perfect,” she announces and then shyly adds, “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to.” It’s as simple as that. I like doing things for her because it makes her happy, and that’s my favorite thing in the world.
I pour the champagne and hand her a glass. “To surviving Thanksgiving.”
She clinks her flute against mine. “And to choosing each other.”
We go back to our room and make love—more hungrily than usual.
Something has changed between us.
We’re better than we were this morning when we drove here.
During the day, she became comfortable with the idea of me and showed me she trusts me implicitly, and I showed her that I’m hers, no matter what.
In bed, she turns to me, trails a hand up my thigh, teasing, taunting. She takes me in her hand, hard and heavy.
“Take me in your mouth, cara,” I whisper.
Her breath hitches, and she giggles. The sound of her happiness makes my dick twitch.
She goes down, down, down, kissing me the whole way.
Her lips brush against my erection, her tongue darting out to taste me.
“Putain!” I groan, my hands in her hair.
When it becomes too much, I haul her up and onto her back, crashing my mouth onto hers.
She moans into the kiss. Her nails rake down my chest, leaving trails of fire.
“My turn.” I spread her legs and see her pussy, glistening, her clit swollen and begging for attention.
I dive in like a starving man. My tongue laps at her folds, savoring her sweetness, and she cries out, her hips bucking against my face.
“Evan, please,” she gasps, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me deeper.
I suck her clit into my mouth, my tongue flicking over it, and she screams, her thighs clamping around my head as she comes hard, her juices coating my face.
Even before she’s done coming down from the high, I thrust into her. She’s so tight, so warm that I could come just from the feel of her around me.
“Harder,” she whimpers, her nails digging into my back, and I obey.
The sound of our skin slapping together echoes in the room, mingling with her cries and my grunts.
Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper.
Her walls tighten around me as she comes again, her pussy milking me, and I can’t hold back any longer.
I bury my face in her neck, biting down as I explode inside her, filling her up, her name a prayer and a promise on my lips. “Navya, cara, I love you.”
* My beautiful (Italian)