Because my schedule at the hospital has been absolutely crazy over the last few weeks, I had to cancel a few physical therapy appointments. I didn’t think much of it because I know the therapy isn’t doing any good, but then had a checkup with Dr. Sharma, the surgeon who operated on my hand, and he railed me for missing appointments. Then he ordered x-rays to see how I’m healing. I made sure to schedule an appointment as soon as I could. I’ve got to get my head on straight. The last thing I need is Dr. Sharma reporting to Dr. Crowder that I’m not doing what I need to do to rehab my hand.

When I arrive at Vikram Patel’s office, I’m filled with anxiety. I know he and Dr. Sharma have already had a chance to go over my x-rays before today’s appointment, and I feel like I’m about to be exposed as a fraud.

“When am I going to be able to do the good stuff?” I ask before Vik starts leading me through exercises that aren’t doing me any good.

His warm, brown eyes flicker and a small smile creeps across his lips. “The good stuff?”

I press my lips together to hold back my own smile. I’m not interested in Vik, but it doesn’t mean I’m immune to his charm.

Any woman in her right mind would be falling at Vik’s feet. Which is probably why my parents strongly suggested Vik over Cindy, the sweet, portly, Paula Dean look-a-like who works in the same practice. He is exactly the type of man they want me to fall in love with. From his fashionably cut, perfectly gelled, dark hair, to his smooth, brown skin, right down to the five o’ clock shadow dusting his upper lip and jawline, he’s the complete package.

There’s also the insignificant detail that before he moved to the States, he was a former Mr. India contestant. He didn’t win that particular contest, but he quickly won the hearts of the ladies at the hospital. I’d heard about him long before I met him.

Too bad my parents don’t understand cultural differences and the fact that no matter how many non-Indian chicks he dates to get it out of his system, he’s going to marry an Indian girl someday. That’s not me being stereotypical. Vik told me that himself.

Maybe they do understand and they don’t care. Anything to get me away from Austin.

“Strengthening my grip? Keeping a steady hand during intricate procedures?”

Vik’s long pause is enough to tell me what’s coming next. When he speaks, his voice is low, “I spoke with Dr. Sharma about the x-rays you had last week. Everything is healing well, Liz, but as you knew, with an injury like this you may never have full use of your hand. At least not for things like operating.”

Tears spring to my eyes even though he’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. It’s been months and it’s physically impossible for me to hold a scalpel strongly enough or still enough to make precision cuts.

Someone else knows my dirty secret. I can’t prolong the inevitable anymore. I’ll never be able to go back to surgery.

How will I face my peers? My family? My friends? Being a surgeon is who I am.

“I’m sorry, Liz.” Vik places his hand over mine. “Look, that’s the worst-case scenario. We can keep working on it.” He’s got a great bedside manner, so gentle when giving people bad news. I can’t imagine him getting angry or raising his voice.

“It’s okay,” I say after a slight pause to compose myself. I’ll never let any of my colleagues see me cry. There’s no place for weakness, even in the face of soul-crushing news.

“Do you want to continue today?”

I shake my head. “No. It’s not really necessary anymore is it?”

Vik sighs. “My next appointment isn’t until two. Wanna grab a bite next door?”

It’s almost noon, and I really should eat before I get back to the hospital. I have a few procedures today and patients to check in on. Once I get there I won’t get a break.

“We can go to Grabbagreen,” he says in a singsong voice as he records his notes from our session into his tablet. “I know you love that place.”

Vik trying to cheer me up, by offering to go to my favorite cafe near his office, is seriously the cutest thing, though I long to be with Austin.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” I ask, grabbing my pocketbook and slinging it over my shoulder.

Vik tosses his tablet onto his desk. After he stands, he takes a moment to brush over creases crinkling his khaki pants near the upper thigh. “No. I need all the green I can consume after the weekend I had.” He holds the door open for me.

“Spill,” I say glancing over my shoulder.

“You first,” he counters.

“Dating a new guy. Avoiding my parents. Ya know, just another random Tuesday.”

“Avoiding your parents?” Vik asks. “Why?”

“They took their most recent interference in my life a bit too far. Avoiding them is the way I choose to handle the issue. It’s the best way.” It’s been over a month since Maddie’s birthday party and I still haven’t forgiven them for being so rude to Austin.

“Is it?” Vik asks.

“If you knew my parents, you wouldn’t even ask me that.”

Vik laughs. “I know enough about them to understand why you’d want to avoid them.”

My jaw hits the floor. No one except Austin has ever had the balls to say anything like that to my face about my parents. People are scared that I’ll go running back and tell them what was said. Which could literally ruin someone’s life. My father can be a ruthless man.

“Despite that,” Vik continues, “I still don’t think avoidance is the way to handle anything. You should confront the issue.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Never said it would be easy.”

“They don’t approve of Austin, and they never will,” I tell Vik as we walk down a set of stairs.

“Because he’s a musician?” Vik asks.

“Because he’s poor. Or rather, lower class.” I use air quotes when I say ‘lower class,’ because that’s my parent’s phrase, not mine. They’re the ones who put a huge weight on wealth. I don’t see people as dollar signs.

“Ahhhhh.” He nods knowingly. Which makes me wonder if his parents have ever thought that way about any of the girls he’s dated.

When we get to Grabbagreen, we halt the conversation to order and gather our food.

Vik digs right back in when we settle at a table.

“I understand parental influence. I mean, you know my situation. I’m gonna marry an Indian girl. And that’s not just because my parents expect me to. I want to, ya know? I love my culture and the traditions and as long as I get to pick the girl”—Vik laughs—“I’m happy with it.”

I stab a big chunk of avocado in my southwest bowl.

Vik’s smile disappears. “That’s where the difference comes in. My people are my people, no matter what their financial status.”

“And my parents don’t care that Austin works as hard as anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe even harder. He’s busting his ass and it’s all coming together for him. Songs on the radio, music festivals, a huge tour coming up.”

“That’s awesome!”

“I know.” I can’t help smiling when I think of all Austin and his bandmates have done to get to this point. I’m proud of him. “But my parents just see: tattoos. Lower class. Starving artist. Drugs. Alcohol. Tour life. Groupies.”

“Is that what your parents see or what you see?”

“What does that mean?”

“It sounds like you have reservations about him and your relationship. Deep down, do you see it as something long-lasting?”

“I—yea—I—” I stumble on the answer.

He continues, “Is it about a real relationship or is it about rebelling against your parents?”

“No,” I say with absolute certainty. “It’s real. I really like him. I like who he is and how I feel when I’m with him.”

“How’s that?”

“Like myself without filters. Saying what I really want to say and being who I am without having to worry about what other people think.”

“Well then I think you have your answer. Fuck what other people think and live your life.”