About the Book:
Perfect for fans of Jojo Moyesâs, Me Before You, My Last Love Story is a heartbreakingly romantic tale about the complexities of trauma and whether love can right a wrong.
I, Simeen Desai, am tired of making lemonade with the lemons life has handed me.
Love is meant to heal wounds.
Love was meant to make my world sparkle and spin.
Love has ripped my life apart and shattered my soul.
I love my husband, and he loves me.
But Nirvaan is dying.
I love my husband. I want to make him happy.
But he is asking for the impossible.
I donât want a baby.
I donât want to make nice with Zayaan.
I donât want another chance at another love story.
Dear Reader, music and mood goes togetherâfor most people, I think. Every novel I write has its own playlist, which would be a combination of songs that I listen to on repeat to set the right mood for the scene, or, the song could simply be the latest hit on the charts that got stuck in my head. Here are the songs I listened to the most while writing My Last Love Story. Itâs a short list, as this book really did not need external factors to get me in the âwriteâ mood. ;) Enjoy!
Tum Hi Ho from - movie Ashiqui 2
Sunn Raha Hai Na Tu â movie Ashiqui 2
Baby Donât Lie â Gwen Stefani
Read an Excerpt:
Dear Readers, thank you for coming along on the My Last Love Story Blog Tour. Hereâs an excerpt to enjoy.
âLove is a dish best served naked.â
As a child, those oft-quoted words of my father would have me rolling my eyes and pretending to gag at what Iâd imagined was my parentsâ precursor to a certain physical act.
At thirty, Iâd long ago realized that getting naked wasnât a euphemism for sex.
Neither was love.
It wasnât my father wording the meme just now but my husband. Nirvaan considered himself a great wit, a New Age philosopher. On the best of days, he was, much like Daddy had been. On the worst days, he was my tormentor.
âWhat do you think, Dr. Archer? Interesting enough tagline for a vlog? What about âBaby in a Petri Dishâ?â Nirvaan persisted in eliciting a response from the doctor and/or me for his ad hoc comedy, which weâd been ignoring for several minutes now.
I wanted to glare at him, beg him to shut up, or demand that he wait in the doctorâs office like he shouldâve done, like a normal husband would have. Khodai knows why heâd insisted on holding my hand through this preliminary checkup. Nothing of import would happen todayâif it did at all. But I couldnât perform any such communication, not with my eyes and mouth squeezed shut while I suffered through a series of uncomfortable twinges along my nether regions.
I lay flat on my back on a spongy clinic bed sheeted with paper already wrinkled and half torn. Legs drawn up and spread apart, my heels dug punishingly into cold iron stirrups to allow my gynecologistâs clever fingers to reach inside my womb and check if everything was A-OK in there. Weâd already funneled through the Pap test and stomach and chest checks. Like them, this test, too, was going swell in light of Dr. Archerâs approving happy hums.
âExcellent, Mrs. Desai. All parts are where they should be,â he joked only as a doctor could.
I shuddered out the breath Iâd been holding, as the feeling of being stretched left my body. Nirvaan squeezed my hand and planted a smacking kiss on my forehead. I opened my eyes and focused on his beaming upside-down ones. His eyelids barely grew lashes anymoreâIâd counted twenty-seven in total just last weekâthe effect of years of chemotherapy. For a second, my gaze blurred, my heart wavered, and I almost cried.
What are we doing, Nirvaan? What in Khodaiâs name were we starting?
Nirvaan stroked my hair, his pitch-black pupils steady and knowing and oh-so stubborn. Then, his face rose to the stark white ceiling, and all I saw was the green-and-blue mesh of his gingham shirtâthe overlapping threads, the crisscross weaves, a pattern without end.
Life is what you make it, child. It was another one of my fatherâs truisms.
Swallowing the questions twirling on my tongue, I refocused my mind on why we were here. Iâd promised Nirvaan weâd try for a baby if he agreed to another round of cancer-blasting treatments. Iâd bartered for a few more months of my husbandâs life. Heâd bartered for immortality through our child.
Dr. Archer rolled away from between my legs to the computer station. He snapped off and disposed of the latex gloves. Then, he began typing notes in near-soundless staccato clicks. Though the examination was finished, I knew better than to sit up until he gave me leave. Iâd been here before, done this beforeâtwo years ago when Nirvaan had been in remission and the idea of having a baby had wormed its way into his head. Weâd tried the most basic procedures then, whatever our medical coverage had allowed. We hadnât been desperate yet to use our own money, which we shouldnât be touching even now. We needed every penny we had for emergencies and alternative treatments, but try budging my husband once heâd made up his mind.
âIâm a businessman, Simi. I only pour money into a sure thing,â he rebuked when I argued.
I brought my legs together, manufacturing what poise and modesty I could, and pulled the sea-green hospital gown bunched beneath my bottom across my half-naked body. I refused to look at my husband as I wriggled about, positive his expression would be pregnant with irony, if not fully smirking. And kudos to him for not jumping in to help me like I would have.
The tables had turned on us today. For the past five years, itâd been Nirvaan thrashing about on hospital beds, trying in vain to find relief and comfort, modesty or release. Nirvaan had been poked, prodded, sliced, and bled as he battled aggressive non-Hodgkinâs lymphoma. Iâd been the stoic spectator, the supportive wife, the incompetent nurse, the ineffectual lover.
And now? What role would I play now?
As always, thinking about our life left me feeling even more naked than I was in the open-fronted robe. I turned my face to the wall, my eyes stinging, as fear and frustration bubbled to the surface. Flesh-toned posters of laughing babies, pregnant mothers, and love-struck fathers hung from the bluish walls. Side by side were the more educative ones of human anatomy, vivisected and whole. The test-tube-like exam room of Monterey Bay Fertility Clinic was decorated in true California beach colorsâsea-foam walls, sandy floors, pearl-pink curtains, and furnitureâbringing the outdoors in. If the decor was meant to be homey, it wasnât having such an effect on me. This room, like this town and even this country, was not my natural habitat, and I felt out of my element in it.
Iâd lived in California for seven years now, ever since my marriage, and I still didnât think of it as home, not like Nirvaan did. Home for me was India. And no matter the dark memories it held, home would always be Surat.
âAll done.â Dr. Archer pushed the computer trolley away and stood up. âYou can get dressed, Mrs. Desai. Take your time. Use whatever supplies you need. Weâll wait for you in my office,â he said, smiling.
Finally, I can cover myself, I thought. Gooseflesh had erupted across my skin due to the near frigid clinic temperatures doctors tortured their patients withâlike a patient didnât have enough to suffer already. Medical facilities maintained cool indoor temperatures to deter inveterate germs from contaminating the premises and so its vast flotilla of equipment didnât fry. I knew that. But knowing it still didnât inspire any warm feelings in me for the âthrong of professional sadists with a god complex.â I quoted my husband there.
Nirvaan captured my attention with a pat on my head. âSee you soon, baby,â he said, following the doctor out of the room.
I scooted off the bed as soon as the door shut behind them. My hair tumbled down my face and shoulders at my jerky movements. I smoothed it back with shaking hands. Long, wavy, and a deep chestnut shade, my hair was my crowning glory, my one and only feature that was lush and arresting. Nirvaan loved my hair. I wasnât to cut it or even braid it in his presence, and so it often got hopelessly knotted.
I shrugged off the clinic gown, balled it up, and placed it on the bed. I wiped myself again and again with antiseptic wipes, baby wipes, and paper towels until the tissues came away stain-free. I didnât feel light-headed. I didnât allow myself to freak. I concentrated on the flow of my breaths and the pounding of my heart until they both slowed to normal.
It was okay. I was not walking out with a gift-wrapped baby in tow. Not today. No reason to freak out.
I reached for my clothes and slipped on my underwear. They were beige with tiny white hearts on themâVictoriaâs Secret lingerie Nirvaan had leered and whistled at this morning.
Such a silly man. Typical Nirvaan, I corrected, twisting my lips.
Even after dressing in red-wash jeans and a full-sleeved sweater, I shivered. My womb still felt invaded and odd. As I stepped into my red patent leather pumps, an unused Petri dish sitting on the workstation countertop caught my eye.
The trigger for Nirvaanâs impromptu comedy, perhaps?
Despite major misgivings about the Hitleresque direction my life had taken, humor got the better of me, and I grinned.
Silly, silly Nirvaan. Baby in a Petri dish, indeed.
About the Author:
Falguni Kothari is an internationally bestselling hybrid author and an amateur Latin and Ballroom dance silver medalist with a background in Indian Classical dance. She writes in a variety of genres sewn together by the colorful threads of her South Asian heritage and expat experiences. When not writing or dancing, she fools around on all manner of social media, and loves to connect with her readers. My Last Love Story is her fourth novel.