The Chai Factor

by Farah Heron

  Dedication

  For Khalil and Anissa. The light within you is

  bright enough to illuminate the darkness in the world.

  Also, please clean your rooms.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  IF THERE WERE a Sufi saint who protected single women travellers, Amira Khan was sure she had royally pissed her off at some point in a previous life.

  The last time Amira travelled alone, she’d been unceremoniously escorted out of the security clearance area of the Toronto airport, blocked from boarding her flight to Philadelphia. Nothing like that could happen now—this was a train, and there was no border crossing between the small city where she went to grad school and Toronto. No border meant no overzealous guards accusing her of terrorism because of her last name and fondness for Arabic calligraphy. But as her train appeared to be stuck in some place called Port Hope, and as a creepy man wearing silver pants appeared to be studying her, Amira clearly couldn’t quite trust any deity to help her reach her destination unscathed.

  She peeked at the creep. It wasn’t his silvery-grey pants or his black shirt opened a button too far that was making the hair on her neck stand on end, but rather the man’s intense focus. Amira sank in her seat, hoping to hide from him. She hated travelling alone. She’d left her grad school campus early partly because of overly forward members of the male species—only to now get stuck on an almost-empty train car with one.

  Finally, the doors slid open for new passengers. Good. More people meant more protection should things get hairy with the locomotive libertine. She turned to look. Only one boarded and, holy hell, did he stand out. A tall man with an orangey-red beard, he had facial hair that was accessorized with a plaid flannel shirt and black suspenders, resulting in a look that some might call hipster, but Amira could only describe it as garden-gnome chic.

  Sauntering down the aisle, he bobbed his head to whatever was playing through his earbuds—she guessed either Southern rock or “new” country. Yup. Either a hipster or a hick. She hoped that, whatever he was, he would keep on walking past the three empty seats in her section, as she was not in the mood for small talk. His long legs strolled by and settled into the window seat diagonal to Mr. Silver Pants. Good. Maybe with the lumberjack watching him, the libertine would stop drooling so openly.

  The doors shut, but the train stood still, holding at the Port Hope station. She checked the time. By her estimation, they had been waiting in Port Hope for fifteen minutes now. This wasn’t how her day was supposed to progress.

  Amira had made the decision to come home early on impulse, after desperately trying to write her final project report in her dorm room while the undergrads in the common room loudly played something called Fizz, Buzz, Woof, which, from what she could tell, was a drinking game based on long division. At thirty years old, dorm living wasn’t ideal, but it was all she could afford. And she didn’t really blame the undergrads. She was once young and stupid herself. Arguably stupider.

  But thankfully, she was almost done grad school. She had worked so hard, and the final home stretch felt so good. Her report was due to her adviser in two weeks, and she had one more meeting on campus a week later. After two crazy-hard years of work, she would be granted her master of engineering in June. She would then return to her consultant job at one of the city’s biggest engineering firms, and those new letters after her name would hopefully mean a promotion within two years. Everything was falling into place. What could possibly go wrong at this point?

  “Attention, passengers,” the loudspeaker on the train crackled, “due to mechanical problems, all passengers are asked to disembark at this time. A replacement train is en route and will arrive shortly. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

  Amira groaned. Of course. Life always snuck in to kick her in the ass whenever she grew too smug.

  The Port Hope train station was tiny. And old. And hot. Not much more than a small one-room heritage building with arched windows and a wide roof overhang. And with the hundred or so people from the train inside and outside the tiny stone building, it was now very crowded. Amira wedged herself in the corner of the room and tried to blend in.

  “This is very bad luck, isn’t it?” a thin voice behind her said. She turned. Crap. Silver Pants had found her. His facial expression did not improve with the closer vantage point. And he smelled overwhelmingly of too much cologne.

  “Hmm . . .” She turned away, looking out the window, hoping he would take the hint.

  “Are you from India?” he asked.

  Amira’s jaw clenched as she turned back to him. His brown skin was just a hair lighter than her own, and while his English seemed fluent, his accent sounded like he could have arrived only yesterday from somewhere on the Indian subcontinent.

  “No,” she answered.

  “Pakistan then? Bangladesh?”

  “I’m Indian-Canadian,” she deadpanned.

  He stepped closer. In the crowded station, it was barely noticeable that he had invaded her personal space, but Amira still tensed. Her eyes looked for an escape as his pants skimmed the full skirt of her dress. She needed to get out of this place.

  What the hell had she been thinking when she dressed this morning? It would be near impossible to bolt or to kick the man in his iridescent pants wearing this dress and high-heeled ankle boots. She’d dressed up for her trip home—celebrating, in a way, her transition back into real life. And in her real life as an engineering consultant, tailored suits, or blouses and skirts, were Amira’s armour, not the sweats and hoodies of grad school.

  But now, she wished she had her sweats back. Or at least jeans.

  “You like Hindi songs?” the creep asked. “I sing in a Bollywood music group in Toronto.”

  He stepped half a pace closer, his hand inching towards the hem of her dress. Leaning into her neck, he spoke softly. “I heard Canadian girls don’t wear underwear . . .”

  She froze, bile rising to her throat.

  “There you are, babe,” a loud, husky voice next to her said. “Couldn’t find you on the train.”

  She turned to see the red-bearded man standing in her personal space. Up close, the garden gnome was bigger than he had seemed on the train. Bigger and more . . . everything. Hairier. Stronger-looking. And actually very handsome. His voice was deep, and although it was friendly, his eyes were intense, almost angry. And really bright green.

  Amira clutched her bag. With a wall o
n one side of her, Brawny paper-towel dude on the other, and Mr. Sexual Harassment in front of her, she had nowhere to escape. One step forward and she would be pressed against Silver Pants, and one step sideways would put the garden gnome on her ass . . .

  She bristled, taking a half step backwards and hitting the heel of her boot on the stone wall. The last thing she needed was these two boneheads competing over her.

  “This your boyfriend?” Silver Pants asked.

  Why wasn’t her mouth working? In an hour, she would no doubt have a biting comeback on her lips that would’ve sent both guys packing, but in this moment, she was frozen.

  “Yes,” the garden gnome responded, placing his hand on her shoulder. It was warm and solid through the thick fabric of her denim jacket, but she still stiffened. She glared at the gnome, but he held firmly on to her, his bright-green eyes glaring back.

  Despite the stereotypes of engineers being socially clueless, Amira liked to think she understood human nature pretty well. Especially male human nature. As a woman in a STEM field, she was usually surrounded by more testosterone than at a NASCAR rally. So, she did understand what was happening here. The lumberjack clearly had seen Amira’s panicked expression when the creep approached her. He was acting chivalrous. He decided the poor, single woman in the train station was in danger, and it was up to him to sweep in to her rescue like some sort of garden-gnome superhero. And while Amira’s logical brain told her to be grateful for the save, her anger did what it always did and silenced her logic. So, she couldn’t find it within herself to feel any kind thoughts for her saviour. There were countless other things he could have done instead of pretending to be her boyfriend. He could have told the other guy to fuck off. He could have alerted the train staff about the harassment. He could have done any number of things that didn’t involve touching her and claiming her as his own.

  Predictably, though, the lumberjack’s strategy worked. Despite his gnome-like attire, there was no denying he was a big man. A burly man. A man who could probably crush the creep with nothing but the heavy hand still perched on her shoulder. A small wave of terror passed over Silver Pants’s face as he took two steps back. He eyed Amira suspiciously. The hand on her shoulder tightened.

  “My apologies,” Silver Pants said, inching away, before retreating to lick his wounds. Yuck.

  Chapter Two

  THE MOMENT HER harasser was out of sight, Amira wormed free of the garden gnome’s grip and glared at him.

  “I don’t need to be rescued,” she said through gritted teeth. The last thing she wanted was more attention.

  “Sure looked like you did.” He grinned as he rocked back on his heels. “That guy was a snake. He would not have left you alone.”

  Amira stood taller to face down her noble saviour. It didn’t do much good—the lumberjack had at least six inches on her. She bit her lip, keenly aware of two things: One, she was alone in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by strangers. And two, things might have gotten ugly fast if Paul Bunyan here hadn’t intervened. Did he expect her to fawn over him now?

  Paul Bunyan smiled again. Dude needed an axe or a wheelbarrow to really pull off this look, but she had to admit he did have a warm smile. “Duncan Galahad,” he drawled as he shot his hand out, expecting her to shake it.

  She didn’t. Instead, she raised one eyebrow. “Galahad?” Her unwanted rescuer’s name was Galahad?

  “Yup, it’s my real name. Originally, my great-granddaddy was called Gallagher, but the ship from Ireland apparently had five other Gallaghers on it, so he wrote “Galahad” on the ship’s register. He didn’t like being one of many. Big fan of Arthurian legend.”

  Amira crossed her arms. She should have stayed in her dorm. If she wanted to be surrounded by clueless men with false chivalry, there were plenty of awkward engineering students there to unnecessarily white-knight for her. They may not be as brawny as this guy, but . . . Amira shuddered.

  This tiny one-room building felt hotter every second with the heat generated by dozens of annoyed train passengers. The soaring beamed ceilings and wood floors would have been charming in any other circumstance, but today only served to echo the irate voices and heavy footsteps. She looked out the window at the empty rails. Where was the replacement train?

  “You okay?” Duncan asked.

  She gifted him with her best scowl. The one that made interns cower in fear when she worked at the consulting firm. “You didn’t have to tell him you’re my boyfriend.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, I did. I know the type. He’d keep bugging you if I just told him to leave you alone. Guys like that have no respect for women, but they do respect man-code. Only way to keep him off you is to let him think you are someone else’s property.”

  “I’m not a prize for men to fight over! I don’t belong to anyone,” she snapped.

  “Okay, Princess Jasmine.” He laughed.

  “So, I’m Princess Jasmine because I’m brown?”

  “No. Because of what you said. You sound like Princess Jasmine from Aladdin. Remember? When all the princes showed up to the palace . . . You’ve seen Aladdin, right?” He shook his head, like he couldn’t imagine a grown woman not knowing everything about every Disney movie. “And anyway, I heard you tell him you were Indian. Agrabah is actually based on Iraq, not India.”

  Amira’s mouth fell open. A big, burly lumberjack mansplaining princess movies was a new one.

  “I live with my niece, she’s into princesses,” he explained with a wide grin that would probably charm the pants off every Disney nerd in a ten-metre radius.

  Amira stared at the man a moment before shaking her head with disbelief. “Look, I don’t need some mouth-breathing neck-beard who just emerged from the lumberyard to save me with grand gestures.”

  He snorted. “Mouth-breathing? I’ll have you know my sinuses are perfectly clear.” He inhaled sharply to prove his point.

  Amira tried not to, but she laughed. This guy was funny. “Glad to hear it. Anyway, I am not a damsel in distress and would prefer to be alone.”

  He smiled faintly as he bowed with a flourish. “Of course, milady. It was kindly meant. I wish you well.” He turned on his heel, and Amira watched Duncan Galahad’s broad, flannel-clad back disappear into the crowd.

  Finally alone, Amira pulled out her phone and called Reena, her best friend.

  “What’s up, Meer?”

  She leaned back on the window. “What do you want to hear about first, Ree? The broken-down train? The guy who tried to put his hand up my skirt and was drenched in more dollar-store body spray than your prom date? Or maybe the unwanted rescuer named Galahad who’s like a cross between a brave knight and Paul Bunyan?”

  Reena laughed. “What the hell happened? I thought you were taking the bus down? Where are you?”

  “Port Hope. I splurged on a train ticket, but there were technical problems. I thought the train would be more civilized. It isn’t.”

  “Oh god, Amira. Are you stuck there?”

  “No. Apparently, a new train is on its way. I should’ve splurged for first class.”

  “First class doesn’t actually mean classier people.”

  “No, but it does mean open bar.”

  Reena was Amira’s oldest and closest friend, and life was going to get a whole lot better once Amira was back to living in the same city as Reena. They had known each other since grade two, when tiny wide-eyed Reena nervously walked into Amira’s classroom as the new transfer student. Amira had been ecstatic to have another brown girl in her class. And when Reena showed up that Friday night as the new girl in Jamatkhana, the Ismaili Muslim place of worship, Amira had found a soulmate. No one knew her like Reena did. She could always be counted on for support, but she never held back from calling Amira out on her shit. Reena had siblings, but Amira had been an only child until she was nineteen, and Reena had filled the sibling gap in her life.

  She told her friend about the events of the last few hours, downplaying the situation with Silver P
ants and embellishing her description of the garden gnome and his chivalrous bow. Reena had a lot going on lately and deserved a laugh.

  “Green eyes and a red beard? Is the lumberjack hot?” Reena asked.

  Amira thought about Duncan’s strong forearms and broad back. “Picture an overgrown garden gnome with a regular gym habit.”

  “Brave Sir Galahad saved you from the evil villain. It’s utterly romantic. The perfect meet-cute.”

  Amira bit her tongue. Reena was hopelessly addicted to romantic comedies and spent altogether too much time preoccupied with Amira’s non-existent love life. Amira was certain it was to deflect attention away from Reena’s own dating woes.

  “Brave Sir Lumberjack isn’t my type,” Amira said. “He may not be an ass like Mr. Silver Pants, but . . . anyway, I’m not on this train to pick up men.”

  “It’s too bad nothing happened with the guys at school. Your program was only 20 percent women. That kind of ratio should have worked in your favour.”

  Amira sighed. Around the time she started grad school, she gave up on choosing men solely based on, well, superficial compatibility, and had been open to finding a mature, lasting relationship. Maybe an engineer, like her. Educated. Maybe another Muslim. Maybe Indian. Someone who would watch Bollywood movies with her after the hockey game. Not that Amira watched all that much Bollywood anymore, or hockey, for that matter, but she would like the option. What better place to find an Indian than an engineering school?

  But the five years off between undergrad and grad school had spoiled her appetite for dating her classmates, as living in a dorm full of brilliant, young engineering students as the “older woman” got stale fast. After the third try-hard player asked her to “teach him the ways of her sensual arts,” she learned to stay in her room most of the time. Her grandmother’s house, where she was returning to in Toronto, was blissfully free of men. Only her mother, grandmother, and eleven-year-old sister, Zahra, lived there.

  “I have standards, Reena. Just because the men at school weren’t up to snuff doesn’t mean I have to nab myself a lumberjack. I’d prefer to find an Indian boyfriend.”