The Chai Factor

by Farah Heron

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE BAR WHERE Duncan’s friend was playing was so close that the three of them decided to walk instead of calling a cab. It was a cloudy night, and the air was heavy with humidity. Amira walked silently for the most part, listening to Duncan and Barrington talk music along the way.

  The bar wasn’t really a dive bar, but rather a hipster bar masquerading as a dive bar. Exposed wood ceiling beams wound with Christmas lights lit up a narrow space dotted with beer caps nailed to the wall and neon bar signs in the shapes of palm trees and skulls. It was the kind of place with a menu ranging from quinoa salad to mac and cheese to burgers and ribs, and she could bet a cocktail list including old-fashioneds and many tequila-based concoctions. Yup. May as well post a sign out front broadcasting Millennial Hipsters Welcome. The existence of this place told her that her area was starting the shift towards gentrification. No shock, really, this East York neighbourhood was one of the last on the subway line that held on to its old personality. Amira skimmed the beer list. At least gentrification meant better draft beer close to home.

  After ordering their drinks, they settled in to watch the band’s set.

  They were decent enough. Amira had been warming up to the alt-folk stuff that had become popular lately, and these guys had an interesting sound. Their singer wasn’t half as good as any of the quartet, though.

  Duncan barely spoke during the show, but Amira figured, since they’d come specifically to see his friend, she shouldn’t expect his attention.

  When the set finished and the speakers started blaring nineties house music about two decibels louder than Amira would have preferred, Duncan texted the guy to join them for a drink. He showed up about five minutes later, a beer in his hand.

  Duncan’s friend was a small man with mousy features, dark hair, and pale eyes. He gave Duncan one of those manly sideways bro hugs before sitting in the empty seat between Amira and Barrington, across from Duncan.

  “This is Amira and Barrington,” Duncan said. “Guys, this is my old jamming buddy Dale Evans. Dale and I go back to high-school days.”

  After a few minutes of discussion and appreciation for Dale’s current band, Barrington asked, “You from the same tiny town as Duncan?”

  “Nah,” Dale said. “Compared to Duncan here, I was a city boy. I’m from Lindsay, about twenty minutes from Omemee. We played in a garage band there when we were kids.”

  “Not a lot of opportunities for me to play music in Omemee back then. Lindsay’s not far. That’s where kids go for anything these days. Maddie’s dance school is there,” Duncan added.

  “We took a risk on this runt. He was only fourteen, while we were all seventeen or eighteen. His daddy used to drive him into Lindsay for practices and wait in his car. But man, Duncan’s finger work was amazing, even then. We were sure he’d be the next Dave Navarro. We’d have been huge if he stuck around.”

  Amira wrinkled her nose. “Did you call him a runt?”

  Dale laughed. “Yeah, he was scrawny back then. People thought our lead guitarist was some sort of child prodigy. He looked about twelve.”

  Amira looked at Duncan with one eyebrow raised, trying to imagine her lumberjack as a runt.

  “I was really short until I was eighteen,” Duncan said, grinning.

  She squinted at him. He would have had a lot less facial hair, too. She couldn’t imagine it.

  Barrington laughed. “That’s amazing. I’d love to see a picture.”

  “My website has some pictures of old Hollow Flesh gigs,” Dale said.

  “Hollow Flesh?” Amira laughed.

  Duncan chuckled, rubbing his beard. “Never let teenagers pick names for rock bands. It’s better than the original name, though. My mom’s a nurse, she wouldn’t let me play in a band called After Birth.”

  Amira exploded in laughter, eyeing Dale. “You guys were called afterbirth? That’s a terrible name!”

  Dale smiled, but the tight line of his mouth betrayed annoyance. “It was a cool name. It’s symbolic . . . the entirety of your existence after birth. No one knows the other meaning.”

  “Women would know,” Amira said.

  “We were a metal band.”

  Amira frowned. “Women like metal.”

  “So,” Barrington chimed in, always one to try to keep the peace before an argument started, “you play in any other bands, Dale?”

  The guys chatted a bit about music projects, and Dale and Duncan reminisced some more before Dale reclined slightly in his chair. “So, you both in this singing group with Duncan? Is it some sort of social justice thing?”

  “What? No, it’s me, Barrington, and two other guys,” Duncan said. “Amira’s my—”

  “Roommate,” Amira interrupted before he could finish the sentence.

  Duncan smiled. “We live in her grandmother’s basement with her. With the two other guys.”

  “Sounds cozy,” Dale said.

  “You don’t know the half of it.” Barrington laughed.

  Duncan took a long sip of his beer.

  “So, Amira,” Dale said, “you look like a girl who likes to party. Want to dump these sad sacks and come hang with my band? We’re heading—”

  “She’s with me tonight,” Duncan interjected. Amira turned to him, eyes wide.

  “Ah. So, it’s like that, is it?” Dale sipped his beer, eyes narrowing at Duncan before giving Amira a slow once-over. Gross. “Offer still stands, though, if you’d like to hang with some real musicians. Love your exotic look. What are you, anyway?”

  Good lord. She had heard that one way too many times.

  “What am I?” Amira asked.

  “Yeah, where you from?”

  “Toronto.”

  “No, like really from?” he said with a leer.

  Amira groaned, turning to see Duncan’s reaction to this douche canoe. Did Dale Evans not follow any bro code? Going after a girl his old buddy just laid claim to was cold. And Duncan looked pissed. Christ. How had she once again found herself in the middle of a chest-puffing display of masculinity between Duncan Galahad and a degenerate pig?

  It would almost be humorous, if it weren’t so annoying. She decided to put a stop to this once and for all.

  “Well, Dale,” Amira said with her sweetest smile. “I lived in Kingston until recently, but now I’m back in Toronto. But I’m sure that’s not what you’re really asking, so I’ll tell you the truth.” She put her pint glass down and leaned close to Dale conspiratorially. “I was actually born in . . . Markham, Ontario.”

  Barrington erupted in laughter.

  Dale laughed as well, looking at Duncan. “This one’s a pistol, ain’t she?”

  Duncan frowned. He still looked pissed. She forced a smile to show Duncan she could handle the likes of Dale Evans.

  “I think I understand you, Dale,” Amira said. “My parents are both Indian. Is that what you were looking for?”

  “I knew it!” Dale grinned as if he’d won something. He hadn’t. “So, you’re a Hindu?” he asked.

  Amira frowned. “That’s kind of a personal question, isn’t it?”

  “Your religion isn’t a personal question,” Dale said.

  Amira smiled her sweet smile again. “I don’t know, Dale, I don’t usually ask every white guy I meet if he’s Catholic or Protestant.”

  “Yeah, but we’re, like, normal here.”

  “Oh, hell no.” Barrington straightened. She had to hand it to Dale; pissing off Barrington was no easy feat.

  Duncan shot another annoyed stare at his friend. “Did you just say Amira’s not normal?”

  “Nah, man, she’s a babe. But you know what I mean, right? She’s, like, not white. When I saw you come in with these two, I knew the city changed you. Then again, you were always a bleeding lib.”

  Duncan was clearly furious now, and she didn’t blame him. Someone was going to get hit soon.

  “So,” Amira said evenly, “you assume because he’s friends with a black man and a brown woman, he
must be nothing more than a liberal social justice warrior? Like seeing us as, I don’t know, people, is only thanks to his politics?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Dale snapped back.

  Duncan spoke up. “Look, Dale—”

  Amira put her hand out to stop him. She wanted to fight this one herself. “I’m a Muslim.”

  “What?” Dale asked.

  “You asked if I was Hindu. I’m not. I’m Muslim.”

  “Really?” He snorted. “Like ISIS?”

  “Are you for real?” Barrington asked.

  Amira was wondering the same thing. Dale would be almost comically evil if she hadn’t met people just like him before. Thankfully, they usually kept their filth online, but every once in a while, she encountered one in the wild.

  Dale laughed at Duncan. “Actually, makes sense. You know the old joke: What do lead guitarists and terrorists have in common? You can’t negotiate with either of them. Turns out the joke’s about you and your piece here.”

  “What the fuck is your problem, Dale?” Duncan said.

  Dale shook his head. “No problem at all, my man. Anyway, if she’s a Muslim, where’s her head scarf?” He nodded at Amira. “Don’t you people have to cover your hair around men? Or is it okay if you’re sleeping with them?”

  “Seriously, shut up. Now,” Duncan said, teeth clenched. Someone was definitely going to get hit very soon, and Amira would put money on her being the one throwing the punch.

  Dale smirked at Amira. “Just asking questions.”

  This needed to end. She turned to see Duncan fuming with anger. He put his hand possessively on Amira’s shoulder, squeezing tightly. “Have you always been such a dick, Dale, and I haven’t noticed? Or is this something new you’re trying out?”

  Dale lifted his hands up defensively. “Jesus, Duncan, settle down. It was a joke, no offence meant. You used to be cool.”

  Amira lifted her pint glass, and it took every molecule of resolve in her body not to dump the beer over Dale Evans’s head. But that would be a waste of a perfectly good pint. She drained it in one sip and stood. Duncan and Barrington were both already done their drinks, and she had a feeling they wouldn’t object to leaving.

  “Shall we go, gentlemen?” She picked up her purse. “I’d like to say it was a pleasure, but it wasn’t. Get bent, Dale Evans.” She smiled as she walked away, followed closely by Duncan and Barrington.

  * * *

  “I’M SO SORRY, Amira,” Duncan said once they were outside. His arm found her shoulder. “I had no idea Dale would be so . . . rude. I’m sorry I brought you to see him.”

  “You didn’t know your friend was a bit racist?” Amira asked.

  “I’d say a lot racist,” Barrington added.

  “No. I’m not really friends with him anymore, and I guess . . . it never came up before.” Duncan’s arm snaked around Amira’s waist as they started the short walk home. He inched closer and said into her hair, “I’m sorry.” Amira shivered.

  “Guy was definitely an ass,” Barrington said, “but I got to say, Amira, you handled that well. I hate it when someone asks me what I am. I’ve been known to tell people ‘Vulcan’ when I get that question.”

  Amira sighed. “I get crap like that all the time. Little too used to it.”

  Duncan squeezed her tighter. “I honestly don’t know Dale that well anymore. I can see now he hasn’t grown up at all. He’s still pissed about me leaving them all those years ago.”

  Amira leaned into Duncan briefly, smiling. “It’s fine. Wasn’t your fault.” She wriggled free of his grip. “We don’t know who’s going to see us on the way home, though. I’m with Sameer, remember?”

  He nodded briefly, taking two steps away from her. She felt the loss of his warmth immediately.

  The moment they were in the basement, Barrington disappeared into his room to call Marcia, and Duncan pressed Amira up against the wall near the kitchen. He nuzzled into her neck, pulling all the air from the room as his lips grazed her skin.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

  She circled her arms around his broad back and rubbed. “It’s okay, I mean it. You’re not that guy.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “Duncan, look at me.”

  He lifted his head. The room was dim, so Amira couldn’t quite make out the green in his eyes, but she couldn’t miss the need in them. She smiled, raising her hands to the back of his neck, fingers teasing the soft skin she found there.

  He sighed as relief seemed to spread through his body, and he pressed even closer. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he said, lifting his finger to trail down her cheek. “This morning you said you couldn’t promise anything beyond that moment, and I get that, but I’ve been trying to figure out how to make you want me again. I thought taking you out tonight would work, but then—”

  “Not your fault, Duncan.” She pulled his head down by the neck and kissed him. Kissed him hard and deep, hopefully making it clear that he was not only off the hook for the terrible night, but he was wanted, too.

  His lips travelled down her neck and under her ear. “I bought more condoms,” he whispered.

  She grinned, slipping out from his grip and taking his hand. “C’mon then. I have some ideas of how you can make it up to me.” She led him into her room.

  After another mind-blowing romp in the hay with her real-life farm boy, they lay in each other’s arms, warm and comfortable. She nuzzled in closer, burrowing herself in a cocoon of contentment. It had been weeks, maybe months since she’d felt so relaxed. Not a bad way to spend the night. Maybe more nights? How many?

  “So, what happens now?” Amira asked, running her fingers lightly over his chest.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Duncan cushioned his head on his arm and looked at her. “If you’re wondering about the future, I don’t know either. I’m here for a few more days, for now at least.”

  She liked that answer. She smiled. “I can commit to that.”

  He kissed her. “Me too.”

  * * *

  WAKING UP IN the morning with a large, affectionate man was getting addictive, and Amira was all over the idea of a rehash of their late-night exertions, but Raymond had said he would have her report back to her today. Work first, fabulous rewards later.

  “Mmmm . . .” she murmured against the top of Duncan’s head as he feasted on her neck. “Have to get to work . . . it’s late . . .”

  He looked at her with a smile. “Yes, yes you do. And I’m not going to be the one to deprive you of your silent time.” He got out of bed and picked up his clothes. “I’ll make your coffee, babe.” Once dressed, he left the room, humming contently to himself.

  Amira turned on her computer and opened her email right away. A message from Raymond was waiting for her. She grinned. Thank god. Opening it, she skimmed it quickly before her heart absolutely sank. He hated it.

  Chapter Twenty

  HANDS SHAKING, AMIRA read over Raymond’s comments for a third time, shocked at what she was seeing. Raymond didn’t like her report. In fact, if she read between the lines, it was clear. He thought it was a piece of crap.

  She couldn’t believe it. All that work. All that research and analysis. All wrong. Raymond thought that her analysis of the algorithm outcome did not match the real world in practice. He suggested she take a second look at the data and how it was processed, and at the practicality of the conclusions she drew. He advised perhaps finding solutions that were easier and cheaper to implement. He even suggested reworking her algorithms.

  It amounted to redoing the whole project.

  She slammed her head down on her keyboard. How the hell had this happened? Her algorithm was solid. She may not have had the time to get to know her project supervisor that well, but he hadn’t had any issues with the quality or content of her work while in the lab. And the research she’d done since leaving school wasn’t half-assed either—she used the mo
st prestigious journals and drew on years of education and experience in her field. She had sunk endless hours into this project. She may never have been at the top of her class, but she put the work in.

  Was it possible this wasn’t a case of not working hard enough? Maybe it was a simple case of ability. She rubbed her forehead, feeling a prickle behind her eyes. That familiar uncertainty crept in, unwelcome as snow falling in the spring. This master’s program had been a monumental challenge for her. Watching other students breeze by seemingly without effort. Seeing them sail through the kinds of problems that sent her searching through infinite journals and piecing together algorithms. Watching them bro-down with the professors while picking her last to work with on group projects, knowing she couldn’t think on her feet as fast as them. It all stung. She knew she wasn’t the smartest one there, but she thought with hard work, she could overcome her less-than-stellar natural abilities.

  Apparently, she was wrong. She wasn’t good enough. And if there were so many issues with her findings and the impracticalities of them, how was she going to manage a senior real-world position in the firm? How could she lead a team towards practical and durable solutions if she couldn’t do it in a lab? She wouldn’t be able to hack it.

  She was a fraud.

  There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” she called from her desk.

  “Hey, gorgeous. Got your coffee.” Duncan placed a mug on her desk. “The guys and I are thinking we should get matching shoes, so we’re going back to the mall. You need anything before we go?”

  She looked up and blinked several times.

  “Amira, what’s wrong,” he said, catching the expression on her face.

  “It’s Raymond. He says my report’s no good.”

  “What? That can’t be!”

  “He said my sources weren’t strong enough to support my lab work, and my analysis seemed rushed.” Amira stood, pulling her hair into a ponytail. “Can you drive me to the library on the way to the mall? I can use . . . actually, I’d be better off at the lab.” She paused in her steps. She had a few days; she could go back to Kingston if she needed to. There was a ten o’clock bus, if she remembered correctly. She pulled her backpack out of her closet.