Until We Fall

by Jessica Scott

  I’m clinging to self-control by a thread. A frayed one. “Look, Stephanie, I appreciate you reaching out but there isn’t really a conversation here. The program you all contracted with has been practicing cultural erasure in India for over a decade. The Indian student affairs board is aware of this and, well, if the board wanted to fix this, they’d find someone else—hell, anyone else—to provide the yoga services.”

  “There are legal reasons why we can’t do that. No one foresaw the students being as angry as they are.” Stephanie sounds exhausted and once upon a time, I would have felt sympathy for her. But I’m tired of doing the work of cleaning up people’s messes when I warned them this would happen.

  “Um, I did. And I submitted—in writing—why this particular yoga company was a terrible idea,” I say. “Just because the board assumed that I was being—I believe their words were ‘reactive’ and ‘hypersensitive’—because I was ‘too close to the issues’, doesn’t make it my responsibility to help now.”

  I’m calmer now. Hahaha, no I’m not.

  She pauses, the silence dragging on for so long I glance at the phone to make sure she hasn’t hung up on me. “Nalini, for what it’s worth, I tried to get them to consider your perspective.”

  Her words are a slap, a vicious reminder that I am and always will be an outsider at this elite school, just like I was back at West Point. “I know you believe that but I saw your email minimizing my argument.”

  “I’m hoping someday you’ll understand the compromises you have to make when you’re steering an organizational ship.”

  I press my lips together. “And I hope I never get the opportunity if that means I have to betray people who trusted me.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “Me, too.” I end the call before I say something I’ll regret. I shouldn’t be so hostile about the takeover at the Wellness Center with a variant of yoga that is pure bullshit. It’s definitely not very yogic of me.

  But since the destruction of my studio in the storm, everything has been off-center for me. I’m unmoored, unbalanced. Adrift even as I try to steer my life back on course by focusing on what I’m trying to build here.

  And the call with Stephanie, asking me to do work that I’ve already done when they didn’t listen to me the first damn time—

  I’m shaking with anger at being reminded of the crushing defeat at the campus advisory meeting a few weeks ago.

  It wasn’t even defeat, actually; it was a dismissal. It was being told I was being oversensitive because someone did something I disagreed with. Like someone using your culture to destroy your culture is something to just be calm about. I kick at an empty bucket, only to realize as my toe collides with the unmovable object that it’s filled with concrete or something damn close.

  My profanity-laced verbal explosion echoes through the dust-filled space.

  “Well, that’s one way to start the day.”

  I scream again for good measure and try not to jump out of my goddamned skin.

  Because my single-serving friend has just scared the shit out of me.

  * * *

  Caleb

  I really had no idea what her greeting would be, but a full-blown scream wasn’t really the reaction I was going for.

  She’s been a constant presence in my mind since the storm. In my apartment as night slithered across the floor, I’d think of her: sitting with her during the storm, riding it out. Feeling her lips brush against mine.

  Thinking about her whispering you’re not alone as I sat in my empty, silent apartment.

  God, but it’s good to see her. In full daylight, even in a full-on bout of anger, she’s stunning. Vibrant. The bright pink T-shirt she’s wearing makes her dusky copper skin glow. Her cheeks are flushed and hot damn is she sexy as hell when she’s pissed.

  “Do you always sneak up on people?”

  Maybe that glow isn’t about vibrancy, I suddenly think; it could be about anger. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve made that mistake.

  I’m torn between trying not to laugh at the obvious wounding of her pride and actual concern that she may have broken her toe. “Do you always rage-kick buckets when you get off of particularly passive-aggressive phone calls?”

  She pauses and I can practically see her debating whether she should be pissed at that response, or something else. She releases a heavy sigh and a tiny smile creases the edge of her lips. “You heard that, huh?”

  “Anyone could have caught that. Your voice was dripping with it.” I glance down at her toe, that she’s still favoring. Standing inside the doorway of the warehouse, all I can think about is how great it is to see her again.

  It takes a minute to remember my manners—that I am not a mouth-breathing drunk who is going to spend the night staring at her tits while I pretend to be interested in what she has to say.

  I go for something basic. Simple. “Are you okay?”

  She’s grinding her teeth as she sets her foot down. “Yeah. Mostly pride at this point.”

  “Yeah, well, pride might need to get its happy ass to the emergency room unless those boots are steel-toed.”

  She tips her head, shifting her weight to the damaged foot. “What do you know about steel-toed boots?”

  “I know enough to know that if you’re wearing them, you might not have broken your foot. Then again, maybe if you were wearing them you wouldn’t have been tempted to kick the bucket. Literally, not symbolically.”

  She takes a few steps and while she’s pretty steady, she’s still favoring her foot a little bit. Watching her, I don’t think it’s broken but it could be. Broken bones don’t always show up immediately. Weird things I learned at combat lifesaver training back in the Army.

  “I’m working on my temper,” she says dryly.

  I press my mouth into a flat line and barely avoid scoffing. “Looks like it. I thought you were supposed to be some yogic master with inner peace or some shit.”

  She braces her hip against a dusty windowsill and folds her arms over her chest. She’s still breathing hard. My attempt to distract her from the phone call doesn’t appear to be working. “Nothing about being a yogi says ‘perfect’.”

  “That doesn’t actually surprise me.” I lift one eyebrow and try to play it cool because this is the longest interaction with a female that I’ve had sober since…well, since our last interaction. “I was scolded at Whole Foods last week by a woman who claimed I interrupted her chi when I reached around her meditative pose in front of the Brussels sprouts.”

  “That did not happen.” Finally, she cracks a grin. “Wait, you eat Brussels sprouts?”

  “Oh, yes it did and yes I do. She was waiting for the universe to help her pick the right sprouts for her tofu.”

  She is the only person I can remember in recent time who has laughed at my terrible attempt at humor. I’m finding my footing. Slowly. One day at a time and all that.

  I’m not entirely sure how I feel right now. There’s something warm in the vicinity of my heart watching her visibly regain control of her emotions.

  “That is the most hipster thing I’ve ever heard.” She’s still smiling. And dear lord, she’s stunning. Standing in the early morning daylight, dust floats around her head like a sparkling halo.

  It’s not healthy, standing here and letting myself feel these things. I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable guilt to wrap around my chest and squeeze the air from my lungs.

  But after a moment, I realize she’s still talking. And I’m still breathing.

  I guess it’s a day for miracles, after all.

  She takes a step toward me. My breath catches in my throat. I am frozen, anchored in place as she steps closer, close enough that I can see the dusky rose flush to her skin.

  Her palm is warm on my chest. “How have you been? With everything?”

  It is the kindest question she could have asked. “Still sober, if that counts.”

  She smiles warmly, the heat from her fingers sli
pping beneath my skin to warm my soul. “That’s a pretty big deal.”

  “Yeah, well. Let’s not jinx it.”

  Her fingers flex against my chest. “It’s good to see you.” Her voice is liquid honey, smooth and rich and deep. “I wanted to thank you. For your help with the storm, but you disappeared.”

  “I figured you were busy after the storm. I didn’t want to get in the way or anything.” I look around at the warehouse, needing to distract myself from the urge to return her touch. “So you giving up on yoga and taking up growing weed?”

  She breathes out in that way that she does that I’ve been unable to get out of my mind since the storm. “Not exactly.” She turns away, looking at the boxes and dust and overall disorder. “CliffsNotes version: previous owners were growers. Got seized by the cops. Since the studio was almost a total loss from the storm, I basically used the insurance money and a little bit of my savings to get into this place with a manageable mortgage. And so I have a month and a very strict budget to get this place converted into a functioning yoga studio.”

  I drag my hand through my hair and dare to take a single step closer. “I guess that’s why I’m here then.”

  “Oh… You work with Bruce and Sam hired Bruce to work on this.” She glances over at me. Her gaze is warm now, not filled with anger from the phone call, as realization dawns. “I’ve never met any of Sam’s people.”

  “Bruce isn’t one of Sam’s people but apparently he works a lot of subcontracted jobs for him.” I point over my shoulder. “Makes my engineering degree from West Point useful, I guess.”

  I avoid looking at her, trying to ignore the hole in the floor off to the left of us. Instead of a normal staircase leading into the basement, the wood planks have been ripped away, leaving a ragged chasm that looks like a stairway to Hell.

  I’m waiting for a killer clown to crawl out of that son of a bitch and wishing I had something a hell of a lot sharper than a Leatherman on me.

  In which case, I’d be going to jail for arson because fuck that shit.

  “That sounds horrifying,” she says quietly.

  “What, dead clowns?”

  The moment I speak, I realize that I’ve drifted off and answered her comment with a complete non sequitur.

  “Not sure how we got from engineering to clowns, but okay.” She lifts both eyebrows, her lips parted with a slight crease at the edge.

  “Do you have something against clowns?”

  A little line furrows between her brows. “I thought we were talking about construction?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. I wandered off. Mentally.” It happens, I want to tell her.

  But I don’t. Because I can barely get myself out of bed every morning and I’m confident she can look at me and see every single way I’m beyond saving.

  Instead, she smiles and looks over at the hole in the floor, folding her arms over her chest. “I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of hoping we find some abandoned pot before we start taking apart the basement.”

  “I don’t know. I’m kind of partial to the last time we were alone in a basement.” I rub the back of my neck and glance over at her. “That doesn’t mean I’m volunteering to go down there or anything.”

  Her breath catches with a smile and the world goes still around me.

  And I feel something that is not total emptiness for the first time in weeks.

  10

  Nalini

  I smile and barely stop myself from leaning in. I don’t need to be seen making out in the middle of my future office space.

  Not that it’s not a tempting idea.

  I clear my throat and step back, my palm resting on his chest for a moment too long.

  “Yeah, well, it was definitely better than sitting in quiet panic in the dark by myself.” I tip my chin, glancing at his wrists. “How are the tattoos?”

  He offers his wrists for inspection. The dark Latin letters are no longer angry and lined with red. “Healing.”

  I run my fingers over the letters, not missing the raised flesh of a scar beneath my touch and the way he flinches when I find them. “Have you figured it out yet? Where you’re going?”

  Half of me doesn’t expect him to answer. It’s a deeply personal question that shouldn’t be asked in the broad light of day without the shadows to help hide things we’re uncomfortable with.

  He offers a lopsided half-smile that’s more of a self-effacing smirk. “Not really. But I’ll let you know if I figure it out.”

  The door swings open, pouring in light and disturbing the dust. A large man who looks like he belongs in a biker bar somewhere near either a prison or outside of Fort Bragg walks in as if he owns the place.

  His size isn’t diminished by the bright turquoise T-shirt he’s wearing that sports the logo of some marina in Florida. If anything, it takes a confident man to sport that color.

  “You must be Nalini.” He strides across the space and offers his hand. “I’m Bruce. I see you met Caleb?”

  My hand is swallowed in his massive fist and I grip back tightly. I’m used to big guys like him. Some realize their own strength and adjust their grips accordingly. Others are insecure man-boys and try to show how much of a man they are by their grip.

  Bruce is the former, because his grip is firm but not crushing.

  It’s telling. And for once, it’s telling a good thing.

  Some of the campus administrators I dealt with through the train wreck of the process of getting the yoga center on campus were crushingly insecure. They never realize a handshake is a dead giveaway.

  “We’ve met before.”

  “Good. I’m working with Rossi Construction and Caleb’s working with me and we’re working with you. We’re here to help with manual labor as well as keep you on track and under budget.”

  “I think Sam Rossi might be my favorite person in the entire world,” I mumble.

  “He’s a great kid.”

  I smile because I don’t think of Sam as a kid but Bruce clearly does. We’re a generation apart. I wonder how different we look to him.

  Does he see us destroying the world, as so many stupid think-pieces lament? If he does, he hides it well.

  “Caleb is going to walk you through the schedule. I just got called for a busted pipe emergency over on another project. Let me know if there’s any issues with the timeline or anything at all with the way we’ve got things mapped out.”

  Caleb looks as surprised as I am by the pronouncement but Bruce ignores his expression as he hands me his card. “This is my personal cell. Any issues Caleb can’t handle, call me. But I’m confident you won’t need to. He’s our representative on the ground.”

  Caleb clears his throat. “Really? I can’t even spell ‘representative’,” he says dryly.

  “Well, I guess it’s time you break out that fancy cell phone and figure it out. This is basic Project Management 101.”

  He slaps the folder he’s been holding against Caleb’s chest, forcing Caleb to either grab it or let it fall.

  He grabs the file and Bruce leaves as quickly as he entered. “Is that dude always that intense?” I ask.

  “Pretty much.” He still looks like he’s in shock and I’m trying to figure out why, other than that the job just got thrust on him.

  “How’d you meet him?”

  “He sort of dragged my ass out of an alley and forced his way into my life. He’s apparently part of my stay sober plan whether I want him to be or not.” He’s moving beyond shocked, slowly, to something else that might be irritation. It was easier to read him in the dark when it was just us, than it is to watch a thousand emotions play over his face in the middle of the morning. “He’s a retired sergeant major.”

  I nod. “That explains a lot.”

  Caleb sighs and opens the file. “Well, here goes nothing.” He hands me a copy of the project schedule. “I guess this is the part where I’m going to pretend to know what I’m doing,” he says, reading the sheet in front of him. “First order of
business is we need to get this space cleaned out. Then we need to send in the lead paint removal team. While they’re working up here, we can brace the floors and get that”—he motions to the hole in the floor—“repaired. Which, between us girls, I’m pretty happy to let someone else do.”

  I smile over my shoulder at his “us girls” comment as I walk over to a windowsill and lay my copy of the schedule down next to my files. “I think we can do this. How long does it take concrete stain to dry?”

  He reads over the notes Bruce has given him. “According to the time estimate, it’s done at night so we don’t track all over it. Rinse in the morning. Is this the design for the entryway?” He tugs a sheet of paper out of the folder, showing the mandala design in deep gold-stained concrete.

  “Yeah. Sam Rossi designed it.”

  “This Sam Rossi you keep mentioning sounds very different from the Sam I knew in the Army. This one sounds dreamy.”

  “Cute.” I grin.

  “Sarcasm is my superpower.” He glances over at me, watching me intently.

  “He couldn’t have been that much different in the Army.” I’ve known Sam for years and Caleb’s comment strikes me as…off.

  “He wasn’t, personality wise. I just never really thought of him as drawing flowers and shit while designing building projects. He was our assistant operations officer and he was much more focused on applying a boot to my fourth point of contact.” He clears his throat, his face flushing. “That may be how the story of the unicorn porn got started on a porta potty wall.” He rubs the back of his neck and looks down at the file.

  I try not to laugh out loud. “I was wondering what you two were talking about. Nice.”

  He flips a page in the folder, still not looking up at me. “I’m actually still learning how to be not an asshole so I’ve been avoiding things that involve—”

  “People?”

  He finally glances up. “Yeah.”

  “So does Bruce just always hand you things you’ve never done before and say go?”