Nalini
The old Calhoun warehouse is prime real estate. It’s nestled between the already gentrified area around the Durham Bulls stadium and the old tobacco district that’s still being restored one building at a time, and somehow I snagged a bargain that should have been illegal. Well, given that the previous owners were using it to grow pot…it pretty much was illegal.
I’m not complaining, even if I do think they need to legalize weed, especially for medicinal uses. Who knows; maybe if I can make a go of things with the yoga center and they legalize marijuana, I can expand into medicinal herbs.
I grin. I’ve clearly spent far too much time in a college town. Though, to be honest, I’ve never really had a problem with other people smoking weed. I’m pretty sure my paternal grandmother was smoking all the time when she was studying yoga. Not that that was sanctioned by Guru Iyengar.
Looking at the job in front of me, though, I might need to start. Standing inside the entrance at the top of a flight of red brick stairs, I survey the sheer magnitude of work ahead of me. My chest tightens.
Everything has to go. There are places where the floor is caved in, revealing a dark chasm some people might know as the basement, but I’m thinking aka the stuff of nightmares. A good chunk of floor will need to be reframed and replaced, but if Sam’s idea works, that hole in the floor near the stairs is going to be opened up to the two basement studios.
It’s daunting, to say the least.
There are rows of tables and hanging lights. The cops already took all the weed – at least I hope they did. I really don’t feel like dealing with disposing of any remains. The only thing I was definitely able to confirm about the building was that it had been used strictly for pot, not by meth dealers cooking their product. If there had been meth in here, I might just as well burn the place to the ground. The chemicals left over from that process are a whole new level of toxic.
The same cannot be said for the product of the recently convicted weed growers, aka the former tenants, however. That’s the biggest reason I was able to get the property so cheap—the bank wanted to recoup their investment and anyone occupying the space and paying for it is better than anyone who is not. I have no idea why the former owners were growing weed in the middle of downtown Durham, nor do I want to know how or why they ended up getting busted.
However, that means I’m now the proud owner of weed-growing equipment that the police didn’t confiscate for some reason.
Maybe I should hold on to it for when they finally legalize marijuana. The thought makes me snort and the sound echoes in the wide open space. This is North Carolina. They’ll vote for a Democrat before they legalize pot. At least the people outside of the Triangle would. Those in the Triangle—the area anchored by North Carolina State, the University at Chapel Hill, and Duke—with Raleigh and Durham in there, too—well, they’ve definitely got some pro-weed tendencies.
Sunlight spreads across the dusty floor, filtering in through massive windows colored with dust and age. The effect is somewhat haunting.
I glance over at the caved-in hole in the floor. It’s not that far from the stairs and the light filters down into it then disappears like it’s some kind of black hole sucking up everything. “This is how horror movies start,” I mumble. Maybe Sam is right and I should hire someone to do this for me. I’m not a big fan of cellars and the one below me seems like the perfect place for some high-powered psychopath to have buried some bodies.
And wow, are those some comforting thoughts. It’s really the mark of complete insanity how I’m standing here freaking myself out.
What I need to do is get some damn work gloves and get started.
But that’s the problem with massive projects: they’re overwhelming.
My phone vibrates in the back pocket of the beat-up jeans I wear for work when I’m not in yoga pants. I frown looking at the screen, then answer on speaker phone. I hate holding phones up to my ear. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”
Stephanie White and I will never be friends. At least not any time soon. She’s the executive director of the Wellness Center on campus and she and I used to be very close. I trusted her and she connected me with more than one young student who was struggling with a variety of issues. She linked me up with Kelsey Ryder, who has been a regular at my studio since she arrived on campus.
But Stephanie and I have recently parted ways over her contracting with a company for the new yoga studio at the Wellness Center that I vehemently disagree with and…yeah, unfortunately, I’m taking it personally.
It’s not easy for me to ignore when someone advocates for a yoga program that denies everything that makes yoga what it is, and instead turns the practice into a bastardized fitness program for rich women in hundred-dollar yoga pants. It’s not like I was going to start holding Hindu ceremonies there. Though I would have, had they asked me to.
I take a deep breath. I can do that in my own space. The door closing on campus means the one here, in this warehouse, has opened. I can do this.
“I wasn’t expecting to reach out, if we’re being honest.” Her voice is polished and smooth in a way that mine will never be. She reminds me so much of a younger Princess Leia before she was General Organa. Poised. And she’s always three steps ahead of everyone around her. “But I’d like your assistance on something.”
I bite back a smart-ass comment. I don’t believe in Hell but I briefly wonder if they’re holding the Ice Capades there.
Then I decide the universe doesn’t need me burning any more bridges. I don’t have nearly enough to spare. “I’m listening.”
She makes a quiet noise, barely audible. “Despite our differences about the Wellness Center, I would like to invite you to a panel on multiculturalism in a secular age, on campus next week. The Wellness Center has been dealing with a lot of…friction on campus from the Indian student body —”
“Wait, hold on a sec.” And there goes my self-control. I suck in a deep breath and hold it before I speak in a deliberate, epically false calm. Lying is sometimes a life skill. “You shot down my proposal for an Iyengar center on campus—which has a sizeable Indian student body, remember—to replace it with some bastardized commercial practice that is so patently ripping off Indian culture and is widely known in India for problematic proselytizing that targets the vulnerable, and you want me to come participate in a panel? To what? Help soothe things over for the mess you and the Board of Directors made?” There I go, breathing deliberately again. But I don’t yell. I don’t even raise my voice. No matter how badly I really want to. Releasing the fury gripping my lungs would be so cathartic.
“There’s no way I can convince you that decision was out of my hands, is there? The studio we ended up contracting with is connected to a powerful alumni family. This is way bigger than you and me, Nalini.”
I smile coldly, despite knowing she won’t be able to see it. “It’s not that it went to someone else. It’s that it went to this particular company. I warned you and the board that this company has a problematic history in India, but you didn’t want to hear it. And now you want me to be the token brown woman to help you out of the completely foreseeable backlash that I warned you about.”
“I understand you’re angry and you have a right to be.”
Honest to god, I almost snap at the patronizing tone in her voice. It’s a miracle my head hasn’t exploded.
“Look, there are some very important people who are highly upset about the Wellness Center and we’d really like your help to start a conversation. To get people to listen to both sides of the issue.”
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 slipping 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.