My phone flashes a red warning: Tornado and golf ball-size hail. Take shelter immediately. Awesome.
I decide that the better part of bravery is to not be outside, or anywhere near a window when all hell breaks loose, and I duck into the yoga studio. I’d rather face the irritation of a stranger over Mother Nature’s fury any day of the week.
Inside, there’s an immediate flash of warmth combined with a scent of something spicy and equally warm from incense burning in a corner. A hint of something lies just at the edge of my memory—something familiar and just there…and then it’s gone.
I’m pretty sure my ass is going to end up spending the rest of the day in a goddamned basement, the way my phone continues to wail with new emergency notifications like it’s the goddamned Apocalypse outside.
That could be about as much fun as getting shot. Which is not nearly as bad as it sounds. It’s the rehab that’s a motherfucker, or so I hear.
The woman behind the counter looks up as the door closes behind me. The sound of chimes rings out from the studio behind her. Her expression tells me I must look like a fucking crisis actor, soaking wet, like something the cat dragged in.
She’s vaguely familiar but I can’t place where I know her from. Her jet-black hair is pulled back in a loose knot at the base of her neck and her skin is a warm, deep copper, the color of sand on a beach at dusk. Her eyes grab me—soft, brown, and deeply intense. She moves with a smooth precision that makes me think this woman knows her place in this life.
I watch her physically straighten as her gaze drifts down soaking wet me. I wonder if she sees what I do when I look in the mirror. Does she notice the cuts on my hands from Bruce’s tools or the dark circles under my eyes?
I breathe in deeply, trying to grasp hold of the familiar sensation dancing at the edge of my mind. But it slips away again, leaving me alone. But at least that sensation is familiar.
She can’t see me. No one can, not if they’re not close enough. I’ve made sure of that.
Her gaze lands back on my face and she inhales deeply, as if she’s bracing for conflict.
I’m suddenly not sure if I’d rather be facing the storm outside, or if there is one right in front of me.
Maybe she’s afraid. Maybe she knows who I am. Maybe being around me is toxic. The word is bitter in my chest.
Maybe I deserve that reaction. I haven’t exactly been Prince Charming for the last few years. The realization is still hard to accept and even harder to try and change and, well…maybe I should try to get out of the habit of lying to myself these days.
I don’t know how to do this. How to have a normal conversation with someone. I don’t know what I’m doing here except that I wanted to get out of the storm.
I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with a woman where I wasn’t loaded to the gills.
I suppose there’s no time like the present and all that, right?
“Can I help you?” She’s stiff but trying not to be. I recognize the signs now, of someone who doesn’t want to be where they are. I guess that’s Bruce’s influence.
Is that good? That I can see when someone is uncomfortable? Even if the source of that discomfort is me and only me?
What the fuck am I supposed to do with the knowledge?
I open my mouth, hoping to say something that isn’t completely appalling. Hoping to say something normal like, Hi, I was just trying to get out of the storm. Great shop.
Instead, I stand there, my lips parted but no sound coming out.
Mute. Knowing she’s nervous. Knowing I’m cold.
Knowing there is nothing I can do to bridge the gap between us. Because someone like her will always be afraid of me.
And maybe she should be.
* * *
Nalini
“Holy shit!” The explosion sounds like lightning’s struck the ground somewhere close outside. It vibrates through my chest, ripping the air from my lungs. My heart slams against my ribs, my scream tears blood and tissue on its way out of my throat.
Seeing how he ducks at the sound of the blast, too, I’m at least not worried about salvaging my pride. That fear and the look in his eyes make him seem like less of a threat. I’m oddly relieved that I’m probably not about to be robbed at gunpoint by the soaking wet meth addict standing in the doorway of my studio.
Maybe he just looks a little strung out from insomnia. That’s what I’m going to tell myself, anyway.
Behind the shadows in his eyes there is something compelling, something that’s drawn me to him from the moment he stepped inside my studio. Even as the rational part of my brain was tempted to press the panic button.
Then I’m blinded by an alarm flashing from the cell phone on my desk. “You’re welcome to join me in the basement or not but you have to get away from the glass,” I tell him quickly.
He frowns. “I’m sorry?”
“Tornado warning. Isn’t that why you ducked in here?”
Awareness fills his eyes and he nods. “Um, yeah.”
I can’t tell if he’s drunk or high. And while spending the morning hanging out in the basement with a complete stranger when I’m supposed to be teaching my first yoga class isn’t exactly a great way to start a week, clearly the universe has other plans for me.
I move quickly as the sky fills with light again, flicking the lock on the front door and motioning for him to follow me. The lights flicker from the studio above as we descend the stairs and I offer a quick prayer that they’ll stay on.
I hate basements. There’s something primordial and terrifying about descending into the literal bowels of the earth, especially now, with hell raging in the sky overhead. As we step into the basement, the studio goes dark as the power finally surrenders to the storm. The flashlight on my phone pierces the darkness and chases away any demons that might be living among my yoga mats and extra stock.
But that light won’t last forever. And I need to find a candle before the battery runs out.
Of course, I’m using the space for storage. I’d be a fool not to. I just usually ask Cricket—my office manager, who is not afraid of anything—to supervise the retrieval of things from the dark.
I fumble for the basement light switch at the bottom and my hand collides with another warm hand. “Jesus!”
“Sorry.”
The fact that it’s the wet guy’s hand and not attached to an evil spirit in the dark makes me ridiculously happy. I reach out, touching flesh that is warm and solid and male.
Of course, then the power goes out completely and we are plunged into near complete darkness, with the only light coming from my cell phone. “Almost forgot you’d followed me.” There’s no hiding the panic in my voice. I hate the dark.
“I’m so fucking glad you’re not a zombie.” His voice is dry and droll. So completely at odds with everything I’m feeling. The laugh steals out of me. I can’t help it. It’s better than crying. The panic of stepping into the dark isn’t gone, but the laugh helps. I don’t take my fingers from his. I’m terrified and panicked enough to need the human connection right now.
I hate the dark. No matter how much I meditate, the chasm that opened inside me on my deployment to Syria—the deployment that didn’t officially exist—hasn’t closed.
“The feeling is entirely mutual,” I finally manage.
I am intensely aware of the heat from his skin penetrating his damn T-shirt. The solid warmth and the steady rhythm of his pulse beneath my fingers.
He moves then, and his palm covers the back of my hand. “Are you okay?”
That is such an infinitely loaded question with a thousand ways to answer.
“Not really.” It’s so easy to admit the vulnerability to a stranger. Here in the dark with the violence raging overhead. “I don’t like storms.”
“Me either. Haven’t really enjoyed them since Iraq.”
My fingers flex against this stranger’s skin, reaching toward the common bond I didn’t realize we shared. “Army?�
��
“Yes.” He captures my hand. “You’re freezing.”
“So are you.” He shivers as the words brush over my skin. “Did you know panic tends to use your blood for other things? Appendages staying warm isn’t a priority when you’re running for your life.” I slip my hand from his, stepping into the darkness to the rack where my yoga blankets are stacked neatly. “Here.” I toss him a black and white and red wool blanket.
“Damn, this is softer than it looks.” He slings it around his shoulders. “Thank you. Would it be unmanly of me to admit I’m freezing my balls off?”
I wrap up in a blanket, too, and step closer to him. Because I don’t want to be alone in the dark.
“If the dark fucks you up, why not have backup power or something?” he asks when I don’t answer.
Such a pragmatic suggestion, but utterly useless when I’ve got all I can handle just avoiding triggers when the lights are on. “Guess you didn’t hear that part about the panic?”
I toss a couple of meditation pillows onto the floor.
“Can we use this?” He lifts a fat white candle off a shelf.
“Yeah. Not sure how long the storm will last.”
He sets it down and I try not to notice the way his body moves. He’s not graceful. He’s…rough. Stiff. As though life has already been incredibly hard on his body. “Do you have anything to light this with?”
“I think so.” I vaguely recall something about ceremonial matches that Cricket had stored down here and the moment I find them I love her more than I already did.
He slips the matches from my hand and lights the squat fat candle. He doesn’t demand to know why I didn’t light it myself. Doesn’t question the shaking of my hands that I hide by clicking off my cell phone light as soon as the candle flame lights up the darkness.
I sit on one of the meditation cushions, folding my legs in front of me, far enough away from the candle that I can’t feel its warmth, but close enough that I’m within the circle of light spread by its tiny flame.
The edge of his mouth curls a little. He’s still watching me, those dark eyes filled with…something I can’t identify.
Something I’m afraid to acknowledge. Something tainted with fear.
“I’m Caleb,” he says after a moment.
The air in the basement is cold. My bones ache now when I get cold. That’s new since coming home from the war. I try to ignore it. But sometimes it rears up and reminds me that I still hurt.
Like now. In this moment, the simple human connection of telling someone my name is a needed distraction from the memories raging with the storm outside. “I’m Nalini.”
He’s focused and intense, like rubbing my freezing fingers is the most important thing in the world. “I went to school with a Nalini once upon a time.”
“It was my grandmother’s name.”
“It’s Hindi, isn’t it?”
It’s funny how a benign conversation can draw you away from the edge of panic. “Yeah. Most people don’t know that.”
“I’m not most people.”
I smile faintly. “Apparently.”
He sits next to me, soaking wet and wrapped in a yoga blanket. The shadows from the candlelight have cut his features, sharpening some, softening others. He’s taller than I am, broader. He’s a big man with a wide chest and strong hands.
I notice men’s hands now. I notice whether they’re manicured or rough. Whether the nails have been trimmed or broken.
Caleb’s hands are rough. There’s a fresh cut along the tops of his knuckles on one hand and each of his wrists are wrapped in bandages. I’m hoping those are from tattoos instead of something else.
I flinch as another explosion makes the walls around us shudder. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice he does the same. Despite the layers of building between us and Mother Nature’s fury, the storm sounds like it’s right on top of us. Maybe it is.
“Fuck, this is a bad one,” he mutters.
“Yeah.” The fear is back in my voice, shaking and violent. I need to focus. To try and find a way out of the narrow tunnel drawing me back to a violent hyper awareness I’ve tried to leave behind.
A siren blares in the darkness. He glances down at his phone. “Shelter in place,” he reads, looking up at me. “I think we’re going to be here a while.” He shivers again.
“Do you want another blanket? I have sweatshirts in one of these boxes if you’d like to change.” Focus on the things I can control. Release the things I can’t.
Taking care of others is so much easier than taking care of myself.
“I’ll manage.” He sets the phone by his feet. “Thank you, though.”
Any other time, being in the dark like this would erode the fragile remains of my soul that I’ve pieced back together over the last few years. But in that moment, the darkness isn’t terrifying. Even the candle’s flame, which I would normally hate, offers a golden-hued comfort. I am so grateful not to be in the dark, with the explosions and violence, alone.
I’ve been there before.
I keep trying not to go back. And every time I think I’m okay, that I’ve finally released the last of the terror and fear from the memory of my muscles and tissue and bones, it resurfaces.
Like now. With the storm tearing at the world overhead, my brain is trying desperately to remind my body that we are not in Syria, that we are not trapped.
That I am not burning.
2
Caleb
I adjust the cushion and lean back against the wall. What I really want to do is light a dozen more candles and get a small bonfire going but that wouldn’t be very considerate of my host and products I’m confident she’s trying to sell.
“How long do you think we’ll be down here?” she asks after a long silence.
It’s hard to miss the nervous edge in her voice. She’s trying to hide it but it’s far too obvious. She’s watching the candle like a mouse watches a cat.
She’s not doing too hot right now. To be honest, neither am I.
“I don’t know?” I try to keep my voice from chattering from the cold. That’s me, trying to be all manly and stoic, when I’m really just damn glad that I’m not alone riding this one out.
“The last I heard, it stretched from here to Alabama with another round coming in over the Atlantic. Something about a double hurricane system.”
“So we’re caught in the middle. Awesome.” I sigh and try not to shiver too obviously.
She makes a noise. “I should have grabbed my cell phone charger.” There is blame in her voice, like she’s punishing herself for leaving it behind.
“Not sure how that helps with the power being out.” I breathe out slowly. “At least we’ve got the candle.”
“Until we don’t.” She shifts, leaning back on the wall next to me. I try not to notice the warmth radiating from her body. “So, Caleb. What were you doing out in a five-in-the-morning storm?”
I glance over at her. “Working off my insomnia.”
Her faint smile fades, her eyes filling with an insidious fear I recognize all too well. “And how were you doing that, that you got caught in the storm?”
“I was building a table at my boss’s Maker warehouse. When he closed it down at midnight, I decided to hang out downtown rather than head home. And since I’m a dumbass who didn’t check the weather, here I am.”
Ignoring the fear underlying her questions is the polite thing to do. It’s something Bruce taught me. Something I’m working on. Learning to read other people’s emotions through what they don’t say. Sometimes, saying nothing is the right thing. No one likes to have their panic and fear used against them.
“If you weren’t doing this right now, how would you have spent this morning?” I’m curious. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been in a yoga studio before.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone who wasn’t sure if they’d been to a yoga studio before.” She cups her head in her hand, bracing her elbow on her knee. “I’d be
teaching a morning Iyengar yoga level two class.”
“So…like twisting people into pretzels and shit?”
Her lips twitch at the corners. “Your knowledge of yoga is just good enough to be entirely wrong.” But there is no malice in her voice. She frowns at me and gives me what I can only assume is a wicked side eye. “The asana practice involves moving meditation. It’s only one of the eight limbs of yoga.”
“Eight limbs? Who knew? I thought it was all yoga pants and vegan hippies.”
I’m teasing her, trying to take her mind off the fear I see skirting in the shadows around her eyes. I might be dead ass tired but I’m also keenly aware that I’m a strange man that she doesn’t know and she’s well within her rights to be wary. If I can put her at ease…well, that maybe makes me a little bit less of an asshole.
And these days, every little bit counts.
“Not even close.” She rubs her index finger down the center of her forehead. She is stillness in that movement. It’s fascinating. “I could talk all morning about the problems with yoga in the West but that would probably put you at risk of running back into the storm.”
It’s my turn to tip my head and look at her. “Why do you say that?”
“Most folks eye roll pretty hard when problematic culture is identified.”
I nod slowly. I’m afraid to ask what she’s talking about, afraid to ruin the hesitant peace between us by asking the wrong question.
She shifts and I can’t miss how she pulls her legs away from the flame. “You don’t like the dark but you don’t like candles either?”
“It’s a long war story with lots of personal trauma,” she says in the dry way that only a veteran can. The biting edge of black humor that only someone who has stared into the abyss of war can understand.
“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
That makes her smile. Just barely; it cracks the edges of her lips. She threads her fingers into her hair and rests an elbow against her bent knee. “Sure. I mean, if you can’t confess your darkest personal trauma to a complete stranger while hiding from a force majeure, who can you tell?”
Until We Fall Page 2