Until We Fall

by Jessica Scott

  “Maybe I need to get more into this yoga thing. You are peppy as hell for someone who’s had their entire shop destroyed.”

  She drops another log onto the stack. “I love the smell of fresh cut wood.”

  I must be losing my mind. Or maybe I just need sleep. Probably both. “It sounds like there’s a story there.”

  “I spent a summer in central Maine with one of my uncles. We had to split wood and toss it into the woodshed. It took a week, and I’d honestly forgotten about it until you started cutting.”

  I know she doesn’t mean the words the way they come out but they slice at a memory, buried beneath tattoo ink. Resurrecting the time I cut at my own flesh and now sought to hide the evidence of that time beneath tattooed thorns and roses. At a time when I didn’t know what to do with the pain eating away at my soul. A time before I found solace in a bottle and started killing myself slowly rather than attempting it all at once.

  “Glad to bring about happy memories.” I can feel my mood shifting and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

  She shoots me a look but says nothing and I am a fucking asshole.

  “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

  I look up at a voice attached to a big man with a big smile, stepping into the studio through the broken window.

  Nalini smiles warmly. “I should have known you’d show up, Sam.” She’s not even done speaking when he grabs her and pulls her into a massive embrace.

  She clearly knows him. I try not to feel jealous of the ease in how he moves, his confidence. He looks as if he’s never met a challenge he didn’t like. “Sam, this is Caleb. Sam and I were classmates. He’s one of like six I actually still talk to.”

  I want to ask why she’s so disconnected from other West Pointers but I don’t. The time for intimate questions seems long past.

  I suddenly miss the storm.

  I reach out and take Sam’s extended hand, determined to be civilized. “We’ve met.”

  She looks between us, waiting for one of us to clarify the situation, so I add, “Sam was the assistant operations officer in my battalion when I was a pain-in-the-ass lieutenant.”

  Sam grins and I’m mildly surprised he doesn’t look like he remembers what a dick I was when we ran into each other at The Pint a few months back. “Still surfing unicorn porn?”

  I was wrong. He does remember. And Jesus my face feels like it just turned fifty shades of red. “Yeah, about that…”

  He shakes his head and slaps me on the shoulder. “I’ve heard you’re working with Bruce now?”

  I breathe out sharply. “Yeah. He took pity on me, and decided to put my rusty engineering skills to use.”

  Sam makes a noise. “That’s good. Bruce…I’ve known Bruce a long time. I’m glad to see he’s making use of your…unique talents.”

  I make a noise. “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You should.” His wide smile is a flash of white against his deep mahogany skin. His grin reminds me of the Rock’s million-dollar smile and holy fuck I need to get some sleep. “So when were you going to call me?” he asks Nalini. “You know Sleet works at USAA, right?”

  She sighs. It sounds familiar, like she’s had this argument with him before. “I was working up to it.”

  I wonder what it feels like to have the kinds of friends you have patterns of conversations with, rather than stupid arguments about how much furniture you damaged during the previous drinking binge.

  I pick up the chainsaw and step out of the studio. Nalini and Sam are discussing something about a warehouse and insurance claims, things I know somewhere between jack and shit about.

  I’ll take the chainsaw back to Bruce’s shop. Tonight. This afternoon. Hell, whenever I wake up.

  My apartment doesn’t feel nearly as far away as it did in the middle of the downpour and holy hell I’m tired.

  I slip out into the street, heading for home. It’s better this way. That at least now, I can hold on to a memory of her without knowing that I’ve screwed everything up.

  My tattoos are aching. My wrists feel wet and I really hope it’s sweat and not blood. I hope I haven’t done any permanent damage.

  I glance back at the light pouring out of the yoga studio onto the sidewalk beneath the dark gray sky.

  And for once, I know where I am going.

  Away.

  Before I can do any real damage.

  8

  Nalini

  The headquarters of Rossi Construction is in an old tobacco warehouse a few blocks away from the Durham Bulls stadium, halfway across the downtown area. I’m not entirely sure what I expect from this meeting but Sam and I go way back to West Point, and if anyone can help me figure out the design for the biggest gamble of my life, it’s Sam.

  The destruction from the storm six weeks ago has given me an opportunity. A chance to expand.

  I’ve been needing to find a bigger space for about a year and a half.

  And I’ve been stalling. Because…fear.

  And now that choice has been made easier by…I don’t know if it was pure chance or divine intervention but I’m taking the leap. And I am terrified.

  That’s where Sam comes in.

  He is one of the few people I’ve kept in touch with from our class. He was an ace in our engineering classes back at West Point. In the first few days after the storm, when I was surveying the wreckage of everything I’d built with my own two hands, Sam was a lifeline.

  I’m deliberately trying not to think about Caleb. I’m grateful he helped with the chainsaw and the initial clean up. I’d wanted to offer to cook dinner or something as a thank you but when I turned around, he was gone.

  No number. No good-bye. Just…gone.

  I joked about Caleb being a single-serving friend but as it turns out, I guess that’s exactly what he was. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that, to be honest. But at least staying busy trying to get into the new building has kept me from dwelling on his complete disappearance.

  I suppose it’s for the better. I have far too much to do these days without worrying over someone I just met.

  And now I’m sitting on an old building that I’ve just signed a mortgage to, as opposed to shelling out ten thousand dollars a month in rent.

  I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to make this work and I’ve shut the studio down for a month. I’ve been doing classes out of an old conference room above the local bookstore but my clients are starting to grumble.

  I have four weeks to get the warehouse ready for the first class, planned for the first night of Diwali.

  A month to do a massive overhaul of a building that’s most recently been home to a small but industrious and still illegal pot-growing operation. That venture came to an unfortunate end as a result of some overzealous cops.

  Because why not, right? I inhale deeply, thinking of the destruction of my studio. It happened. It’s time to use that destruction to create something new.

  Besides, Sam will disown me if I chicken out. No matter how much my anxiety about the finances is crushing my lungs, I will make this work.

  I know I shouldn’t be surprised when I walk into the Rossi building and am immediately encased in a sense of warmth. The floor is polished ebony concrete mixed with a silver and gold stain. Industrial lights illuminate the space. Black and white photos of old Durham during the Civil Rights marches decorate the brick walls.

  The words Rossi Construction are burned into what looks like reclaimed barn wood.

  The place radiates style and class.

  In other words, classic Sam. Even his office space is clean and classy, sheltered behind a plate-glass window. He’s arguing with someone on the phone. He grins when he sees me and holds up one finger. I’m happy to wait.

  Once upon a time, I would have loved to have…ahem…gotten the finger from Sam. But that was before we both realized he and I would never be more than friends. He hangs up the phone and leaves the glass-enclosed offic
e, his smile wide and welcoming against his dark skin.

  “I still can’t believe you never said yes when I asked you to yearling winter weekend,” he says by way of greeting as he pulls me into a hug.

  God, but it feels good to be held by one of my oldest friends. I forget, sometimes, just how important regenerating a real connection is.

  “Yeah, well, why ruin a perfectly good friendship by screwing it up with dating?” I say, still smiling.

  There’s something warm and familiar about being around Sam. He was an ally at West Point when too few men were strong enough to stand up to the assholes who said women didn’t belong. I was grateful to him then and I have more than a few reasons to be grateful to him now.

  He leans back, his beautiful dark skin pierced by his brilliant smile. “I’m so glad you’re finally doing this.”

  I suck in a deep inhale, holding it then pushing it out against the back of my throat in the ujjayi breath. “Let’s not put too many expectations out into the universe. It sounds so much more intimidating when you say it out loud.”

  He ignores my anxiety. Not because he’s insensitive but because he knows me well enough to know that I don’t need any help in marinating in it.

  “I’ve done some market research and looked at some of the leading names in yoga to get some ideas. I’ve come up with something that’s a mix of Indian and contemporary American style.” He motions for me to follow him through the wide open space, to a table constructed out of the same old barn wood as the Rossi Construction sign. A cream twelve-by-twelve folder on it stands out in stark contrast against the dark stained wood. “Before we start, can I get you some coffee? Tea?”

  “Tea would be great, thanks.” My eyes are drawn to the folder and he grins.

  “Go ahead and flip through it. I’ll be right back.”

  I sink into a rich leather couch. My palms are slick as I reach for the folder. Everything about this is terrifying. Expanding into my own space is everything I’ve ever wanted but it’s such a huge risk. Most yoga studios don’t survive six months and if they do, they barely scrape by.

  I’ve been going strong since I started two years ago and I’m running out of room because my classes keep filling up. These are good problems to have but I’ve been resisting the move. The storm merely forced me into a decision point that I’d been avoiding.

  If I want to continue to serve as an entryway for people to learn about the Dharmic way of life associated with yoga, I need to change. To reach back to the country where I spent so many summers and bring something authentic to American yoga, like Swami Vivekananda did a hundred years ago. Guru Iyengar’s teachings are helping me stay grounded in authentic traditions. But to survive in this marketplace, I have to adapt. To create a fusion between East and West that somehow stays true to both.

  It’s a massive, massive risk. People in America tend to think of yoga as a fitness program, and for some people that’s fine. But commercialism has clouded the meaning and the spirituality behind it.

  Unfortunately, I’m part of the commercialism, despite wishing it were otherwise. I tell myself that at least I’m trying to make it something deeper, even if people do still have to pay for my classes.

  I’ve been heading back to my roots for a long time. This is just another step along the way, one the universe apparently decided it was time for me to take.

  Sam settles onto the couch next to me, handing me a mug that looks handmade. The tea smells rich and earthy and faintly of cinnamon.

  I flip open the folder and I’m hit with a sense of…rightness.

  “We’re going to stain the concrete to warm the space up. We’ve got a couple of designs you can do in the floor but I think large colorful mandala designs would strike the right tone. Painting the walls will brighten it. We don’t have to replace most of the windows, which will save you a ton of money, but we should paint the trim and redo the ledges. I emailed your Uncle Prakash in Mumbai and he’s already lined up shipping for the fabrics for the window hangings as soon as you make a choice. That will save you painting time.”

  The design is incredible. He’s somehow managed to overlay a multicolored mandala in the middle of a stained concrete floor at the entrance. The walls are a pale powder blue, a color that strikes me as the color of Shiva. A tapestry of the elephant god Ganesh hangs on one wall. Between two windows in the main studio hangs a spoked wooden wheel—a symbol of the Buddha.

  The details he’s found. I’m speechless, staring at his design as though my space isn’t currently a rundown warehouse filled with cobwebs and boxes of discarded dreams from the previous owner.

  “Sam…this is amazing.”

  He presses on, as if I’m not sitting there on the verge of happy tears. “The good news is that you can do a ton of this work yourself, like you wanted.” He flips the page. “This is the part where you’ll need some help.”

  He lays out the designs behind constructing dividing walls, a task which is both necessary and intimidating. “You’ve got two options if you want to create a heated space. You can build it into the space, and that means building walls and a ceiling and running ducts for the heat. Or you can make the heated studio in the basement. You know which one I recommend, right?”

  “Yeah, the idea of building walls by myself doesn’t sound too appealing.” Then again, neither does building the heated studio in the basement. “Is there any other way?”

  “There’s the possibility of simply dividing the space in two but you’ll have to have an electrician put the air on two separate circuits. You don’t have to decide immediately but it’s a big decision you have to make relatively early on.” He flips the page. “The flooring inside the studios is bamboo. Sustainable and incredibly durable, and this way your members aren’t doing yoga on concrete or nasty mats that absorb bacteria.” He glances over at me. “You’re good with installing flooring?”

  “Yeah. I put together my first studio. I can handle flooring, painting, and installing shelving. Walls, though…”

  “If you take my advice and make the basement into two separate spaces, it’ll make the upstairs a lot cleaner and easier. I’ve got a team that can help with the framing of the necessary dividing walls in the basement. And we’ve got to clear the building of lead paint. I’ve got the permits and hired a team. They’re ready to get started once you get everything cleared out.”

  I breathe out again. “I’m…this is real. This is really happening.”

  He grins over at me. “You deserve it. You know that, right?” He’s said that to me before. Many, many times.

  It’s hard to hear but I learned a long time ago not to ignore Sam Rossi when he tells you something. His faith in the people around him is…astonishing.

  I look down at the designs. “There’s so much that could go wrong.”

  “Everything already did, with the storm. This is cake for someone with your stubbornness issues.” He smiles wickedly, lifting his coffee to his lips. “Consider me your fairy construction godbrother.” He slides an invoice toward me. “Wholesale discount on the flooring ready for once we’ve cleared the building for reconstruction. You’ll have one large area that remains stained concrete and the smaller studios will be wood. The heated studio is going to take a little longer but you should be able to get this done in two weeks, no problem at all, leaving two weeks for cleanup and any errors. I’m assigning Bruce Forsythe to work with you on this. He’s doing it pro bono because we’re all about supporting a fellow veteran-owned business.”

  “Yeah? That’s really awesome.” For a fleeting instant I think the name Bruce should mean something to me but exactly what slips out of my grasp. I am not going to say no to help. It’s my biggest weakness and I remind myself to say yes. “My entire staff is working on this. I shut the studio down so we can focus. Thanks be to Mother Nature and all that.”

  I study the floor plan. There’s a small area set off for the entrance and a desk edged with stone detailing. “People will have to walk through the
retail area to get back to the studios,” I murmur.

  “That’s smart business. Helps with impulse purchases. And here you’ll have a small café. Uncle Ganesh has come through again with tea being shipped from the Mumbai Tea Company. You’ll have a studio that no one in the area can match for uniqueness and authenticity, and that’s something that people are willing to pay for. Cinnamon Chai’s manager is interested in renting space from you if you decide you want to farm the café out rather than run it yourself. Seeing how you’ll own the whole building and all that, bringing on renters would be a smart financial move.”

  I sip the tea, the warm cinnamon warming the back of my throat. “I’ll think about it. I’m honestly not sure I’m ready to turn this into an entirely commercial space. I’m on the fence about so many things. I haven’t even started thinking about expanding the retail section. I wish I could run this place without it but, yay capitalism and all that, right?”

  “You can support fair trade products from Mumbai and support local vendors here. You can do this in keeping with your philosophy.” God, but he says that with so much confidence and calm. Like the world is just going to make this dream a reality.

  I glance over at him. “Sam, thank you so much for this. I can’t even tell you how amazing this is. I don’t know how you did it but this is exactly what I wanted.”

  “To new spaces and old friends.” He clinks his mug against mine then pins me with a look. A look that says he’s about to ask a question I don’t want to answer. “Speaking of friends…What was going on with Caleb and the chainsaw?”

  I smile. Only Sam could make such a personal question so not threatening. “He was caught in the storm and we ended up taking shelter before the worst of it blew through. He…stayed the entire time then showed up with this miracle chainsaw. Then he...vanished. I wanted to write him a thank you note for his work with the chainsaw but he was just…gone.”

  “So you spent a couple of hours trapped in a basement with a complete stranger who then shows up with a chainsaw, helps you remove a shit-ton of big ass tree and then vanishes like a chainsaw-wielding fairy godfather?”