Until We Fall

by Jessica Scott

  All told there are fifteen old pipes in the box and she looks as happy as someone who just won the lottery. “How much are they worth?”

  “I’d have to do some research but they could easily be a couple hundred dollars, depending whether they’re authentic or not.”

  I nod slowly, impressed. “That’s a hell of a score.”

  She makes a noise. “Yeah, well, just lucky we looked in the box before throwing it out, eh?”

  “Guess we’ll be digging through the rest of them?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  She seems inordinately happy at the discovery. It does something warm inside of me to see the pleasure on her face. To see her eyes light up and her mouth soften.

  If I’m not careful, I could get used to the sensation.

  But that would mean getting attached. And I can’t do that.

  There are more heavy wooden planks stacked against one of the basement walls. “Why on earth did they have all this old barn wood and planks?”

  She braces her hands on her hips. “You’d be surprised what those planks might be worth. People pay thousands of dollars for salvaged wood these days.” She brushes her hair out of her face. “I mean, if I was going to open a marijuana shop, I’d want to draw in a wealthier clientele. Wood shelves, rustic décor would draw a hell of a lot of different folks than your normal head shop filled with cheap glass bongs and sex toys. Maybe they had bigger plans that got interrupted when they got busted. ”

  I cough hard. “Jesus, what kind of head shops have you been in?”

  She laughs mercilessly. “You don’t want to know.”

  “You know a very strange mix of people.”

  “Oh, yes. I know of one table made from the wood floors of a Russian church that went for like eighty thousand dollars at a private auction.” She grins, swiping her hair out of her face with the back of her hand. “Yeah. I’m pretty lucky like that.”

  It’s hard to disagree. She’s incredibly lucky.

  She has her studio. Her passion for whatever this place is going to turn into.

  I can’t even begin to conceptualize what that feels like.

  But watching her talk about the things she’s done and the stuff she knows and the things that piss her off, I have a hint of what I’ve been missing.

  Life. This must be what living feels like. Joy and sadness and anger and passion. All of these things in one package.

  Once again, I feel a sense of loss for what might have been.

  13

  Caleb

  We haven’t made nearly enough progress by the time the door swings open and the rest of her people walk in.

  I’ll be honest. I didn’t know what to expect from the people who work at the yoga studio with her, but I’m surprised nonetheless by them.

  I smile and make all the right noises as she introduces me.

  “Cricket Dawes was my right hand woman in the Army. She is now the goddess behind my marketing and social media, and is a logistics miracle worker.”

  Cricket smiles and grips my hand with a strength that is surprising given her small stature. She’s tiny, with deep ebony skin and tight red spirals of hair held back from her face by a bright yellow headband. “Nice to meet you.” She radiates energy in a way that is wholly enticing. I can see why people might gravitate toward her. “I brought donuts from Spike’s Co-op. And Spike, by the way, wants first crack at providing your future coffee and tea shop with baked goods.”

  “You are truly a goddess,” Nalini says. “I haven’t even decided about a coffee shop yet.”

  “Yes, you have,” Cricket says. “You just don’t know it yet.”

  I slap my gloves against my jeans, watching Nalini’s expression shift into a smile at Cricket’s declaration. “Isn’t Spike’s Co-op a gluten-free bakery?”

  “Yeah. They cut us a deal because we kept some of his specialty products in the coffee shop in the old studio. So, free gluten-free goodies.” Cricket is entirely too matter-of-fact as she pulls the brown cardboard box out of a tan Arjuna Yoga tote.

  I have to give it to Nalini—she’s got her brand right: the archer silhouette is bent back, arrow pointing to the sky, surrounded by a blue circle. Arjuna Yoga is curved around the outer edge in crisp script letters.

  The fact that Cricket is using the bags around town for errands—smart. Very smart.

  I’m still skeptical about the donuts, though. I don’t have any moral objection to gluten-free but I’m slightly attached to gluten myself.

  I catch Nalini watching me. “What?”

  “You look like you’re about to gag,” she says with a grin.

  “No I’m not.”

  “You have something against gluten-free?”

  I hold up both hands, knowing damn good and well I’m not walking into that ambush. “Nope. I’m just a fan of pure white flour and sugar, that’s all.”

  Cricket glances over at me but says nothing.

  “Shit,” I mumble. I feel like an asshole. “I’ve heard Spike makes really great kolaches.”

  Cricket grins and folds the bag up. “I don’t remember the last time I had flour but from what I can tell, you can’t tell his gluten-free from regular baked goods.”

  “Maybe I’ll test that out later,” I say, hoping that’s enough of a peace offering. I’d hate to offend her thirty seconds after meeting her.

  And holy shit, is that a far cry from what I would have done a couple of months ago. I would have run my mouth about how gluten-free people were going to be the first ones to die in the Apocalypse because of their bullshit eating disorders.

  Bruce clued me in that being a dick about people’s food choices was a really dickish thing to do.

  I breathe in deeply, letting go of the anxiety that circles my heart thinking about all the fucked-up things I’ve said and done in the past.

  “Bodhi’s right behind me. He’s getting the coffee and tea,” Cricket says, pulling out what looks like the most glorious donut I’ve ever seen in my life.

  On cue, Bodhi walks in.

  He’s definitely not what I expect. He’s built like a brick shithouse. Okay, maybe a body builder. He’s wearing a tank top—because who doesn’t wear a tank top to a work site? Um, nobody—and is tatted out in full, bright-colored sleeves, one of which might actually be a peacock that spreads down one arm and probably across half of his back. His bright blue eyes are sparkling as he strolls in with a little too much swagger, and he’s grinning from ear to ear like he’s got a secret to tell.

  “You look like you’ve had far too good of a night,” Nalini says with a grin, taking one of the cups from his cup holder.

  “I did. Graham and I went on a second date.” His voice is deep and smooth and he is as far from being a yoga instructor as I can imagine. “I know it’s your studio and all but I’m a pretty big fan of Mother Nature’s destruction right now, because I didn’t have to rush off to work.”

  He winks and offers the cup holder to Cricket, who takes one of the tan cardboard cups. “Who’s this?” he asks, finally noticing me.

  “Caleb,” Nalini says, taking the lid off her cup and setting her tea bags in the steaming water to steep. “He’s the site supervisor for Rossi Construction.”

  The introduction’s only partially true—I’m here as a stand-in for Bruce. I’m not officially working for Sam’s company.

  I’m a fraud and Nalini just lied to cover it up.

  I can’t explain why that introduction rubs me the wrong way but it does. I nod and offer to shake Bodhi’s hand once he sets the rest of the drinks down. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise. You don’t look like you’re much into yoga,” he says, gripping my hand with enough strength to break bone.

  Oh good, a dick-measuring contest.

  “I could say the same about you.” I squeeze his hand back, then break the grip.

  “Touché,” he says lightly. But I don’t miss the suspicion in his eyes as he watches me. “How long have you worked for Sam?”
/>
  “I don’t work for him. I’m working with Bruce Forsythe.”

  Bodhi’s expression shifts suddenly as he lifts the lid off a cup of coffee that smells like heaven from across the narrow space. “Oh, you’re one of Bruce’s strays.”

  “Bodhi.” There’s a warning in Nalini’s voice. An edge that wasn’t there a few moments ago.

  Clearly, the dick-measuring contest has not gone unnoticed.

  I straighten. I might be newly sober and I might really be trying hard at not being an asshole but I’m damn sure not going to get my punk card pulled by some vegan hipster. I’ve got some pride, after all. Not much, but I’m going to hold on to the last shred of it with everything that I fucking am. “Not sure what you’re getting at, but if you’ve got a problem with me being here, we can discuss it outside.”

  Old habits die hard.

  I’m either about to get my ass kicked or make a new best friend but apparently, we’ve got to sort out who gets to be in charge of this relationship.

  God, but I am so tired of this dynamic.

  I hold up my hands. “You know what, never mind. I’m going to get some air.”

  I walk off before I make any more of a mess of things.

  * * *

  Nalini

  “Was that necessary?”

  Bodhi tips his head, inspecting the contents of his opened coffee. “Yes.”

  I press my lips together in a flat line. “Care to explain why?”

  “Bruce Forsythe has a habit of taking in men who don’t exactly turn the right corner. We’ve all worked too hard to build up Arjuna Yoga without him bringing in some rando off the streets who might get drunk and crash a car into the wall.” He sips his coffee.

  “Care to elaborate what that has to do with Caleb?” I fold my arms over my chest, fighting an irritation that’s mixed now with awkward gratitude for Bodhi’s loyalty.

  “Could be nothing. Could be Bruce has gotten better about who he brings on board for his company. Or it could be that Caleb is a train wreck waiting to happen and I don’t want to see you left holding the bag because Bruce puts faith in people who don’t deserve it.”

  It takes everything I am not to bite back at his judgmental attitude. The only thing that keeps me polite is the fact that he’s doing it out of loyalty and protectiveness. Bodhi has that in spades.

  “Caleb has worked hard to be where he is. I recognize that you’re protective and I appreciate that. But that was uncalled for.” I also don’t need to tell him that Caleb has already been a train wreck. I have this irrational need to defend him in this moment. “I trust him.”

  Those words are surprisingly easy to say.

  He presses the lid back onto the cardboard cup and says nothing.

  Still. It grates that he’s flat-out giving Caleb a hard time for no reason whatsoever. It violates my sense of fairness, even if it also triggers my wariness. “That’s not who we are,” I say quietly. “He’s working with us. And until I have a reason not to trust him, I choose to trust him.”

  Bodhi presses his lips together and remains silent. I’ve known him long enough to know he’ll take the correction without taking it too personally. He’s usually so easygoing. It strikes me as wrong that he’s pushed back against Caleb so sharply without even knowing him.

  “I have to get something from my apartment.” I stuff my gloves into my belt. “Start going through those boxes and seeing what’s in there. We’ve had a couple of good scores already so don’t just throw everything away. I’ll be back in a little bit.”

  I head outside, stopping as Cricket follows me.

  “What was that all about?” she asks.

  I push out a deep breath then glance over at her. She’s been my friend since forever, since our friendship wasn’t allowed because she was enlisted and I was an officer. “Just…I don’t know enough about Bruce and his company to argue. But I know Caleb. And Bodhi was out of line.”

  Cricket folds her arms over her chest and I recognize the stance. “I’ll talk to him. But you know he’s just looking out for you, right?”

  “I do. And I appreciate that.”

  A sly smile slides across Cricket’s deep red lips. “You better get going if you’re going to catch up to him.”

  I shoot Cricket a look, knowing that she’s read way more into the morning’s interactions than I intended. I roll my eyes and head after Caleb, my lie about going to my apartment thoroughly exposed.

  14

  Caleb

  In hindsight, walking off the job site wasn’t my best move. But Bodhi’s welcome, such as it was, struck a nerve, reminding me that Nalini’s space is just a work site.

  It isn’t my space.

  It’s funny how that sense of longing and emptiness hit me so hard at his words, reminding me that yes, I am actually a stray.

  And yes, I have a history with Bruce.

  I would probably screw things up eventually. With her. With Bruce. With everyone. Because that’s what I’ve always done.

  You fucked everything up.

  It’s so hard not to hear my brother’s words. To hear my father screaming at me because I dropped a gallon of milk all over the kitchen. To hear my cadet sergeants hissing that I did not belong at West Point, that I was a disgrace for getting caught drinking.

  Bodhi took one look at me and saw everything that I was. He saw the truth behind the lie I’m pretending to be.

  And he called me on it.

  “You always run off from job sites?”

  “I needed to take a break.” I glance over to see Bruce riding slowly next to me in his truck. “How the hell did you find me, anyway?”

  “I was coming back to the job site and saw you walk out. Figured something had gotten fucked up already.” Bruce parks and gets out, falling into step next to me. “You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”

  “That seems completely irrelevant at the moment,” I tell him.

  He glances over at me. “Yeah, well, certain times of year are harder than others for sleeping.” He pauses and I get the impression that he’s gone somewhere else, toward a memory where I can’t follow him. “Like when certain anniversaries are rolling around.”

  I go infinitely still then.

  The tattoos on my wrist are itching. Or maybe I’m just imaging things since they’ve long since healed.

  I want to rub my thumb over them, but try not to scratch.

  I swallow hard. But there are no words. I’ve been pretending that it wasn’t happening. That I was fine. That this month was going to be fine.

  “Anniversaries are particularly rough when you’re trying to stay sober.” The muscle in his jaw pulses as he grinds his teeth.

  I open my mouth. Trying to find some way to deny the truth of his words. Trying to find something to say, to change the subject. Anything to relieve the terrible pressure gripping my throat. “I definitely don’t need to do this right now. Not if you expect me to go back to work.”

  “I know what this month is, Caleb.” He swallows hard.

  “How?”

  “I was the sergeant major of your mom’s unit.” He clears his throat. “I knew your mom, son.”

  In that moment I hate him. I hate everything that he is. Everything that he lied to me about. “Why are you doing this now? Why the fuck couldn’t you just let me pretend to ignore this whole fucking thing? That was some minor irritation at the job site and you come and drop this fucking bomb on me right now?” I can feel my life unraveling. Like the thread of a sweater caught in a car door that’s speeding away.

  “It’s been weighing on me for a while.” He spits into the dirt. “I felt guilty about not telling you.”

  “Why fucking right now? This makes no goddamned sense. I don’t need this.”

  “Because you deserve to know.”

  “Know what? That you’re some crusty ass sergeant major who lost his whole life because he couldn’t stop drinking? Because you picked me up out of an alley and decided to kick my ass if I couldn’
t get sober? I know all that. I know that the anniversary of my mom’s death is tomorrow. I fucking know and I was trying to fucking forget.”

  “Pretending it’s not happening isn’t going to stop it from happening.”

  I lift my fist. I want to lash out. To hit him. To hurt him for dragging this up right now. Today. I was getting through. I was ignoring it.

  I was going to be fucking fine.

  And now…now I’m not.

  I drop my fist. My eyes are burning. My chest is tight and I can’t fucking breathe. “Fuck you, Bruce.”

  15

  Caleb

  I didn’t go back to the warehouse yesterday. And today I’m paying for the sins of my manual labor, my lack of sleep. My back is tight and my hands feel like they’re covered in blisters.

  But it’s a good kind of hurt. Not like the hurt that is still squeezing my chest and making it difficult to breathe. They say it’s the pain that reminds you that you’re still alive, right?

  I haven’t slept.

  I haven’t answered my phone.

  I know what today is.

  My hands are shaking. In almost four months of being sober, I’ve never wanted a drink as badly as I do right fucking now.

  I drag my hands through my hair, pausing to stare at the tattoos. They still itch a little bit but they’re mostly healed. Quo Vadis?

  Where are you going?

  My mom used to say that to me a lot. I wish I could remember her better but she’s fading. I have a few pictures of her in uniform. She’s why I so badly wanted to graduate from West Point. Why I needed to be an officer.

  But now, without my uniform, I’m lost.

  I don’t know what she’d want me to be. She’d be so ashamed of the man I’ve become.

  Quo Vadis. I’m not St. Peter. Not by a long shot. Those words on my wrists are less about him and more about my mother’s faith.