When Faults Collide (Faultlines #1) (7 page)

“Sure. I go for a run at eight, and then head there right after. So, maybe like nine?” I grabbed my bag and started inching towards the door.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said before reaching out and grabbing my hand, sending sparks flying. “And Asha—”

I turned to look at him, our eyes connecting and making me literally feel weak. “Yeah?” I whispered.

He leaned in. “I’m really looking forward to getting to know the girl behind all these walls,” he whispered back.

My heart was beating a million miles a minute. I pulled my hand away and nodded before scooting out of his office and hurrying towards the door.

Mandy caught the look on my face and then her eyes darted back
towards the office. She smirked.

“Bye, Asha! Love your blog!” she sing-songed.

I smiled politely and walked out the door and headed towards my car.

I got in, took a few deep breaths, turned on Zella Day to distract me before heading home.

I Tweeted to share my favorite song.

Then I turned the wheel and went home, deciding I definitely needed to call Katherine before embarking on this “friendly coffee.”

Chapter Six

      
My therapist has encouraged me to re-evaluate my rules again, in light of some recent challenges
.

      
I think my therapist needs to get a new hobby. But I’ll humor her and re-evaluate
.

      
So, let’s look at them in detail:

Rule
#1 - No
romantic relationships
.

Ok, so maybe we can table that one for discussionon the definition of romantic relationships
.

Rule #2 - Never knowingly put myself in danger
.

Ok, I see no reason to alter this. Personally I find this to be common sense. (Yes, that’s directed at you sky divers, AKA, death divers.)

Rule #3 -
Go
for a run every morning

Again, no reason to alter. It’s called good health
.

Why is this a problem?

Rule
#4-
Never drink too much or use drugs
.

No issue here. I need to be in control and I can’t do that with impaired judgement
.

Rule
#5 -
Never trust anyone with the whole truth
.

This is just as much for another person’s benefit as for my own. Nobody needs to be burdened with my bullshit. And I don’t need the burden of someone’s pity. Why change this?

Rule
#6 -
Never let anyone try to change or dictate your life
.

So why is this wrong? I don’t need anyone changing up the way I do things or my life. My life is fine. Because I am fine. Really
.

Rule #7 - Speak only in English
.

Despite my dad, therapist, and everyone else’s opinion, I have no reason to speak Hindi. Even when speaking with a native Indian, they speak English. Speaking Hindi takes me back to that place that I don’t need to be, so I see no reason to do it
.

Rule #8 - Never become a burden on another person
.

I just don’t see why this is bad. Shouldn’t everyone have this desire?

      
So after reviewing all of my rules, the only one that could possibly maybe should be considered on a case by case basis is rule number one
.

      
Most people would give the standard answer to follow your heart, but following your heart landed my mother a lifetime of prostitution and inevitably death. Following her heart led to me growing up there. It led me to some extremely tough years learning to be okay without her
.

      
But I love my life, and her choices led me to here right now. And despite the depravity of our years together, I would never regret the years I had with her
.

      
So maybe the heart’s not such a bad thing
.

      
Oh boy, I’m in trouble
.

      
Leave me some comment love
.

xoxo, Asha


I closed down Blogger and went to grab my running gear. I didn’t typically blog early in the morning, but I felt inspired after my long chat with Katherine.

I checked outside and saw the rain starting to fall.

“Damn,” I whispered.

Well, there went my morning run. Running in the rain, especially with my curves — not going to happen.

I chewed on the tip of my thumb for a second debating what to do about my planned coffee date. I supposed that I could drive there. I thought maybe I should just shoot Blake a text and ask if he still wanted to meet at the same time.

I walked over to my computer and turned up my speakers so I could blast some music before I worked out.

My dad spent years trying to keep me “in touch with my heritage” and one of the ways he had attempted to do so was to sign me up for a belly dancing classes.

The only thing productive from that class was when I mixed it with what I learned in my hip hop class and combined them for a cool workout.

Just because I couldn’t go for a run it didn’t negate my morning workout routine.

I scrolled through Spotify and debated between MIA and Marian Hill, before deciding that Marian Hill was the way to go.

I paused it, taking time to slip on a pair of yoga shorts, a sports bra, and clipping up my hair.

I checked my phone to see if Blake had texted back. No response.

I turned up
Got It
and started dancing.

I worked up a sweat swaying and popping my hips, spinning, dropping and lifting up, effortlessly combining hip hop and belly dancing into one fluid workout.

I lifted up my arms and rolled my body in a wave motion from my hips to my chest before spinning again.

I shrieked.

Standing in my bedroom doorway was Blake, with two coffee cups and a mouth that had dropped to the floor.

“Oh my God! Blake! What are you doing here?!” I demanded, half mortified, half pissed.

I stormed over to my computer and turned off my music.

I spun around to face him, blowing some stray hairs out of my face and putting my hands on my hips.

“Well?” I demanded.

His mouth was closed but he appeared to be trying not to smile and was looking towards my window away from me.

“I, um...yeah. I saw that it was raining so figured I would bring the coffee to you.” He held out a coffee cup, still not looking at me directly.

“Oh, well...keep looking that way.” I jerked the coffee from his hands with one hand, grabbing a cami from my drawer with another hand. I set the coffee on my nightstand and slipped on the cami.

I took a sip and realized it was a Church Hill Blend, with the perfect amount of cream and sugar.

I cleared my throat “Um...thank you. How did you know how I take my coffee?”

He was still looking towards the window, “Oh, I ask—”

“You can look now” I interrupted.

He turned, looking amused, before continuing “I asked the barista how you took it. She said you got this in the morning but in the afternoons if you came in you got a chai latte.”

“Oh. Well, that was very...thoughtful of you. Thanks,” I said genuinely.

“No problem. Oh, and um...Lily let me in. She said it was okay to come up.”

“Of course she did...traitor,” I muttered.

“And...um...Asha? That was totally awesome. I won’t bring it up again, because you are obviously embarrassed...but just to throw it out there. Amazing,” he said, that dimple reappearing with his smile.

“Ha, well...thanks?” I said, amused with his candidness. I sat on the edge of my bed, “So, now that you’ve seen me half naked in my bedroom mortifying myself, what did you have planned for this change in coffee venue?” I motioned to the chair in front of the window for him to sit.

He chuckled and sat down, sipping his coffee. “Well at least I gave you something Tweet-worthy.” His eyes met mine mischievously.

I tossed a scatter pillow at him. “Don’t make fun of my Tweeting habits! Those are fighting words, sir.”

He held up his hands in defeat. “Never would I dare, madam.”

I giggled and sipped my coffee before standing. “Come on, let’s sit in my office. The seating’s more comfortable.” I tilted my head towards my French doors and walked in, Blake following behind.

I had a futon on the opposite wall of my desk so I plopped myself on that, but Blake walked over to the row of bookshelves lining the other wall.

“This is great,” he said as he ran his finger along the spines, inspecting my collection.

“I think so. You read?” I asked casually.

He nodded. “Yeah. Classics and biographies...which, it seems like we have that in common.”

“I mean, occasionally I’ll pick up a historical fiction too, but in general, yeah, I stick to the classics. You strike me as a sci-fi guy... no?”

He chuckled, “Hahaha. No. So where did your love for classics come from?”

“My mother,” I answered simply and quickly. “What about you?”

He joined me on the futon, “The house I grew up in didn’t have any books, but there was a lady who lived next door who would let me come over and read with her. She was a retired English teacher and we always read classics.”

I bit my bottom lip, debating whether or not to inquire about where he grew up, knowing that it would lead to more questions about how I grew up.

He seemed to sense my hesitation and diverted his eyes towards my computer. “Any good music on that thing?”

“That depends on your definition of good. But there’s some of just about everything, so yes,” I said, grinning.

“May I?” He asked, motioning towards my desk.

I nodded. “Knock yourself out.”

He went over and started scrolling through my Spotify playlist.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding about everything. The Charlie Daniels Band, Phish, Drake, Mae, Marilyn Manson, and Ryan Morgan, all on one playlist?”

I shrugged. “Like I said, a little bit of everything.”

“I like it though. You’re open minded.”

“That’s a good way to look at it. It’s all about the passion to me. I either want to feel the emotion in the music or I want it to pull an emotion from me. Some things are just for fun, but even fun, feel-good music serves a purpose,” I shared.

“The only thing split is a Bollywood playlist. You don’t like mixing Hindi music with American?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Damnit
, I thought to myself.

“No. I keep it separate,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t ask me to go further on the subject.

“Can you understand it? Hindi, I mean?”

I nodded, rubbing my hand along my knee. “Yeah, I can understand, speak, and write Hindi. I grew up in India until I was thirteen.”

Both of his eyebrows raised. “Wow, really? That’s awesome. You don’t have an accent at all!”

I shook my head “Nope. My mother and I spoke to each other only in English so it’s my primary language.”

“Is that common though? For English to be your primary language growing up in India?”

I shook my head again, keeping my eyes downcast. “Nope. Not common.”

“So what brought you to America?” he asked, spinning the chair from side to side but keeping his eyes locked on me.

Well, I guess you are going to have to say something and if he can’t deal with this truth, he can’t deal with any
, I thought defiantly.

I looked him straight in his eyes. “My mother died of tuberculosis when I was thirteen, so I came to America to live with my dad.”

Usually the whole
“my mom died”
thing caused what I called
“pity eyes” but it didn’t appear to phase him at all.