When Faults Collide (Faultlines #1) (16 page)

I remembered the first time I saw her, too. I was nine, wandering through the halls of the building looking for Haasita, another little
girl who lived there. I walked past Aati’s room and saw her with a client.

He had her bent over a chair with a small cane in his hand. He was hitting her repeatedly on her backside, but instead of screaming in pain she was moaning and smiling. Suddenly the man threw down the cane and thrust himself inside her. Aati’s eyes rolled back and she moaned even louder.

I covered my mouth and ran down the hall to find my mom.

My breathing must have increased because suddenly I heard my dad talking again.

“Asha? Baby girl? Are you okay, honey?” His voice was laced with concern.

“Huh? Oh, yeah... I’m fine Dad. Yes, I remember Aati. She actually helped me when Mom died.” I said, shaking off the memory.

“She did? What do you mean, she helped you?” he asked.

“Well, the paramedics were rolling her out...after she...um... you know...and they were completely ignoring me. Aati held onto me, and she sat with me until the social services worker arrived and took me to the orphanage.” I began picking my jeans with more intensity. I was going to rip a hole if I didn’t stop.

“Oh. Well I’m glad you weren’t alone, then,” he said, his voice cracking.

I suddenly felt my cheek dampen and I wiped away a tear with ferocity.

“Yep. Well...look, Dad. I gotta go. Blake will be back any minute. I’ll see you tomorrow though, right?” I asked, standing up and beginning to pace across the room.

“Okay, honey. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”

“Yep. Love you, too. Bye.” I tossed my phone down on the couch.

I glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that I had an hour before Blake got back. I decided that I needed an extra run today and went upstairs to put on my running clothes.

I stopped on the sidewalk to choose some music and decided to play my Bollywood playlist.

I pressed play and let
Pritam
blare through my headphones.

I focused on my breathing, putting one foot in front of the other.

I remembered that night like it was yesterday.

“Kya apa mujhe samajhate haim?” (Do
you understand me?)
the social services worker asked me.

“Vaha hindi nahim bolata,”
(She doesn’t speak Hindi,)
Aati answered her while rubbing my back.

I sat on the ground rocking, Aati never leaving my side. They hadn’t even let me hold her one last time, or even see her. Maybe she wasn’t really dead. Maybe this was all just a bad dream!

The social services worker glanced at my ripped Sari and looked a little too long at the blood and bruise on my face.

“Apa cota kara rahe haim?”
(Are you hurt?)
she asked.

My tear filled blue eyes looked into her eyes.

“Maim thika hūm!”
(I’m fine!)
I shouted to her.

She pursed her lips and shook her head. She walked over to the other social services worker and they spoke. I heard her tell her that I appeared to be hurt, but that I wasn’t being cooperative so it wasn’t their concern.

It wasn’t their concern because it meant nothing. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone out and broken the rules. If I had just stayed inside I could have said goodbye. A girl getting raped in an alley was hardly something new or shocking and it didn’t matter.

I just needed to stop shaking long enough to remind myself that it didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter that I was a virgin. It didn’t matter that I told him to stop. It didn’t matter that his disgusting hands felt my virginity and that he raped me anyway.

It was just another girl getting what she deserved for walking the streets alone.

It didn’t matter at all.

“Miss? Miss, are you okay?” I heard someone ask.

I blinked several times and realized that I was sitting on the sidewalk. How long had I been sitting?

I blinked again and steadied my breathing.

“Yeah, sorry. Uh...I’m fine. Thanks,” I said, standing up.

I cursed myself for having another flashback, and made my way back home, ignoring the good samaritan staring at me.

I glanced at my phone and saw that I had about fifteen minutes before Blake would be back.

I ran upstairs and took a quick shower, trying to wash away all of the memories as I scrubbed.

I put on some silky pajamas, made my way downstairs, and grabbed two beers from the fridge before making my way out onto the porch.

Right as I sat down, Blake pulled up and made his way to the porch.

He leaned in and kissed me softly.

“Hey, gorgeous girl.”

“Hey there, handsome,” I breathed.

“How was your day? I missed you,” he said, sitting next to me as
I handed him the beer.

“Good,” I answered quickly.

He cocked his head to the side and studied me for a moment, but didn’t push.

“How was your day?” I asked, taking a sip.

“Eh. You know, same old same old. Bartender quit, a band is pissy that I’m only giving them two nights instead of a whole week. The usual.” He said, shrugging.

I curled up next to him and he put his arm around me. “Well, my day is much better now, with you here.”

He kissed the top of my head and I sighed.

This was better than any therapy ever could be.

Chapter Eighteen

The drive to Tyson’s Corner on Sunday was magical. It felt like time had slowed down and we had an amazing time together, just existing in our little bubble. The windows were down in my little Fiat, my black hair swishing in the breeze, his brown curls bouncing at the same time. I drove with one elbow resting on the door.

We listened to my crazy playlist, with every genre from country to post hardcore to indie to classic rock. We sang along and rocked to the beats.

We laughed. We chatted.

It was a beautiful hour and a half.

It was perfect, and it was us.

We pulled up to my dad’s house and I grabbed his hand before he got out. My eyes shone with playful joy.

“Wait! Okay, I have to ask you something...super, super serious,” I said mischievously.

His eyes shone with the same playfulness as he kissed the back of
my hand. “Anything. Do you want the moon? Let me pull it down for you. The stars? Yours. Name anything, and it’s yours.”

I giggled. “Can we make this thing,” I said motioning between the two of us before finishing, “Twitter official?”

He threw his head back and laughed before leaning forward and feigning a serious expression. “Of course.”

I giggled and then pulled out my phone and pulled him next to me for a selfie.

We both grinned as I snapped a picture and quickly uploaded it.

He grinned at me, no longer playful, but it held a different emotion—one that I could see in his eyes. Adoration? Love, maybe? Deep caring, at least.

He leaned in and gave me a soft kiss.

“Thanks for sharing us with the world,” he said softly.

I felt the heat rising in my cheeks, but I smiled back.

He understood. Social media is a big deal to bloggers. I had quite literally just shared “us” with the world.

We got out and made our way up the walkway. I sighed, nostalgically taking in the scene of the house I spent five years of my life in.

The house was a two story colonial with white paneling and a rock walkway leading up to it. Various trees and bushes scattered throughout the front landscaping and led to a scene similar to something you may see in Southern Living magazine.

It was traditional and had all of the classic touches that it would
have had when it was built.

I knocked twice and then opened the front door.

“Marce? Dad?” I called out, as I took off my shoes and set them in the basket by the door.

After my dad realized how much upset it caused that he roamed his home with shoes on, he conceded and allowed the basket by the door. It was a tradition they kept even though I no longer lived there.

Blake followed suit, taking off his Converses and placing them in the basket. He wore slim fitting jeans and a black sweater. Simple, but fit him so well.

Marcy came from the direction of the kitchen wearing a white apron, wiping flour on it as she made her way towards us, her arms outstretched for a hug.

“Oh, Asha! Hi honey,” she said while enveloping me in a tight embrace.

She pulled back and held her hand out for Blake, who took it graciously.

“And you must be the young man who has captured our girl’s attention,” she said with a hint of playfulness in her eyes.

He grinned, flashing that woman-killing dimple and answered, “Yes ma’am. Though to be fair, I think she captured mine first. Blake Daley.”

She smiled, looking between us and then locked onto Blake again. “Marcy Harris.”

She led us into the kitchen where we stood around the island while she poured us glasses of wine.

We sipped the wine and made small talk. My dad was apparently signing some paperwork at the office, but promised to be home long before his guest was set to arrive.

Well, there goes the “no working on Sunday” rule.

I heard the front door open and peeked around the corner to find my dad standing in the foyer taking off his shoes.

“Dad!” I said, running and practically knocking him over with my embrace.

“Hi, baby girl,” he said, pushing me back and taking me in.

“Where is this new beau that you brought over?” he whispered with a smirk.

I slapped his arm playfully and led him into the kitchen, reminding him to behave himself.

Blake leaned up from the island and held out his hand, which my dad took firmly.

“Blake Daley, sir.”

My dad sized him up and then responded, “Bill Harris.”

We moved into the living room, sitting down to make small talk.

It didn’t take long, however, for the uncomfortable questions to come up.

“So, Blake, do your parents live in the area?” my dad asked with a smile.

I put my hand on Blake’s knee reassuringly. We didn’t have to talk about this.