Taking the Heat. Lauren HawkeyeЧитать онлайн книгу.

      The cold was slowly driving me insane.

      It had come early this year, the bite of frost and fall of pristine snow abruptly aborting the final, thick dredges of Indian summer to which I had been so desperately clinging. A sharp contrast to the viscous heat that I had worshipped only weeks earlier, the first taste of winter was bitter, with a nasty tone that lingered on my tongue even after I’d come in from outside, removed my thick down jacket and allowed the blessing that was modern heating to chase the chill from my bones.

      I’d been struggling against the cold all day as I darted between the buildings on campus, pulling my thick wool scarf tight over my mouth and nose as I ran, both to make my next class and to escape from the elements. And though I’d worn several layers, had covered myself up so that nothing but my eyes was bared to Jack Frost, I’d caught a chill at ten that morning, one that had worked its clever, pointy fingers into the marrow of my bones and refused to let go.

      At the end of the long day I wanted nothing more than a steaming bath, one hot enough to boil the flesh from my bones, and an equally hot cup of spiced chai tea.

      The minute that I walked in the door, I knew that neither was to be.

      My parents sat side by side on the plush purple couch that was clearly visible from the front door, and the reason behind their beaming smiles, I knew, could be nothing besides the young man sitting on the loveseat opposite them, the loveseat I would be expected to share as soon as I offloaded the many layers that I’d wrapped around my body.

      I barely contained my groan. Not again.

      “Maya.” My mother was on her feet, the rich red of what I recognized as her favorite sari fluttering slightly in the breeze that wafted from the heating vent at her feet. She extended a hand, trying to draw me into the cozy scene laid out before me. I stood still in the entryway, smiling politely if stiffly, frozen in place as if the cold from outside had finally gotten to me.

      “Maya, this is Vikram Iyer.” She was so visibly thrilled to be making the introduction that I nearly choked on the reluctance that I felt coating my throat. “Vikram is the son of Geeta, your father’s new saleswoman.” My father very nearly wiggled at this, so delighted was he at the part that he had played in this potential match.

      As old, familiar emotions rolled around in my belly, uncomfortable ones that made me itch, I repeated in my head what had become my mantra in situations like this.

      They’re only trying to help.

      They only want you to be happy.

      I opened my mouth to speak; nothing came out but a strangled gurgle. My mother looked at me oddly, then turned again to the young man sitting stiffly on the overstuffed seat.

      “Vikram, this is our daughter Maya. She was at the university all day. She is studying for her masters in business.” She gestured with her hands impatiently; the heavy gold bangles that lined her wrists clinked together gently. “Come in, Maya, come in and say hello to our guest.”

      I forced my feet to take a stiff step forward, and then one more. “Hello.” My voice sounded strained, even to me, and I forced a pleasant smile to form on my lips. I didn’t want to be rude, no matter what I was feeling.

      “It’s wonderful to meet you, Maya.” He stood, wiping his palms on the neatly pressed legs of his chinos before offering a hand to me. The lack of an accent in his youthful voice bothered me; he was obviously second generation—born in Canada, just like me.

      How, then, was he so comfortable with this, when all I wanted to do was run screaming off into the night?

      I would have given anything to be normal, to join the expectant group with a (real) smile on my face. Since past experience had taught me that normality—at least as it pertained to these little meetings that my well-meaning parents were forever setting up—was simply not in my genetic makeup, I wanted the next best thing.

      I wanted to leave.

      Turning my smile up a notch, I gently extracted my hand from Vikram’s hot, dry one. “If you’ll excuse me for just a minute? I need to go freshen up.” The knife of guilt stabbed a little deeper as Vikram, who I’m sure was a perfectly wonderful young man, nodded easily in agreement. The brows of both of my parents creased slightly in irritation over my rudeness.

      I knew that I’d pay for it later, enduring the sharp lash of my mother’s tongue and the hurt silence of my father, both heaped on top of the guilt that was already nudging at my soul. But as I crept down the back hallway of the house that tradition suggested I still share with my parents at the age of twenty-nine, I knew that I would sneak out anyway.

      The cold startled the breath from my lungs as I made a break for it, running across the yard to the slightly battered old Ford Contour that I’d insisted on scraping together my own pennies to buy, though I knew that my parents would have purchased a nice shiny new one for my use if only I’d let them. Having left all of my warm winter wraps at the front door, I was forced to make do with the light blanket that I’d snagged on my way out; its loose weave, however, didn’t provide much protection from the sneaking fingers of wind that so badly wanted to grab me.

      Though I figured that hypothermia would be no less than I deserved for being such an ungrateful daughter and rude human all around, I could focus on nothing but the painful staccato chatter of my teeth as I huddled behind the wheel of the car. My fingers were thick with cold, but it was worth it.

      * * *

      No matter how perfectly wonderful Vikram was, he wasn’t for me. Not now, not ever.

      I’d driven aimlessly for over two hours and it hadn’t done a thing to relax me—though why I’d thought it would, I had no idea. Fighting to control an old car with worn tires on streets slicked with ebony ice and ivory snow was not a good way to abate stress.

      The heater had given a final ominous wheeze twenty minutes earlier, before dying a loud, painful death. Now the cold had snuck back in, slicing through the thin blanket of warmth like a razor through flesh. But I still wasn’t ready to go back home. Wasn’t ready to confront the thick wall of disappointment that would meet me at the front door.

      Guiding the car over a snow-filled pothole, coming to rest at the side of the road, I debated venturing outside the bubble of my vehicle, lifting the hood to poke at mysterious things that might, possibly, maybe get the heater going again.

      I threw that plan out nearly as soon as I’d thought it. But every minute that I sat there I grew colder, the cells of my body jarring together painfully. I began to shake so badly that I knocked the keys right out of the ignition, and as I fumbled to find them on the snowy mat beneath my feet I saw it—the glossily printed winter schedule of classes for the Lotus Loft, the yoga studio where I’d begun twisting my body into Downward Dog and Cobra some months earlier. Swimming in yellow highlighter that had been applied my own hand earlier in the week were words that were my saving grace; my body clenched in anticipation as, with shaking fingers, I coaxed the old, wheezing engine back to life.

      BIKRAM YOGA WITH CERTIFIED INSTRUCTOR. LET THE 105 DEGREE HEAT OPEN YOUR SOUL TO THE