The Chai Factor Read online

  “But didn’t you say the Indian guy was a sleaze?”

  “That Indian guy was a sleaze. You know as well as I do they’re not all like Mr. Silver Pants. Let me finish school first, then I’ll have all summer to find a nice man.”

  “Awesome. Summer project. I’ll start narrowing my shortlist for you.”

  “Later, Reena. Three weeks.”

  “When you going back to work?”

  “Not entirely sure yet. Apparently I have a new boss—Raymond emailed me about him. I’ll call later and let them know my availability.”

  “Attention, passengers,” the loudspeaker in the station blared. “The replacement train to Toronto is approaching. Please make your way to the platform for boarding.”

  “Got to go, Reena. I’ll text you when I’m in town.”

  “Okay, I’ll come over when you’re home. I’m glad you’re back, Meer.”

  “Me too. See ya.”

  Amira tossed her phone in her bag as a loud screech echoed through the tiny room and straight into her bones. She looked out the window to see the train rolling in. Only another hour to Toronto. Nothing else could possibly go wrong.

  The new train was smaller than the one they left, and she was among the last to climb the metal stairs onto the car, so it was no surprise that many seats were already taken—she would have to sit with someone this time. And . . . of course . . . there was Mr. Silver Pants, smiling and motioning for her to sit with him. She didn’t make eye contact and kept walking to the next set of empty seats.

  Which, of course, was a quad of seats with only one person occupying it. And, of course, that person was Sir Garden Gnome himself. She sat heavily into the window seat directly across from him. At least from this vantage, she couldn’t see the creep.

  But she could see the lumberjack. Clearly. He smirked at her, the corners of his eyes wrinkled in mirth. “Milady.”

  “Shut up,” she said under her breath.

  He heard her, though. Expression still amused, he lightly ran his fingers over his beard. “So, you’re not interested in polite chit-chat on the train, then, Princess?”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t call me that.”

  “Well, I didn’t catch your name, so I’ll have to use my own imagination.”

  Amira gave him a pointed look. “I’ve no doubt you’ll think of several choice names for me. I’ve heard them all often enough, so don’t think I’ll care two hoots what you call me.”

  Duncan laughed, his head falling back in his seat as one leg crossed over the other, ankle meeting knee. “You’re a prickly porcupine, aren’t you, Princess? Teaches me to never try to help a damsel in distress.”

  Amira winced. Duncan was right. Questionable methodology aside, this guy had helped her. He saved a complete stranger from some serious harassment. She had always been adamant that bystanders have a duty to step in if they see someone being mistreated, and here she was being horrible to him for doing just that. She had let her anger at the world turn her into a bitch yet again. “I apologize for being rude earlier,” she said, trying to sound sincere, “and thank you for intervening with that man.”

  He smiled. “It’s the least I could do. Honestly, I wanted to punch the guy out, but in this day and age, a white man beating up a visible minority doesn’t always go well.”

  “Usually worse for the minority.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Maybe we should start over. I’m Duncan.” He put his hand out to shake again. This time, Amira took it and her long, slender fingers were enveloped by his wide knuckles.

  She smiled. “Greetings, brave Sir Galahad. I am honoured to be the recipient of your chivalrous deeds.”

  He chuckled. “It is my honour to serve you, milady. And now, if you will excuse me,”—he gestured to the iPhone in his hand—“I have three songs to learn before tonight.” He put his earbuds in and smiled, sinking in his seat and resting his head on the glass of the train window.

  Fine with her—she had work to do. She pulled her iPad out of her bag. May as well get some of these journal articles read.

  But hard as she tried, Amira couldn’t seem to find her concentration. The train was noisy, and the couple behind her were arguing. Loudly. Amira couldn’t help but overhear their squabble, and it only reignited her irritation.

  Thankfully, they got up from their seats at the next stop. She scowled at the male half of the couple as they made their way down the aisle.

  “What was that about, Princess?” Duncan removed his earbuds and narrowed his gaze inquisitively.

  “That couple. Their argument was driving me nuts.”

  “You were eavesdropping?”

  “They were right behind me! I couldn’t help but hear. The man was pissed off that the woman invited her boss and his husband for dinner. Clearly he didn’t approve of his wife working for a gay man.”

  “He give any other reason for not wanting the guy over?”

  “Of course you would defend the homophobe.”

  “No. I wouldn’t. I know you think I’m a redneck bumpkin, but believe me, I’ve got no problem with homosexuality. Just the opposite. But I try not to judge strangers without knowing the whole story.”

  Amira crossed her arms on her chest. The nerve of this man, calling her judgmental. After everything she’d been through in the last few years, she had every right to judge. She was about to tell Duncan that when he leaned over and looked down the narrow aisle.

  “Actually, Princess, judge all you want. Just noticed the guy’s wearing a Nickelback T-shirt.”

  She snort-laughed before lifting her iPad in front of her face, hopefully hiding her appreciation of his joke from him.

  And the train rolled on.

  This time, Duncan’s music prevented Amira from concentrating on the report she should’ve been reading, as the sound carried even with his earbuds in. What was he listening to, anyway? Why did he have to learn songs for tonight? Was he some sort of musician? She could see it. He had that lumber-sexual look going that many musicians sported these days. Amira had once had a bit of an irrational attraction to long-haired, flamboyant musicians. She’d dated several who were convinced they were just about to hit it big, before she finally got tired of boyfriends who loved their guitars more than her. But despite her soft spot for people who made music, with Duncan, it only made him more irritating.

  Was that Motown he was listening to? Sounded like it.

  The man in front of her was an enigma. He might look like he just rolled off his tractor to fetch his banjo, but he knew there was a difference between Iraq and India, which is more than some of the small-town students she went to school with realized. He claimed to have no problem with gay men. And he rushed to the rescue of a brown woman being harassed by a brown man, instead of seeing it as some sort of intra-community issue that wasn’t his concern. Plus, referencing Disney movies and listening to old Motown while on a train to the city? She snuck another look at him. Those eyes really were striking. Muddy green in this light, now that the sun was hiding behind clouds. But earlier, in the train station, reflected in the sun streaming through the window, they shimmered like emeralds in the desert.

  Good lord, the man’s eyes were inspiring poetry in her. Amira shook her head at how ridiculous she’d become. Clearly she needed more in her life than formulas and algorithms.

  Duncan noticed her watching him. He nodded, a ghost of a smile evident behind his beard.

  “Good book?” he asked.

  “It’s a research paper. Really dry. You learn your songs?”

  “Almost. You know, I still didn’t catch your name . . .”

  Amira smiled again. “That’s because I didn’t give it to you.” Any smart woman knew not to be forthcoming with personal information unless it was absolutely necessary.

  He laughed. “Well, unless you want me to call you Princess Jasmine again, maybe it’s better we don’t chat too much. Don’t worry, though, I’ll still sit with you so that sleaze will think we’re toge
ther.”

  She sat up straighter, frowning. “Well, you can stand down, sir. Don’t do me any favours.”

  “It’s no favour, Princess. I’m not entirely a selfless knight. You make me look good. Now, are you going to keep staring at me the rest of the way downtown? Because you’re making it hard for me to concentrate on learning these songs.”

  Amira made a split-second decision right there and then. Nice eyes or not, she did not like this Duncan Galahad. Not one bit.

  “Whatever,” she said, turning off her iPad and looking out the window.

  The rest of the train ride was blissfully silent. Amira read a bit, texted with Reena a bit, and did her best to ignore the impressive physique filling her entire field of vision whenever she looked in front of her. Who designed these seats, anyway? Who wants to look at someone’s face while travelling? Thankfully, Duncan gazed out the window at the urban landscape rolling by, earbuds in, learning his Motown songs while tapping out beats on his leg.

  When the train reached Toronto, he tipped an imaginary hat at her and left without a word. Fine. She was glad she would never see him again. And a quick peek before she slid out of her seat confirmed that Mr. Silver Pants had left, too. Even better. Maybe today was finally looking up.

  Chapter Three

  AMIRA’S PHONE RANG the second she stepped off the train. She fumbled to find it, dropping her backpack and nearly sending her laptop flying. “Hello,” she answered, out of breath.

  “Hi, is this Amira Khan?” The voice was unfamiliar.

  “Yes.”

  “My name’s Christopher Petersen, and I’m doing an article for Maple magazine about the uptick in Islamophobia north of the border. I was wondering if you’d answer some questions about the incident last year when you were prevented entry into the US?”

  Fuck. Still? Vultures needed to leave her alone. It had been well over a year now.

  Her jaw clenched. “No.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “No, I will not answer any questions. I’ve done several interviews on this topic and I’d like to put it behind me. And I do not give permission for you to use my name in the article either. I would prefer you didn’t write it at all, but I’m sure a Muslim’s opinion on that has no merit for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “I would think you’d want to raise awareness, to speak out against what happened to you on behalf of your community.”

  “I don’t represent my community.”

  “I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but a woman was assaulted on the subway yesterday coming home from work. Her hijab was torn off. These incidents are becoming more common, even in liberal enclaves. I found some archived articles you wrote before your incident, and I was hoping you would clarify—”

  “No. Mr. Petersen, I would not. And the media talking about this all the time isn’t helping. People who disagree with you politically think hate is okay, because you are turning it into a political issue instead of a human one.”

  “Can I quote you on that?”

  “No. Don’t call me again.” She hung up. Jaw still clenched, Amira dropped her phone in her bag and organized herself before heading off the platform. She couldn’t think about that right now.

  The giant maze of hallways and escalators of Toronto’s Union Station was a nightmare to navigate on the best of days, but in the early hours of the evening rush, it was a sea of people as well. Amira was in no mood to fight the crowd, so she found a Starbucks and ordered an iced macchiato. She would wait out the crush before she had to brave the subway system.

  She dug through her bag to find her phone again so she could call her mentor at work, Raymond, to let him know she was back in town.

  “Hi, Raymond.”

  “Amira! Nice to hear from you. How are your courses going?”

  “Pretty good. I’ve only got the report for my project left. I’m back in town. I decided to finish it here in Toronto.”

  “Wonderful news. And welcome home.”

  “Listen, Raymond, you said there’s a new manager in our division? I’d like to speak to him about coming back to work.”

  “Jim Prescott. He transferred from the London office four months ago. He’s overseeing manufacturing and automation. Are you still planning to come back after school’s done?”

  “That’s the idea. I’ll call him to set up a meeting about my return.”

  “Jim’s great. You’ll love working for him. How’s the report going?”

  “To be honest, I wish I were further ahead. I switched projects halfway through so I’m playing catch-up.”

  Amira’s master’s program was project based, meaning instead of a final thesis, her degree was dependent on the completion of a lab project demonstrating the practical applications of her knowledge. Her project had originally been about utilizing intelligent modelling techniques in computer-integrated manufacturing, but for the sake of her mental health, she abandoned it and found a new project. She just hadn’t felt like she was cutting it there. It had been a competitive placement, and the other students working with that professor were at the top of their class. After one too many anxiety attacks when she was convinced she knew absolutely nothing about engineering, she asked her adviser for a transfer. Needless to say, it had been a stressful couple of months.

  Despite what she told Raymond, her failure to start the written portion of her project wasn’t a timing issue. In reality, her confidence had been so shattered after the mess of starting the project over that she wasn’t able to sink into the complex part of her analysis while working in the lab. Amira worked very hard at school—but it had never come easy for her. Her algorithms and complex codes always seemed to take longer than her classmates’, and solutions didn’t materialize spontaneously like they seemed to for others. Abandoning her initial project only seemed to fuel her feelings of inadequacy about her abilities. Her classmates managed to thrive in their projects. Why couldn’t she make it work? But admitting that inadequacy was digging deeper than she wanted to right now with Raymond. To be honest, she hadn’t really discussed those feelings with anyone.

  “I’m sure it will be fine, Amira. If you’d like, I can take a look at your report before you submit it. An extra set of eyes may help put your mind at ease.”

  “Raymond, that would be amazing. Thank you so much.”

  “It’s no problem. I’m happy to help you. I’ll email you Jim’s contact information so you can set up a meeting. Anyway, I have a late visit to the Regent plant project. We’ll talk soon.”

  Amira disconnected with a smile. Raymond was a senior engineer and team lead at Hyde Industrial, the consulting agency she had worked at for four years before grad school. After a few years of friendship, Amira had asked Raymond to be her professional mentor. She wasn’t usually one to ask for help with her career, but Raymond was so generous with his time and advice. Amira’s own father was also an industrial engineer and was highly respected in the field. But like most Indian fathers, he collected Amira’s achievements like priceless gems, polishing and presenting them to his friends as proudly as if they were his own. Amira loved her father, and his support and encouragement meant the world to her, but she needed a bit of distance between him and her career. She didn’t want to disappoint him and wasn’t sure she wanted him knowing how much she struggled. Raymond’s guidance meant she didn’t have to rely on her father, or upset him.

  Feeling better, Amira dialled her mother’s number. She hadn’t told her mum yet that she’d left school early, since it had been too late last night when she decided. Amira’s mother was a pediatric nurse in a hospital and tended to work early shifts. Amira knew better than to call her late at night.

  “What do you mean, you came home early? You still have two more weeks of school!” her mother said after Amira told her she was in Toronto.

  “It was a last-minute decision. It’s way too noisy in the dorm, and I can’t focus on my work. I don’t have classes anymore, just
this project report.”

  “What about all your things?”

  “I have to go back to meet with my academic adviser after the paper is in. Reena’s taking the day off to drive me, and we’ll pack up my dorm room then. I don’t have much there.”

  “I wish you’d told us, Amira. Nanima has let out the rooms in the basement.”

  “What?”

  “The basement apartment. She’s rented it.”

  “But I live in the basement apartment!”

  Amira, her mother, and her little sister, Zahra, had lived in her grandmother’s house for eight years now, since her parents divorced and sold the house where she grew up. Zahra had been three at the time, and Mum and Dad had thankfully figured out that having a second child almost twenty years after their first hadn’t saved the marriage as intended. And even though she missed seeing her father regularly, she had still been glad when they split. They were both amazing people who brought out the absolute worst in each other.

  “I know,” her mother said. “But there are two other bedrooms in the basement, and she rented them out. Like Airbnb, for a little extra money. You know she’s on a fixed income. And it’s only until you’re home from school.”

  “Mum, I’m home now. I’ll be there in an hour.”

  “We didn’t know that. I’m sorry, I can’t tell them to leave now. They’ve paid for two weeks. It’s not our house, honey.”

  “But . . .” Amira stopped herself. There really was no point in arguing—it was a privilege to be able to live in that house. Mum paid Nanima rent, but nowhere near market value. And no one asked Amira to contribute. She paid for grad school with the money she saved by living there rent free for years while working full time. Housing in decent neighbourhoods in the city was scarce and pricey, and even with her nursing salary, her mother wouldn’t have been able to afford a decent place close to the hospital without Nanima’s help. And Nanima had been toying with the idea of renting out her extra rooms for some time now. Amira couldn’t expect those rooms to stay empty forever.

  This wasn’t good. She had just left the dorm because she didn’t want to live with people.