Free The Beginner's Guide to Living by Lia Hills

watching Samara over the top of his glass but she turns to me. “What about you, Will?”
    â€œWill’s the smart one,” says Adam. “When he was a kid he was more interested in world poverty than riding his bike.”
    â€œHow about you let him answer for himself?”
    I wait for Adam to pitch something back at her, but all he does is unfurl his hand in my direction. “Will?”
    â€œI’m still studying,” I say.
    Taryn: “He’s into philosophy.”
    â€œWhat about Eastern philosophy?” asks Samara. “Are you interested in that?”
    â€œDon’t know much about it.”
    I can almost hear Adam thinking, Bunch of hippies . He empties the last of the bottle into Samara’s glass. “You girls sure can drink. Put me and Will to shame.”
    â€œIs he always such a prick?” Samara asks me with a grin, her shoulder touching mine. “Hey, remind me to give you something before you go, something I got in India.”
    She goes over to the wine rack on the bench and selects another bottle. Taryn’s fingers seek out the inside of my leg.
    â€œChrist, you wouldn’t believe how much I missed a good glass of Aussie red while I was overseas,” says Samara, looking at Adam, then back at me.
    â€œWell, what are you waiting for?” he asks.
    *   *   *
    We’re getting ready to go home when Samara says, “Hey, you two, come with me.”
    Taryn and I follow her to her room—it’s next to Taryn’s and it’s like walking into a bazaar, purple and orange cloth suspended from the ceiling, strewn across the bed, embroidered cushions, statues, and incense, of course.
    Taryn shuffles some cards she takes from a gold box as Samara hands me a statue of a dancing figure with four arms. It’s heavy and made of brass. “This is Nataraja. I got him in Madurai, at a stall outside the temple. The temple’s like a city, it’s incredible. You should go there.”
    Madurai. Sounds like the kind of place where you could mislay yourself. Samara squats next to a shelf with books stacked in every direction. She’s wearing purple nail polish and rings on her toes. I turn the statue around in my hands—there’s a circle haloing the figure with brass flames flickering from its rim, a man squashed beneath Nataraja’s feet, skulls woven into his hair.
    â€œHe’s dancing the dance of creation and destruction. Nataraja is one of the incarnations of Shiva,” says Samara, touching each book’s spine as she checks its title. “He’s the most powerful of the Hindu gods.”
    â€œHow many have they got?”
    â€œAn old guy on a train to Calcutta told me there are as many gods in India as there are people, because we are all aspects of God. Here it is.”
    I put the statue back on top of the shelf, next to a pile of incense ash. She hands me a book. It has a green and orange cover and the title is in gold lettering, hard to read, so I hold it up to the light. The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying .
    â€œI thought it might be appropriate,” Samara says, “considering.”
    Before I can do anything, she puts her arms around my shoulders and gives me a hug. She’s warm against me, rounder than Taryn, a different scent, earthier, and she feels like … God, such a strong urge to cry, and then that creepy feeling all over again.
    Samara lets her hands slide down my arms as she pulls away. I grab Taryn’s hand and go, the taste of all that incense sticking in my throat.
    *   *   *
    Dad and Adam are already in the car, the moon slapped across the windshield.
    â€œShe’s beautiful,” says Adam.
    Tempted as I am, I don’t ask him which one he means.
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    Will,
    Sorry about Samara. She can be a bit much.
    â™¥ Taryn
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    When I come in from the study, Dad’s already gone to bed, but Adam’s watching the late