Why does growing up have to be so difficult?

Daly English is having a harder time than most. Her future as an artist is unclear, her relationship with her mother is damaged beyond repair, and—to top it all off—her long-term boyfriend is having an affair. When Daly befriends two unlikely individuals—first a pregnant teen, and then a light-hearted charmer from India—her cynicism begins to melt away.

Meghann provides insight into Daly’s life and an endless stream of good advice, comforting Daly despite her own less fortunate position.

Kashi proves he cares too much about Daly to let her fade into the background of her own life. After a series of false starts, their quirky romance carries them to India, where Daly must win the approval of Kashi’s family in order to seal their “forever.”

Will these friendships be enough to turn around Daly’s directionless life? Will she move past the hurt and learn to trust again? Or will her mother, once again, ruin everything she’s worked so hard to achieve?

Torn Together, Emlyn Chand’s first sojourn into Literary New Adult Fiction, weaves a tale of friendship, dreams, and a lingering loss, while illustrating how our similarities often drive us apart.

Emlyn Chand emerged from the womb with a fountain pen clutched in her left hand (true story). When she’s not writing, she runs a large book club in Ann Arbor and is the president of author PR firm Novel Publicity. Best known for her Young Adult novels, she is also developing a small, but devoted, following to her children’s book series and is beginning to dabble in other genres as well. Emlyn enjoys connecting with readers and is available via almost every social media site in existence. Visit EmlynChand.com for more info. Don’t forget to say “hi” to her sun conure Ducky!

Connect with Emlyn on her website, Facebook, GoodReads, or Twitter.

Daly ducked her head and hopped into the auto-rickshaw. She barely had time to take in the display of Hindu religious icons and small, flashing, Christmas-like lights, which covered every available inch of the driver’s dashboard, before the vehicle roared to life. They seemed to go from zero to sixty in ten seconds flat, and the too-quick acceleration somehow proved to be the least daunting feature of Daly’s first ride into New Delhi traffic.

A steady stream of dust and smog clung to the air like steam, and entered the auto from the open sides. Daly couldn’t stop coughing. That’s the last time I ever complain about Oxford.

“Oh-ho,” her companion tisked, and removed the beautiful length of fabric hanging from her shoulders, which she offered to Daly for use as a breathing filter.

Once clean-ish air flowed through her lungs again, Daly shifted her focus to not falling out the side of the vehicle as they darted in and out of traffic. One second, she was thrust toward the open street, and the next her body jammed into Mishti as the auto narrowly missed rear-ending another vehicle. Through it all, the driver carried on, zigzagging past an alarming variety of travelers—cars, buses, bicycles, scooters, pedestrians, stray dogs, and haughty, slow-moving cows.

“What’s the point of having the driving lanes if people drive wherever they want?” Daly asked as the vehicle darted forward erratically, straddling the center line of the highway.

Mishti shook her head, indicating she hadn’t heard the question.

Daly repeated it a little louder.

Mishti cupped her hand around her ear and flourished her hand near her throat.

This time Daly raised her voice to a shout, but still the loud chorus of honks coming from seemingly every vehicle on the crowded street drowned out her voice. Daly tried one more time.

Mishti finally heard. She laughed and shouted back, “What fun would that be? It would take so long to reach anywhere if we stayed between the lines. Besides, I think they just painted those to impress Westerners, so India will look like a modern country. You’re impressed, isn’t it?”

Isn’t what? Daly simpered uncomfortably; Indian slang was confusing. Mishti seemed to be asking a question, and Daly wanted to answer. However, the chances of her being heard were slim—unless she wanted to lose her voice within thirty minutes of arriving in this country. Her stomach churned and bile climbed up her throat. She forced it back down by swallowing hard and rapidly patting her chest. Who could get used to this?

Mishti leaned over and examined Daly with wide eyes. “Arey, you are not well! When we reach, Mummy will make a tasty cha for you. You will be much better.”

Daly nodded and focused on the road, desperately attempting to reduce her motion sickness. One hand held the silk dupatta securely over her mouth and nose; she extended the other behind Mishti in a desperate attempt to gain stability. Luckily, her nausea did lessen as the vehicle sputtered in the thick city traffic.

Unluckily, Daly somehow captured the attention of an orphaned street girl, who couldn’t have been much older than five. The little girl waddled over to them, propping up a naked baby on her nonexistent hip. She held out her free hand and jabbed it into Daly’s side. “Please, didi. Rupia dengi.” The whiteness of her eyes glistened from the swirl of dark—dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin.

Although Daly understood just one of the words in the young beggar’s plea, she understood the child needed money. Reaching into her pocket and pulling out a twenty dollar bill, she hoped the little girl would be able to find some means of getting the currency converted.

The urchin’s eyes grew wide with excitement. Twenty American dollars translated to roughly nine hundred Rupees—a small fortune. Rather than accept the charity gracefully, the girl began to climb into the auto-rickshaw and grope ravenously at Daly’s pocket.

“Hut!” Mishti spat in disgust, reaching across Daly to push the child out of the vehicle as the vehicle crept forward once more.

The little girl ran alongside the auto, until the added weight of the infant became too much of a hindrance and she had to stop.

Daly was so shocked that she forgot to keep her mouth closed, and broke out in another fit of coughs.

Mishti was none too happy with her. “Dolly, you cannot do that. If you give them anything, they will only demand more. Leave it, yaar.”

Mishti’s callous attitude toward the poor children-in-need amazed Daly, as did the manner in which the child had reacted to her aid. She would listen to Mishti’s advice for now, but later, she’d ask Kashi what to do going forward. The thought of the poor little girl made her queasy again.

She was beyond relieved when they finally reached the three-bedroom apartment shared by Mishti, her parents, and Chai-ji. She and Mishti were the first to arrive, so they sat outside in the public courtyard to wait. Daly scanned the grounds and building—old and dusty but otherwise well maintained. Dirt was everywhere, not a green thing in sight.