Can't Help Falling (4 page)

And he was done.

“What did you do this time?” Peter picked up his brother's
keys off the coffee table and started flipping through them. Finding his house key, he started twisting it off the ring.

“I— Hey! What are you doing?” Victor lifted his head to watch Peter extract his key and stuff it in his pocket.

“We're done with this being a halfway house. I have an actual flatmate. And both of us like having hot showers and not having our food eaten. So I don't care what kind of girlfriend troubles you have, I'm no longer your alternate for when she kicks you out.”

“Wow, look at you, little bro. Gone and grown a backbone and everything.” Victor cast him a sardonic smile as he reached for another handful of crisps. “And here I was just enjoying some of your moments of glory.”

Peter looked toward the TV to find some kind of sports highlights show on and saw his team, faces taut with agony, pulling back against the oars. The yellow Team Great Britain boat chasing Germany's green one.

In a split second, he was back in the previous June. Out on the water in Varese, Italy. With his guys. Lungs burning. Body screaming. Sun beating down. The longest five minutes and twenty-seven seconds of his life as they'd fought to take the lead and then hold it against the powerful Germans, who took the fight right to the end. A third of a second was all that separated them at the finish line.

It was one of his biggest victories. It was also the last time he'd raced. Little did that guy in the boat know he was only hours away from losing everything.

He steeled his face before he turned back to Victor, refusing to let him see how much it hurt. His brother would only go out of his way to pour more salt in the wound if he knew.

“I
might need to stay a few days. Marissa and I, we're proper done this time.”

Peter couldn't say he was sorry. The truth was Marissa was better off without his brother. The guy treated women like they were disposable. He just hoped she'd been the one to work it out and end things. There were already too many girls bearing the scars of Victor's charm-them-and-leave-them approach to life. Once he donned the blue jacket, the sign of having reached the highest sporting level at Oxford, he would be unbearable.

“You've got two days. I've got a friend crashing this weekend.” Jackson was actually going to sleep in Tony's room, since his flatmate was going to be away, but there was no need for Victor to know that.

Victor took another slurp of his beer. “Okay, fine. Relax. I guess I can always go home. Tell Mum you kicked me out.”

He'd forgotten for a few brave moments his parents thought he and Victor lived together. Victor had spun that tale a while back, and Peter had never found a way to break his mother's heart and tell her the truth—that her eldest son was actually shacked up with some girl she'd never met.

“Sure. Go for it.”

They stared at each other. Despite all his brother's character flaws—and they made a long list—Victor did actually seem to care about their parents. As much as he cared about anyone.

Peter had long since stopped praying that they would ever be friends. There was too much between them. Had been since the day he dared to be born. The gap had just grown exponentially over the years. Something he was reminded of every time he looked at the scar marring his brother's face.

About the only thing that still held them together was their
uneasy truce to keep the depths of their antagonism from their parents. So Peter was going to take his chances that Victor wouldn't go out of his way to upset their mother.

“So, little brother, how much does it suck knowing you've already lived the greatest moment of your life?” Victor pointed at the TV screen as the two boats crossed the finish line, Team Great Britain just ahead. Peter's eyes locked on the sheer joy and exhilaration that radiated from his face. From the faces of his entire team.

Victor's taunting question was one that dogged his every waking moment. It was the reason that, no matter what the experts said, he couldn't accept he would never experience that again. He had to. There was no other option.

E
MELIA STEPPED INTO THE SMALL
office she'd been assigned at SpringBoard, dropping her bag on the top of her pristine desk. She didn't officially start for another forty-five minutes, but her latest strategy was to spend as little time in the hovel as possible.

Hopefully the alerts she'd put on roommate-search websites would yield something. So far she hadn't been able to find anything that fit her criteria. She didn't think she was being too picky. Her standards had started off pretty high but slipped by the day as her desperation mounted. Now she was down to affordable, within cycling distance of the city center, not with weirdos, and in a building that didn't deserve to be condemned.

Sitting in her chair, Emelia ran her hand over the wooden desk. Four days since she'd started and there was no hint of anything personal. Nothing that would tell a passerby anything about her. Just stacks of paper and a plastic tray that held her stationery. The way she liked it. It was a habit she'd gained as a tabloid hack where the competition was as fierce between colleagues as it was between outlets. Anything personal hinted at a potential weakness. You didn't get to be the best in the
cutthroat world of tabloid journalism by displaying your vulnerabilities.

Emelia logged in to her computer, pulling up all the websites she'd been searching, hoping that maybe, in the last twelve hours, someone had listed her dream situation. But as the minutes ticked by, her hopes deflated. She was paid up at the so-called Manor until next Wednesday. She would not be staying there for one night more. If she didn't have somewhere new to live by then, she'd dig into her meager savings. Stay in a hotel for a couple of nights. If even just to remind herself what it was like to be able to shower in bare feet again.

Closing down the sites, she pulled up the to-do list that Elizabeth had emailed her the previous afternoon. With the staff down to a bare skeleton crew, everyone was pitching in to cover basic administration. She scanned the columns. Photocopying, envelope stuffing, a few phone calls to the few remaining donors to take their pulse. Not exactly a heavy intellectual load.

Picking up the stack of photocopying that had been left on top of the filing cabinet, she double-checked the instructions. Eighty copies each. That should keep the photocopier humming for a while.

Walking down the hall, she stepped into the photocopier/stationery cupboard. As she crossed the threshold she was met by a loud bang. Emelia jumped, a small scream slipping from her lips.

Startled, the petite redhead standing at the photocopier also let out a shriek.

They stared at each other for a second.

“Sorry. I didn't know anyone else was here.” They spoke in unison, then paused.

Emelia glanced at the red flashing lights on the copier. “Do you need some help?”

The other girl looked at her with an expression of defeat. “Could you? It just keeps jamming and I can't work out why.” She gestured to the floor by the machine, which was strewn with a collection of rumpled, half-torn pieces of paper. “I think it just hates me.” The accent wasn't English. Australian, maybe?

Emelia placed her papers on a shelf and walked over. “We've had a few battles this week. I make no guarantees, but I'll see what I can do.”

She started opening doors and flicking knobs, pulling out crinkled pieces of paper as she went.

“I'm Allie, by the way.”

Emelia glanced at the friendly green eyes and smattering of freckles. The woman's auburn hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She could have been anywhere between her midtwenties and midthirties. That was a contrast to the norm at the charity. All the other volunteers she'd met had decades on her.

“Emelia.”

Reaching deep into the bowels of the machine, she reached for one of the last places she'd discovered paper could get caught and felt her fingers brush against the edge of a sheet.

“Are you new here?”

“Yes. I started on Monday. I'm the new fund-raising coordinator.” She said it with far more confidence than she felt. What did she know about fund-raising? Yes, she'd helped Ava with some event-related stuff for LA Lit but the woman had been a seasoned veteran of the LA charity scene and made it all look easy.

“Thank goodness. I've only been volunteering here a few
weeks but even I know we need you badly.” There was no hint of a joke in Allie's expression. “Where are you from?”

“Boston.” She didn't really think of herself as from anywhere. But Boston was where she'd been happiest. When she'd had dreams of being an investigative reporter working for the
Post
or the
Times
. So that was what she claimed. “You?” Her fingers managed to grasp the corner of the paper and pull it free. She crumpled it up and dropped it to the floor to join its comrades.

“New Zealand. Have you been in England long?”

Emelia flicked knobs and switches, closing the copier doors as she went. “Almost a couple of weeks.” Standing, she closed the final door. “That should hopefully do it. Let's give it a shot.”

Allie loaded the feeder again, tapped “20” into the keypad, and hit the green button. They both watched as the machine whirred and then started spitting out copies.

“Fund-raising coordinator and photocopier miracle worker.” Allie smiled. “Don't you dare go leaving anytime soon.”

Emelia flushed. Why, she had no idea. Of all the praise she'd had in her life, it wasn't exactly near the top of the list. Fortunately, the sound of the machine spitting out sheets of paper covered the potentially awkward silence. “Glad I could help. It's the last turny thing. The one right at the back. Where the paper gets stuck. People don't usually think to look there.” Now she was just blabbering like an idiot. She pivoted to collect her copying from the shelf.

“Emelia?”

She turned back. Allie was gathering up her set of papers. “If you're new in town, you probably haven't met many people yet. Our age, I mean. This place isn't exactly brimming with youth.”

“Um,
no. Not really. I've been trying to get settled.”

“I'm having a house party on Saturday night. Just a small gathering. You should come. I mean, you don't have to. Obviously. But if you don't have anything better to do.”

What did she say to a party invite from someone she'd known all of two minutes? This didn't happen in LA, where the people she crossed paths with specialized in the superficial.

Allie grabbed a pen and scribbled something on a Post-it. “Look. No pressure. But I just moved here in September so I know what it's like to be in a new city.” She handed her the piece of paper. “This is my address. Anytime from seven thirty.”

Emelia took the paper, folded it, and put it in her pocket. As far as things that she hated most, going to a party where she didn't know a single soul rated up there, but it might just beat any other option she had. Really, she only had one: another night hanging out in a used book shop she'd found that stayed open late. “Thanks.”

Allie's machine spat out its last copy and stopped whirring. She gathered up the papers, placing them perpendicularly across the first. “Anyway, thanks so much for the help. I would've been stuck here all day if it wasn't for you.” She made a face. “Showing up at my first school visit without the handouts wouldn't be great. I might see you Saturday?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Emelia watched as Allie disappeared in a flurry of papers and swishing trench coat, a warm feeling expanding in her chest. For the first time since she'd arrived in Oxford, she felt like she wasn't alone.

T
HE NOISE PRACTICALLY BURST OUT
of the small house, sounds of laughter and music. Through the windows, Emelia could see people already packed in and talking. What was she doing coming to a party hosted by someone she'd met for all of three minutes? She didn't even know Allie's last name.

Her fingers gripped tighter to the paper bag that contained the fancy-looking soda she'd brought. Maybe she could just walk in, put it down somewhere, and walk right out the back door.

Emelia didn't know what she was even doing here. A small gathering, Allie had said. If this was what they called a small gathering in New Zealand, she would have hated to see a large one.

She was bad with people. Especially strangers. The old her had been great with strangers. With anyone. But she wasn't professional schmoozer Mia Caldwell anymore, with her blond hair and sassy smile. She didn't know who she was, but it wasn't her.

Emelia stopped on the front stoop. Frozen. Not able to knock on the door, but her feet refused to obey her instructions to turn around.

C'mon, Emelia.

Nothing could be worse than another night staring at the walls of her freezing room, listening to
Coronation Street
at full blast in the lounge directly below. The only other option she had was hiding out in the used book shop. That was where she'd spent the last few evenings, smuggling in a sandwich and hunkering down between the stacks. But the owner had started giving her looks of sympathy. Being the object of a stranger's pity grated. So here she was.

It's just people. They don't know you. That's why you're here. To reinvent yourself. To start again. To atone.

Blowing out a breath of icy air, she raised her hand, only for the door to fly open before she'd even touched the wood.

“Thank goodness. For a second there I thought you were going to turn around and leave.” Allie greeted her with a cheery smile, like Emelia wasn't basically a stranger.

“I, uh . . .” Struggling for words, Emelia half shoved her brown paper bag at Allie. Like she was six years old and trying to bribe someone to be friends with her by giving them cookies.