Can't Help Falling

by Kara Isaac

  “I’ve tried the office. She’s not there.”

  The click of her door opening. Them peering into her empty room with its perfectly made bed. “Well, she’s not here either.”

  “I have an idea. Just give me a second.”

  Sure enough, a few moments later there came a tapping on the wardrobe door. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? Hadn’t she already done enough damage? And that was just the stuff he knew about.

  She shrank back into her corner, pressed her lips together, hoped he would just go away.

  No such luck. The door creaked open and Peter, crouching down, stared right at her.

  “Leave me alone.” Her words whispered out. “Please. Just go away.”

  “I don’t think so.” He peered inside. “I’d ask if I could join you in there but I’m pretty sure there isn’t enough room.”

  The thought of Peter trying to fold his huge frame into her small wardrobe was enough to cause one side of her mouth to lift.

  “That’s better.” He stood, holding out his hand to help her out, and she pushed her way through her clothes to standing, the papers clutched tightly in her hands. Behind him Allie stood in the doorway.

  Great. Now her roommate knew she was a weirdo who hid in wardrobes. She opened her mouth, trying to find some words to explain her particular brand of crazy.

  Allie held a hand up to stop her and smiled. “You don’t need to explain. Everyone needs a hiding place. I’ve got some engagement-party planning to do so I’ll leave you guys to it.” She disappeared, leaving Peter looking at her with concerned eyes.

  “You didn’t go to work today. Elizabeth is worried.”

  “Actually I did.” Long enough to open what sent her scrambling for her hiding place. “I just had to leave. I left Elizabeth a message.”

  “This is not your fault, Emelia. This is not on you. No one blames you for the brawl.”

  The rational part of her knew that. In all the discussions about risk and contingencies not once had anyone raised the possibility of a bunch of tree-sized rowers turning the so-called gentlemen’s game into a fistfight. The worst-case scenario had been the match getting rained out.

  “Do you know who threw the first punch?”

  She didn’t know. She didn’t even care. “Who?”

  “Victor.”

  Of course he did. “Why?”

  “Well, neither him nor the other guy are saying but best anyone can work out the Cambridge guy made some slur about Anita.”

  The whole debacle had been on the front page of the paper for the first three days. The reception had been canceled. All the tickets had to be refunded but all the associated bills still had to be paid.

  She had failed. The only reason she was here was to save Anita’s charity and after two events they were back to square one. She should just walk away now. Walk away from SpringBoard. Walk away from Peter. Walk away from all of it. Except she had nowhere else to go. All her eggs were in this one messed-up basket.

  “This came today.” She held out the sheaf of papers to Peter.

  “What is it?”

  “Estimated costs to repair the damage. Because the university didn’t charge us to use the grounds, their insurer is saying the damage isn’t covered by their rental insurance policy.”

  Peter scanned the document, turning the pages until he got to the figure on the final page. Then he let out a low whistle. “Eighteen thousand pounds?”

  “Once we refund the reception tickets and pay all the costs, that’s pretty much everything we’ve made from the row-off and the cricket match.” Emelia felt tears building in the back of her eyes and blinked them away, but she didn’t prevent one from spilling over.

  Peter looked at her, pulled a pressed white handkerchief out of his pocket, and handed it to her. Only the English. “Why does this matter so much? I mean, I’m personally invested because Anita was my cousin. But this feels like this is much more than a job to you.”

  This was it. This was the moment when she should just tell him the truth, the whole sordid truth, and let the chips fall as they might. But the fear of the unknown clogged the words in her throat. “I just need to do something right.”

  Peter studied her, as if wanting to ask more. More than she was able to give. “Okay. Well then, I guess we’re just going to have to put on the best charity ball that Oxfordshire has ever seen.”

  She had to give him points for sheer optimism but she just couldn’t see it. “How are we ever going to put on a ball that will make a million pounds? With pretty much no money? Let’s be honest. It’s no more likely to happen than me getting to Narnia through my wardrobe.”

  Peter just looked at her, jaw sagging. “That’s it!”

  “What’s it?”

  “Narnia!”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “SpringBoard is a literature charity. It’s December. Winter. Highbridge is a manor in the country. Just like in the book. I can’t believe we haven’t thought of this before. It’ll be perfect.”

  “What?”

  The next thing she knew Peter had picked her up and was spinning her around. Her heels skied across the side of her bed, through the air, then along the wall. “Narnia. We make it a Narnia-themed ball.”

  He dropped her to the floor, leaving her breathless and giddy. Images of Highbridge’s ballroom decked out with tables of Turkish delight, a huge lantern post in the middle of it, custom-made wardrobe doors as the entry, spinning through her mind like whirling snowflakes.

  “What do you think?” For a second he looked like he was doubting himself.

  “I think . . .” Emelia said the words slowly, drawing them out. Then she grinned. “I think it is the craziest, most amazing idea I have ever heard.”

  They both stared at each other for a second, breathless with the sheer audacity of what they were going to try to pull off.

  And suddenly it didn’t seem so crazy when Peter leaned down and kissed her.

  Twenty-Nine

  EMELIA WALKED TENTATIVELY INTO PETER’S average-sized living area. “Hello?” No answer.

  Such a bachelor pad. A couple of rowing posters and another poster for the games of the 2015 Rugby World Cup were the only wall decorations. One of the two mismatched couches had been inherited from the seventies. The money saved had apparently been invested in the huge TV that sat on the main wall. It was tidy though, which was more than she’d expected.

  It had been four days since Peter’s Narnia ball idea tipped Emelia over the brink of recklessness. They’d been saved from themselves only by Allie’s coming to ask for opinions on something to do with the engagement party, the two of them both springing apart at her voice like a pair of teenagers busted by a parent. Emelia had spent the time telling herself it was better that way, that a little bit of distance was all it would take to get over this foolish infatuation that had somehow managed to sneak under her guard. The way her heart hammered at the sound of him on her voice mail called that out for the lie that it was.

  He’d sounded stressed. Said he had to go out of town unexpectedly and asked if she could top up Reepicheep’s water in the morning. Told her where to find the spare key.

  In one corner sat a scratching post, and cat bowls of water and food sat on a piece of newspaper. No sign of the world’s ugliest cat.

  Retrieving the water bowl, she made quick work of washing it out and refilling it. In the hour since she’d picked up his voice mail her mind had spun trying to think of one good reason he would need to leave so suddenly yet still remember to make sure his cat got fresh water. She’d come up with none.

  She placed the bowl back on the newspaper, then turned to leave. She’d send Peter a text back in the car. Let him know his cat’s hydration needs were met.

  She froze midturn. The guy hadn’t been joking. On the far side of the room, by the door, sat a glass case on the bookshelf.

  She walked toward it, crouching down slightly to look at the model straight on. “Wow.” The Dawn Tre
ader sat inside. A beautiful model, meticulously assembled, maybe fifteen inches long by ten inches high. Even from behind the glass, she could see the tiny detailing and intricate construction of Lewis’s famous boat.

  On one side of it sat copies of all the books in The Chronicles of Narnia. On the other side sat a collection of Lewis’s works. The Great Divorce. Mere Christianity, The Screwtape Letters, and others. She picked up Mere Christianity and flipped through its pages. She’d never read it. Never really been interested in what Clive had to say about religion, no matter how much she liked him. Not when his team included people who had never met her mother but took some kind of wacked-out pleasure in insisting she was burning in hell.

  But she’d promised herself when she came to Oxford that she’d try to build this new self with an open mind. If Allie, Jackson, and Peter all thought there was something to be found here, maybe she should at least hear them out. Hear Clive out. He had, after all, even called himself the most dejected and reluctant convert in all of England.

  Picking up a book titled The Weight of Glory, she flipped through the pages.

  It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.

  His words struck something deep inside her. Infinite joy. What would that even look like?

  Her pondering was interrupted by the sound of retching. Spinning around, Emelia saw Reep had not only appeared but was violently hacking on the carpet, his little head arching forward and back.

  He was choking. Badly. Peter was going to return to a feline corpse. No matter what she thought of the squat furball, that wasn’t an option.

  Moving across the room, she picked him up under his rib cage, feeling the strength of his efforts as his abdomen sucked in and shuddered out. She’d never had a cat. She had no idea what to do. Smack him on the back like you did a person? She had no better idea. Lifting her hand, she tapped him on the back. He kept choking. Another whack. Firmer. This time his sound changed, like something had been dislodged.

  Another cough and a hairball flew out and landed on the back of the couch. Ew.

  “You all good, little guy?” Emelia held him up and rotated him to face her. He gave her squinty eyes. Then proceeded to latch both of his paws onto her bare arm and shred it like a piece of paper.

  For a second, Emelia just stared into his triumphant face before softly dropping a word that should never be used in polite company.

  Then her hands flew apart, and Reep fell to the ground before bounding up the back of the couch and out of her range of vision.

  Her left forearm and hand featured thin red ribbons. She took a deep breath before she could give in to her desire to commit caticide, and then Emelia turned around to try to see where he’d gone.

  Her spine stiffened. Where the Narnia books had been, Reep now sat. With one paw batting at the Dawn Treader case. She let out her breath as she saw it wasn’t moving. Of course it wouldn’t. He was just a little cat.

  Staring straight at her, Reepicheep pushed his face between the back of the case and the wall. Slowly, the corner of the case shifted forward until it edged off the shelf. As he forced himself even farther forward, the corner moved another inch or so off.

  “Here, Reep.” Emelia stepped backward to his food bowl and picked it up. She tiptoed toward the bookshelf and shook the bowl, the dry cat food clinking against the metal sides. “Look, Reep. Are you hungry? Yummy food?” It smelled disgusting. Like fish and bones.

  As if to tell her what he thought of her offer, Reep pushed the case so that almost a quarter of it was being held up by nothing but air.

  Okay, enough was enough. She put the food down and reached out. If he scraped both arms up, so be it. The Dawn Treader was not going down on her watch. She grabbed the ends of the case, picked it up, and pulled it toward her.

  Reepicheep leapt off the bookshelf, landed on top of the case, and gave her what could only be described as a “die, girl, die” glare before opening his mouth and sneezing in her face.

  Emelia’s eyes clamped shut, and she stumbled back, trying to get away from the evil spawn. Her foot went right into the food bowl and slipped, sending her sideways.

  The next thing she knew, something struck her across the back, sending her flying forward. The case flew out of her hands and hit the window with a crack. A line appeared in the glass, but the case stayed intact. She held out a smidgeon of hope until it flipped and flipped again as it dove to the floor and landed upside down.

  Crawling across the ugly carpet, she reached the case and tipped it over. Inside where the boat had once been sat a collection of matchsticks, string, and material.

  Then, behind her, came the sound of spawn cat purring.

  Peter stood in the doorway, bewildered by the scene spread out before him. Books on the floor, cat food strewn all over the place, and in the middle of it all, Emelia crouched over pieces of wood and glass. He blinked. Maybe he was hallucinating from no sleep.

  Something rubbed against his leg, and he looked down to find Reepicheep. “Hey, little guy.” He scooped him up and gave him a pat as he walked across the living room.

  “Are you—” His words clogged his throat as he saw what it was that had gone flying from her grasp and hit the window. What she now held cradled in her arms. The case with his beloved model. The one thing he had left from his grandfather. Inside, the Dawn Treader lay in pieces. Not even pieces, more like shrapnel.

  “What happened?” He breathed the words and blinked back unexpected moisture rising in his eyes.

  It’s just a boat, Peter. It’s just a boat.

  That didn’t stop the lump in his throat.

  Emelia’s eyes were huge. “I’m so sorry.”

  Red lines ran down one of her arms. “What happened?” He repeated the question.

  “I tripped and—”

  “No, not to the boat. To you.” He reached out and lightly touched her arm above one of the scratches.

  She looked down at it as if it were the first time she’d seen it. “Let’s just say it’s been confirmed your cat isn’t exactly an ardent fan of mine.”

  His pet purred and looked up at him innocently. But the lines down Emelia’s arm were clearly from little claws.

  What could he do? It wasn’t like you could put a cat in time-out. “Stay right there, I’m going to find something for it.”

  Striding to the kitchen, he rummaged in the top cupboard until he found the box of assorted items that passed as his medical supplies and pulled out an almost empty tube of antiseptic cream. Better than nothing.

  He took a couple of deep breaths, squashing down the well-worn memories of building the boat with his grandfather. If he dwelled on the fact that it was now in tiny pieces, he wouldn’t be able to hide how gutted he was.

  Returning to her side, he squeezed out a little cream and dabbed it on her arm, trying to gently spread it up and down the scratch. Emelia winced. “Sorry.”

  “Do I need a rabies shot?”

  Good grief, he hoped not.

  “I’m so sorry about the Treader.”

  “It’s okay. It was just an accident. Mostly my fault. It was me opening the door that sent you flying.” He kept his gaze on her wounds, refusing to look at her face.

  “Reep was up there and I thought he was going to push it off, so I’d picked it up to put it somewhere safer and then—” She shrugged.

  “Bad timing.”

  “I wish I could have seen it better. It looked beautiful. It must have taken you ages.”

  “Months.” But it wasn’t as beautiful as she was. He didn’t know where the thought came from. All he knew was that after a late night drive to London, then spending the small hours trying to negotiate the release of his unapologetic brother o
ut of the latest jail cell, there was nothing he would have rather found when he came home than her. Even if she was holding the remains of his most beloved possession.

  “If I tell you something, can you try not to hate me?” She blinked up at him with long, damp eyelashes.

  “I’ll try.”

  She scrunched up her nose. “I don’t really like cats. And I really, really don’t like yours.”

  He ran his hand across her jawline, then slid it into her hair, running his fingers over its wavy edges. “Can’t say I blame you after what he’s done to you.”

  She looked at him. Properly. Her eyes traveled his face, no doubt taking in his rumpled clothes and haggard face. “Is everything okay?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. Tried to remember what he’d said in the message he’d left on her voice mail. “It was a long night.” He was going to stop there, but something compelled him to go on. “Victor got into a bit of trouble in London.”

  “Ah.” Her expression revealed no surprise at his words. But then, why would she after her first meeting with him? “What kind of trouble was he in?”

  “Got arrested for drunk-and-disorderly.”

  “So, you went to rescue him?” He couldn’t tell from her tone if she disapproved or not.

  Peter shrugged. “It’s what brothers do.” Though in this brotherhood it was very much a one-way street. Always had been. He ran his fingers across the cracked case. “To be honest, I’m surprised he didn’t break this long ago. He was always jealous of how close Pop and I were.”

  “When you left the party and that time you ran out of my office. Were they both Victor too?”

  For once he didn’t mind talking about his brother. It was a good distraction. “Yes.”

  “So, you rescue him pretty often?”

  “I guess.” Peter tried to sort through his tired thoughts. “He’s always had a bit of a thing for drinking and girls. But it’s gotten out of control. This last year, I’ve spent more time getting him out of pubs, or parties, or police cells, absolutely wasted, than I care to think about. But then a few hours later, he’s on the erg pulling the kind of times that some guys train years toward and never achieve.” He shook his head. “Anyway, looks like his luck is about to run out. It’s looking pretty certain he’s going to get charged this time.”