Can't Help Falling (36 page)

“But you need to know something. Even if the ball is a huge success, even if you achieve what you came here to do, I don't think you're going to find the atonement you're looking for here.”

E
MELIA FINGERED THE SHIP IN
her hands, holding it carefully as she examined it from all angles. It seemed perfect. Apart from the hairline crack running around the middle of the boat that couldn't be completely hidden, you'd never have known it was the same one that had shattered on Peter's floor.

She nestled it back into the padded box that sat on the passenger seat of Allie's car and drew in a deep breath. This wasn't a big deal. She was just going to leave it on Peter's doorstep. She'd checked the schedule, and he would still be at the rowing club for a couple of hours teaching. There was no chance he'd be home. She'd never met his roommate, so if he happened to be there, she could just give him the box and run.

She climbed out of the car and crossed to the passenger side. Reaching in, she picked up the box and closed the door with a swing of her hip.

Up the path, put it down, and get back to the car. The whole thing should take less than thirty seconds. She strode up the path, climbed the six steps to the front door, and paused.

She'd decided not to leave a note with it because, really, what was there left to say?

She rested her head for a second on the front door, only for it to swing open at her touch. “Argh!” She stumbled forward over the stoop, the box crushed to her chest.

Hands grabbed her elbows, steadying her.

Please let it be anyone but him. Please let it be anyone but him.

The fingers released her arms like they were hot coals. “What are you doing here?”

Of course it was. She chanced a glance up. “You look horrible.” It was true. He was even whiter than usual, never good for a redhead, with glazed eyes and a sheen across his forehead. “Are you okay?”

“Thanks.” Even though he'd let go of her arms, the box was still wedged between them. “I have the flu. I heard footsteps and thought you were my Panadol and Gatorade delivery.

“What are you—” His words ended as he saw into the box. “Is that my . . .” He trailed off as he studied the boat, then leaned down to look more closely.

“I didn't think you'd be home. I was just planning to leave it on your doorstep.” She pushed the box toward his torso so he was forced to take it, then stepped back.

“I . . . don't know what to say.” Placing the box on the hallway table beside them, he carefully lifted out the model and studied it. “How did you do this?”

“I didn't. But I found someone who could. It was precious to you, so I . . .” She trailed off too, unable to find words to bridge the distance her deceit had created.

“Thank you.” His gaze softened for a second. “Um, I should probably put it back. My hands aren't too steady at the moment.” He placed the boat back into its packaging before turning to face her again.

“I'm
sorry I ruined everything. I'm sorry I lied. I'm sorry about Anita. More sorry than you could know.” The words tumbled out of her.

He didn't say anything.

“I should go.” She took a backward step toward the threshold.

Feet pounded behind her. “Sorry I took so long. I ran into Brett in town—” An expletive. “What are you doing here?”

Emelia closed her eyes for a moment. Seriously? Could she not catch a break? Not even when she was trying to do a good thing?

Victor shouldered past her, pushing her into the door. Turning, he stood between her and Peter. “You've got some nerve coming here after what you did.”

She was not taking this. She would silently take whatever Peter dished out, but she was not taking anything from Victor.

“After what
I
did? That's a bit rich coming from you, of all people.”

Victor flinched and turned a lighter shade. “You wrote the story. That's what drove her to the edge.”

“I didn't know she had addiction issues. No clue about her being in and out of rehab. Unlike you. Great
cousin
you are.” She spat the word into his face.

Over his shoulder she saw Peter's face. Confused. Bewildered.

Oh. Understanding hit. “He doesn't know, does he?” She nodded her head at Peter.

“What is she talking about?”

“Nothing. You know you can't trust a word Mia says.” Victor threw her name in with a sneer, but it was impossible to miss the desperation in his eyes.

“It's Emelia.”
She said the words through gritted teeth.

“What. Is. She. Talking. About.” Peter's words came out staccato. Individual verbal bullets aimed at his brother.

Emelia turned toward him. Poor guy. But since she had nothing to lose, she might as well tell him the whole ugly truth. “You want to hold me responsible for Anita's death, I don't blame you. I blame myself. But you might want to ask your brother who she was with that night. Who's the owner of the hand in the photo that cut her line?”

W
ho's the owner of the hand in the photo that cut her line?
Emelia's words shot through Peter's ears and into his heart like a laser.

Worse. For everything she hadn't told the truth about, he could tell by the look on her face that on this one thing—this one, life-changing thing—she was.

Which meant . . . He grabbed Victor by his shoulder and swung him around. “You. Were. There.” He could barely get the words out through his clenched jaw.

All the holes he had dug his brother out of. All the times he had taken the blame for him to try to keep his name in the clear. The lifetime's worth of guilt Victor had heaped on him and he'd accepted, for the accident that had marred his brother's face forever.

“Hey.” Victor held his hands up in an attempted gesture of innocence. “Look, all I did was slice it up for her. She already had it when I got there. If I didn't, someone else would've.”

Peter stared at his brother. Of everything he'd thought Victor capable of, something like this had never crossed his mind. He'd believed him without question when he'd said he wasn't
even there that evening. That the last he'd seen of her had been a couple of days before and she'd been fine.

“She'd been out of rehab for five days. Five!”

His brother rolled his eyes. “I hate to break it to you, Bunny, but Neets wasn't our cute little cousin in pigtails anymore. She was a big girl.” There was something about Victor's words that made Peter think he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. Maybe it would have been okay if Victor had stopped there, but he had to keep talking. “I wasn't her chaperone, or her conscience. At least I got her out of there before she landed herself in a stranger's bed. She got around, did our—
oof!”

Peter's first punch was a direct hit to his brother's torso. As Victor instinctively doubled over, Peter brought his fist up into his nose. Blood spurted, drops hitting the wooden floor and splattering like violent starbursts.

“Stop it!” Emelia's scream reached his ears about the same time his brother barreled into him. They both went down, Peter's head cracking the floor, his vision shattering for a second. Which was all it took for Victor to take his second strike, a well-aimed knee to the groin. This time it was like the entire galaxy exploded in his head.

“About time, little bro. Not the good guy anymore, are we?” Victor's grunted words cut through the haze as Peter grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt and threw him backward. The hall table flipped over and landed with a crash by the door.

“Stop it!
Stop it!
” Emelia's screaming was loud enough to wake a coma patient.

In the seconds it took for the two brothers to get back to
their feet, puffing, Victor swearing a blue streak, she had managed to dart between the two of them.

“Get out of the way, Em.”

There was no way they could get at each other in the narrow hallway without involving her. He certainly didn't trust his brother to let that stop him. Not after what the last few minutes had revealed.

“Why? So you two can beat each other to death? Not a chance.” She shook her head with the determination that had drawn him to her in the first place.

“Em, get out of the way. Please.” Desperation tinged his words.

“I'd listen to what Bunny says. You really don't want to be in the middle of this.”

Emelia didn't even look at Victor. Her eyes stayed fixed on Peter. Bad move. Because of the two of them, only one played dirty. He saw Victor's foot start moving, aimed at her ankles.

“E—” He didn't even manage to get a single syllable out of his mouth before she had spun around, grabbed his brother by one arm, and flipped him over her back. A guy at least twice her weight and almost totally muscle. Victor landed on the floor with a smack, opening his eyes to find her heel poised above his groin.

“Try that again, clever guy, and you will never have children. Not that that would be such a great loss to the world.”

Victor was silent, staring at her with a vicious glare. But he didn't move so much as a finger.

“No? I didn't think so.” She took a couple of steps back toward Peter. “Now get out.”

Victor clambered to his feet. For a split second, Peter caught something that might have been remorse or regret flashing across his face. But it was gone in an instant, replaced with his usual haughty expression. He didn't say a word as he backed across the threshold, slamming the door behind him.

“That's going to need some ice.” Emelia put a light finger to his cheek. Peter just stared at her, still dazed. “How many fingers can you see?” She held up three fingers and moved them from left to right.

“What . . . how did you do that?” It was like something from a movie. Except in his hallway. Was any of this real? Or had he just fallen asleep on his couch and this was all a dream?

She gave a sad smile. “Occupational hazard. Martial arts training comes in handy when you have a job that makes you enemies by the week. How many fingers?” She did the same again. This time with four.

“Four.”

“Any double vision?”

“No, I'm fine.” The truth was the feeling of a thousand knives slicing through his groin was making him want to curl up in the fetal position and weep like a little boy, but he was hardly going to tell her that.

He looked at the ground and saw it was covered with splinters of wood. The hall table he'd flipped was intact, so what was . . . oh. He slid down the wall until he sat on the floor amid the ruins of the
Dawn Treader
. He picked up two tiny pieces of mast. For some crazy reason, he tried to piece them together, like the rest of the ship hadn't been blown to smithereens all over the floor.

They didn't fit. So he tried again, stabbing the two tiny segments
together like he could make them connect through sheer force of will.

What had he done? What had Victor done?

“They won't fit.” His words echoed in the hall.

Emelia's fingers wrapped around his as she knelt in front of him. She took the two pieces from his hands, studied them for a second, then folded them into her fist. “I guess some things are just meant to be broken.”

W
ELL, THAT WENT WELL
. S
HE'D
caused a brawl between brothers and the
Treader
was back in a million pieces. No one could say she did things by halves.

Emelia's phone rang as she drove up to her house. She pulled up at the curb and answered the call. “Aren't you supposed to be on your honeymoon?”

“I am.” Allie laughed. “Italy. I've sent Jackson to go find some sports to watch. Told you we'd only last three days before we got sick of each other.”

“It's been over two weeks.”

“Has it?” Allie sounded genuinely surprised.

Emelia leaned her head against the headrest. The two weeks may have felt like two minutes to Allie but they had felt like two years to her.

“I guess we'll see you soon then.”

“I've started packing.” If worst came to worst she could just go stay at a backpackers' hostel until the ball was over. She didn't have much.

“Why?”

“I just . . . assumed you and Jackson would want the house to yourselves when you get back.” Allie's contract at Oxford
had been extended for another year and she definitely wouldn't want to be sharing four walls with the besotted newlyweds.

“Don't be silly. We're going to base ourselves out of Cambridge while we work out what Jackson is going to do with himself. We've got his apartment there and I'll just commute for the first term. Stay a few nights a week at our house when it doesn't make sense to go home.”

Allie's blithe tone made it sound like it was no big deal when it was. Emelia couldn't have been more wrong about one thing. Allie hadn't abandoned her when she found out the truth. “Why would you do that for me?”

“Because you deserve good things. No matter how much you struggle to believe it.”

“Peter doesn't want anything to do with me.” Emelia's voice betrayed her with a wobble.

“Peter needs a bullet.” At least that was what it sounded like Allie muttered under her breath.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing. Just an expression from home.”

“I just took the
Treader
over to his house. I never should have gone. He and Victor got in a fight. It got smashed again. Everything I touch goes bad.”

“That's not true. That fight has been waiting to happen for years. Just give him time. He has a lot to get his head around.”

Emelia sighed. “Not that it matters anyway. Even if he could somehow get beyond all of that, I still don't believe the same as he does. That's the dealbreaker. I've gotta be honest, Al. Between you and Jackson and Peter I was beginning to wonder if there might be something there. I know it's not fair but if Peter can't forgive me, then it's kind of impossible to believe in the
God he says does. At this point, I'm going to need an unmistakable sign. I'm talking like writing-on-the-wall, booming-voice kind of stuff.”