Can't Help Falling (39 page)

Something in the room changed. She knew without even turning around that Peter had entered.

She turned slowly, biting back a nervous giggle. Peter was wearing the same ugly sweater that he had at Allie's party. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Again. She didn't know what else to say.

He smiled. “I think you already said that.”

“Then
it must be your line. No one gave me the script.”

“I need to clear something up first. Actually a few things.”

“What?” Emelia batted some fake snow away from her face so she could see Peter more clearly. Whatever this was, she didn't want to miss a moment of it.

“I'm not with Sabine. I forgive you and I'm sorry.”

“You're not? You do?” The words came out all breathy. She struggled to hold in the ridiculous grin that was threatening to take over her face; the invisible weight that had been on her had disappeared the moment he said it.

He crossed the room in two strides. “No. Yes. And you are not a Susan.”

“You read it?” Fake snow wafted onto Peter's hair and her fingers itched to brush it away.

“For you, I would do almost anything.”

She blinked, completely unprepared for the knowledge that he'd finally finished Narnia. For her. Something warm settled in her chest and flowed out into her limbs.

“But I am a Susan. Don't you see? I let myself get distracted and I lost everything. Just like Susan did. Everyone left me.” Including him. Or so she'd thought until right this minute.

“You're a Lucy.” His words were definite, no doubt in them.

She shook her head, unable to find the words of rebuttal in the face of his insistence.

“Lucy never stopped looking for Narnia. Yearning for Narnia. I met you right here, in this wardrobe, when you fell on top of me. And what were you doing in there?”

“Looking for Narnia.” Her words were soft, tentative.

“And then, in Allie's wardrobe, you were . . . ?”

“Looking for Narnia.”
This time her words were a little more certain, matching the growing hope in her chest.

“And what is the one thing that you can't stop yourself from doing, no matter how hard you try?”

“Climbing into wardrobes and looking for Narnia.” Maybe, just maybe, what she'd thought of as the crazy gene inherited from her mom was actually something more.

Peter reached out and grabbed one of her hands, entwining his fingers around hers. “Susan never looks for Narnia. She follows Lucy there through the wardrobe. She gets summoned there by her own horn. Then she grows up and says it was all just a childish game. Susan is cautious and content with positions of ease and comfort. You're one of the bravest people I've ever met.”

“I . . .” She wasn't brave. That was the last thing she thought she was.

Peter reached for her other hand and tugged her closer to him. She peered up into his deep green eyes. “Remember the dwarves, in the end, when they're in the true Narnia, but they think they're still in the stable? No matter how much Lucy and Tirian and the others try to tell them the truth. Not even Aslan can convince them otherwise.”

Emelia nodded. Not quite able to find words.

“Like the dwarves, you've so convinced yourself as to who you think you are, what you think your life is destined to be, that you can't see the truth even when it's standing right in front of you.”

“And what's that?” She could barely force the words out. Terror and anticipation warred inside her.

“That you're a Lucy, who always hopes, always seeks, who
never stops believing, no matter who tells her that she's wrong. That you're an Edmund who made some bad decisions but doesn't let that define you. That you're a Peter who stands up for what is right and just. That, of all the Pevensies, the one that you aren't is Susan. And you're not alone.”

It sure didn't feel that way. “Who do I have? My mother is dead, my father is one in name only, I have no real brothers or sisters.”

“Me. If you'll have me.”

She stared at him. “What are you saying?”

He drew in a shaky breath. “I don't know what I'm saying. I kind of hoped these words would show up and now I'm left with white space.”

Wow. That wasn't an anticlimax at all.

Then he reached forward and pulled her to him, tipping her chin up with the pad of his finger. Fake snow flurried around them. Out of the corner of her eye, a garish silver Christmas tree glittered.

“I'm saying that I'm crazy about you, Em. I'm saying that I started falling in love with you the day you fell out of that wardrobe, I've been falling ever since, and I never want to stop. I'm saying that I don't know what this could be, but I will regret it the rest of my life if I don't give it everything I have to find out. And it seems to me that God has gone to some pretty crazy lengths to bring us together, so we should at least try to see what this could be. Oh, and I should tell you I've decided I want to try to make a comeback. A proper one. To get to Tokyo. For me. Not for Anita. I know it isn't exactly—”

Emelia stood on her tiptoes, bunched his sweater between
her fingers, and pulled him down until their noses touched. “Peter. Seriously. Just kiss me.”

He gave her the kind of languid smile that stripped away her breath. “With pleasure.”

As he buried his hands in her hair, she wrapped her arms around his neck and let her eyes drift closed. For the first time in her life, she allowed herself to begin to believe that maybe she was a Lucy after all.

As a reader living in New Zealand, there is nothing that annoys me more than a character in a book who is supposedly in New Zealand or who is supposedly from New Zealand, and they just
aren't
.

And so it was with much trepidation that I wrote a book set in Oxford (where I've never been) with a hero whose sport is rowing (which I knew nothing about, beyond screaming myself hoarse at the TV every four years during the Olympics). Since, alas, I'm not in the echelon of authors with bank balances that facilitate gallivanting to the other side of the world to research their books, I've had to work with the next best things. But, let's be honest, there's only so much that the combined powers of Google Street View, YouTube, books, and the knowledge of those who actually know what you don't can do before you inevitably get something wrong.

So to those of you (odds are you're either English, a real rower, or in my worst nightmares both) who have caught some kind of error that has made you want to throw the book across the room, my apologies.

First up, thanks to Cambridge for going and winning the Boat Race in March 2016 when I turned this book in in January.
The underdog-cheering part of me was thrilled for you. Not so much the author part of me that had Oxford winning. But good news! It's a novel and, like it says on the copyright page, “any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously.” Which is great when you forecast an event that will be a historical one by the time your book comes out and get it wrong.

Second up, an ode to the British government for forbidding reading from sacred religious texts during a civil wedding ceremony (that is, a ceremony not held in a church). So, no, in real life Peter couldn't have done a reading from the Song of Solomon at Jackson and Allie's wedding because it would have been illegal. But since I was writing a romance novel, not a how-to guide on getting married in England, I chose cute over bureaucratic correctness.

Thirdly, my apologies to those advisers in the many aspects of this story that I knew nothing about who provided their experience and knowledge, and yet I still managed to get something wrong. I give you the gift of anonymity so you are not tainted with my mistakes.

Finally, my eternal gratitude to YouTube for the many wasted hours when I started off watching rowing tutorials and somehow found myself following that evil sidebar and ending up in some weird corner of the Internet, watching dancing rabbits set to Japanese pop songs.

If
Close to You
is the dream-comes-true story,
Can't Help Falling
is the dream-gets-real story. Every book requires a village, but this one felt like it required an entire tri-state area. As always, there are no words that are adequate enough to describe how grateful I am to the team that makes this author life possible.

Jesus: I still can't believe I get to live this writing dream. Thank you for showing your faithfulness in this story. For showing up in all the moments when I was out of my depth and somehow weaving it together when I had no idea how all the pieces fit.

To my husband, Josh: Thank you for being my biggest supporter and my superhero when I had to abandon our Christmas holiday to hibernate in the library for a week and rewrite this book. This living the writing dream wouldn't be possible if it weren't for you.

To the Buddy, the Buzz, and the (ever-growing) Bump: You're still too young to really understand this whole crazy book thing, but I hope one day it inspires you to chase whatever your crazy dreams are (unless they involve risking life and limb, such as being a professional base jumper or rodeo rider, in which case I encourage you watch as many videos on YouTube
of said dream as you like and find great fulfillment in pottery or origami).

My amazing SisterChucks: Laurie Tomlinson, Halee Matthews, Jaime Jo Wright, Sarah Varland, and Anne Love. This book would not exist if not for the five of you. Thank you for the brainstorming, the not laughing when I confessed I had 80,000 words but no real plot, assuring me it wasn't as bad as I thought it was (even though it really was), for putting your own writing to the side to read terrible drafts and slightly better rewrites on crazy timelines, and for believing that I had it in me to get it done in the times when it was just a really tough write. But most of all, thank you for your incredible friendship.

My editor extraordinaire: Beth Adams. There had to be moments that you were holding your head in your hands wondering how on earth this story was ever going to come together, but you never showed it. Instead, you made me believe that I had what it took to turn it into something great. You could probably have a lucrative second career as a poker player, if you so desired.

Katie Sandell, Ami McConnell, Bruce Gore, and the rest of the team at Howard Books: for believing in my writing, yet another gorgeous cover, and all the hard work that you do to connect my stories with the right readers. I am so grateful that I get to be on your team.

To my family and family-in-love: Thank you for being so excited about this adventure and for doing your part to help the sales numbers. I'm pretty sure there are people all over the world who have received
Close to You
and who didn't even know we were related!

Elizabeth Norman: for not only agreeing to make sure
Peter could pass as an Englishman but for the stream-of-consciousness messages that you sent as you were reading. You loving this story was when I first started believing that maybe, just maybe, it might not be terrible.

Ann-Maree Beard, Olivia Williams, Fiona Conway, Anna Holmes, Bec Bonnevie, Tina Robilliard, Jen Gibbs, Ally Davey, Steph Mowat, Myra Russell, Nikki Parlane, Elise Teves, and so many other friends who have prayed for this story and stepped into the gap for my family when I have been on deadline and completely overwhelmed with all the balls I'm trying to keep in the air. Thank you.

To Team Harper and Team Benson: for the best dinner parties in the world, where religion, politics, and money are not only perfectly acceptable topics of fierce debate but are actually encouraged. The world would be a better place if everyone had friends like you.

To those wonderful readers out there who loved
Close to You
and took the time to somehow let me know how much you enjoyed it: In the moments when this writing gig has felt beyond me, it's hearing from people like you that makes the hours wrestling to get words on the page worth it. Thank you.