How to Keep Rolling After a Fall

 

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This one's for you, Holly West. For having faith in me and this story so early in the game. For doing what you do, bringing stories and dreams to life.

 

Chapter 1

As I park in the lot of the Harborview Nursing and Rehabilitation Center, I realize that, for the first time ever, I'm actually excited to be there. I'm working a short, three-hour shift, and the shift itself won't be so bad, since I'm filling in on the orthopedics wing, where Jeremiah's been assigned.

After work, the two of us have plans to check out the end-of-summer party that spans the length of Ocean Isle's boardwalk. Since I've seen it in those mailers that started showing up after the Fourth of July, the phrase
end-of-summer
has stirred feelings of anxiety, loss, and sadness. But tonight it means it's time for a party. One final opportunity to eat handfuls of hot caramel corn with the salty breeze blowing across my face. One night to forget about everything else going on, in a crowd large and chaotic enough to get lost in.

I lift my butt off the seat and scrunch my hair as I look in the rearview mirror. Once upon a time, I was a shoo-in for “Best Hair” in the senior superlatives—it's long and wildly curly, with natural highlights. All summer long I've tucked it under a baseball cap with the brim pulled down anytime I've been forced to leave my house. But not tonight. I made an effort to look good for Jeremiah. And I want to pretend I'm the girl I used to be.

Walking across the parking lot, I decide this place would be a lot more appealing if there was, you know, an
actual
view of the harbor. Instead, it's located miles inland, in the middle of a bleak field. The builders tried to spruce it up with the usual gazebos and flower beds, but the name is still a bold-faced lie. It's a depressing place to be, for all of us who are here because we have no choice in the matter.

But not tonight!
I think, breezing through the automatic doors with renewed energy as I picture Jeremiah's face.
Tonight, it's a good place to be.
I head toward the nurses' station to clock in, but when I catch a glimpse of Jeremiah through the glass-paneled cafeteria walls, I make a detour, a sudden diet Dr Pepper craving developing.

I feel giddy as I walk in his direction. We've been flirting for the past two weeks, since I started my stint at the rehab center. Jeremiah's a sophomore at Rutgers University, with a long-term plan for med school and a specialty in orthopedics—as he explained it to me, “I want to break some bones and fix 'em up again.” Jeremiah's got it all worked out, but his plans are on hold at the moment. He's taking a semester off to help out with some family issues. He hasn't said what kind of issues, and I haven't felt right asking; I assume he'll tell me eventually.

In the meantime, I'm content with the flirting. Jeremiah's really hot—Abercrombie model hot, with the cool hair, and the scruff, and the smirk. He even looks good in scrubs. “One day women are going to be falling down the stairs on purpose just to end up in your waiting room,” I've teased him.

He's sweet, too, taking the mop out of my hands and pushing it himself, and one time walking me to my car under an umbrella from the lost and found when it started pouring without warning. Then two nights ago, he snatched my phone and programmed his number. “So call me tonight,” he'd said all coolly as he tossed it back. I had, and now we have a date.

Jeremiah turns away from the register and slides his wallet into the back pocket of his scrubs, and his eyes meet mine. I smile and wave and wait for him to smile back.

But he doesn't smile. He glowers instead, his brown eyes ignited with a fury that turns them amber.

“I know who you are.” He's not discreet; he's loud, pointing his index finger in my direction. “And you can go straight to hell.”

The blood drains from my face and runs cold. I want to vanish, but I can't move. My feet feel as if they're stuck in the wet sand left behind when a wave recedes, weighted down and useless.

A few trays clatter against steel, and then the room is deathly quiet. Workers stop serving, midscoops of mashed potatoes. Residents stop talking. The scene unfolds before me in slow motion as people who have had strokes and people in wheelchairs struggle to turn their heads in my direction.

“Nice try,
Nicole
.” He says my full name, the one I'd used to introduce myself, like an accusation. “Nikki Baylor, right? I know who you are. You forgot your ID badge yesterday. Now let me tell you who
I
am.” Jeremiah approaches and thrusts his right hand toward me with such force it jams against my rib cage. It's almost a shove. “Jeremiah Jordan. Taylor Jordan's my sister. My baby sister, for that matter.”

I hang my head and clench my fists at the same time, the mention of her name evoking the usual combination of shame and regret and a desire to run and hide. Except my feet are still stuck in the damn sand.

He folds his arms across his chest. “Guess it's my bad. You should really find out a person's last name before asking her out.” Jeremiah doesn't say anything else and I look up, but it turns out he was saving one final zinger. “But now I know. And now it makes me sick to look at your face.”

Tears form in my eyes at once. It sort of makes me sick to look at my face now, too, but Jeremiah had changed that for a few weeks. Before I actually start crying, thankfully, whatever's holding me in place loosens and I run from the room. I dart through the side door and into the central courtyard, the late-afternoon sun glaring down on me like the harsh lights inside the questioning room of the police station.

I choke back my tears, bending over and grabbing onto my knees for support. I'll never escape this. This is going to follow me forever. I can pretend to be someone I'm not—I can pretend to be the person I
used
to be—but it's nothing more than playing a part.

I shake my head back and forth and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, struggling to wrap my head around what just happened, feeling like I have whiplash. Jeremiah had come and gone so fast. The prospect of happiness had been so fleeting. I walked in the door envisioning the warmth of his smile; now all I can remember is the cold hatred in his eyes.

What the hell just happened?

“That was pretty harsh.”

I straighten and turn around … then look down. The boy is in a wheelchair more lightweight than most I see around here, and he can't be much older than me. But he has a more mature look about him, something about his deep-set hazel eyes and square jaw that makes him look more like a young man and less like a boy. His light-brown hair falls to his chin, and the muscular build of his upper body makes me think he might've been a badass at one point.

I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “I probably deserve it.”

“Highly doubt that.” He wheels a bit closer, shaking his head. “That was a bad scene back there.”

“Well, you don't know what you're talking about.” I stare into the distance and blow out the breath I realize I've been holding. “If you did, you probably would've stood up and applauded him.”

“Nah, I don't think so.” A hint of a smile plays on his bow-shaped lips.

“Trust me, you would've.”

“No, I don't think so,” he repeats. He taps his knuckles against the wheels of his chair. “Standing ovations, not really my thing.”

I cringe and want to die. “Oh my God. I'm really sorry.”

“No apology necessary. I'm not easily offended.”

“Still. I'm sorry.”

He nods once in acknowledgment. “'S okay.” Then he tilts his head and studies me. “Anyway, I've seen you around here a couple of times. And I think you have a really nice face. I have a hard time figuring why it makes that dude want to puke.”

I smile in spite of everything, just for a second. Then reality sets in again, and I cover my eyes with my hand. “Today officially sucks. And I need to clock in. Like, five minutes ago.” I take a deep breath, trying to imagine how I can possibly make myself go back inside. “But I can't go back in there.”

“I can have your back if you want,” wheelchair guy offers. “Give you an escort.”

I look at him, asking why without saying the question out loud.

He shrugs. “I'm old-school like that. A guy shouldn't lash out at a girl, and he really had no business putting his hands on you. Just because of a fight or whatever.”

“It wasn't a fight,” I mumble. “Not his fight, anyway. You certainly don't have to make it yours.”

But he doesn't go anywhere, and I don't ask him to leave. He's a perfect stranger, sure. Still, he offered to “have my back.” The exact opposite of what my so-called friends have done in recent months. And I want to take him up on his offer.

“Okay, all right.” I collapse onto a bench, and he positions his chair beside it. “I just need five minutes.” I slide the strap of my purse over my head and put it down beside me. “I'm Nicole. Or Nikki. Guess it doesn't really matter.”

We're eye to eye once I sit down, and he smiles at me, extending his right hand. “Nice to meet you, Nicole or Nikki. I'm Pax.”

“Pax? Like Angelina Jolie's kid?”

He chuckles. “Sort of. But no, not really. Matty Paxton, but people have called me Pax forever.” He gestures toward my ID badge, and I notice he doesn't wear those fingerless gloves meant to protect his hands, which are red and blistered. “Do you volunteer here?”

I nod but decide I can't really call it volunteering. “My aunt's a physical therapist here. I'm fulfilling some community service hours.”

“Whoa!” The smile breaks out on Pax's lips again. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and squints at me. “A hardened criminal, huh?”

“More or less.” I tuck my chin, waiting for the inevitable follow-up questions. But he doesn't ask them.

Grateful, I jump at the chance to change the subject. “Are you still in rehab?” I notice his build again and figure he's an athlete. “Sports injury or something?”