London Falling

CHAPTER THREE

Maggie

I WISHED HE would stop looking at me.

Actually, I wished he would go home. Or never have come out with us at all. I still didn’t know how he’d managed it. One minute we were walking down the stairs, the next he was helping me into a cab, his hands grazing my bare shoulders.

I blamed Fleur. Besides being her cousin, he was also one of her closest friends, and she never did a good job of telling him no. Of course, a lot of girls seemed to have that problem where Samir was concerned—myself included.

I moved my hips to the music, tossing my head back. I wanted to lose myself in the beat, the freedom of it. For the first time in months, I felt like I belonged. I felt more like myself here in this nightclub in London than I ever had in a lifetime in South Carolina.

Summer had been awkward. My life back home was beginning to feel a lot like a shirt that was a size too small. I tried to make it work, tried to fit in. But there was a part of me that was always here, in London, wishing I could get back to the life I left behind. Wishing I could get back to the person I actually liked to be, versus the shell of me I’d been in my hometown.

I’d missed this, missed feeling like I was a part of life, rather than like it was just happening to me. I missed the possibilities.

This place was a prime example. Clubs like Air didn’t exist in my hometown, with its family restaurants and only a couple of stoplights.

Here, waitresses served canisters of oxygen and fancy cocktails. Thanks to Samir, we were in the club’s VIP section, girls dancing on the tables around us, people mixing magnums of champagne with oxygen. It was a crazy, surreal experience that felt like something out of a movie and yet somehow—thanks to my scholarship and, indirectly, my Harvard rejection—it had become my life.

I grabbed my glass of champagne, downing the remnants in one big gulp. The oxygen was supposed to be best when mixed with champagne or something—I couldn’t tell much of difference. But of course, the drink selection was the furthest thing from my mind. This time I stared back at him.

Samir lounged in his chair, whiskey and Coke in hand, his feet crossed at the ankles, propped up against the table. All he needed was a cigar to complete the portrait of satisfied male.

He’d dressed casually tonight, probably more out of haste than anything else. He wore a simple collared black dress shirt—a few buttons unbuttoned—and a pair of his signature Diesel jeans. The shoes propped up against the table looked like Gucci or something equally expensive.

The more I drank, the more I wanted to undress him, one article of clothing at a time.

Samir used to be the one temptation I couldn’t resist. And now that I’d had him, I wanted more.

I hadn’t been able to really look at him earlier, surrounded by everyone. I studied him now, until our gazes locked and his eyes widened slightly.

Shit.

I looked away, nerves pounding. I was playing with fire, dancing around the heat and the flames. But wasn’t that part of the excitement? Deep down, in places I didn’t want to admit to having, wasn’t that part of what I liked? The thrill of the chase—the ecstasy and agony of wondering if he still wanted me, if he lay awake at nights turned on, fantasizing about me, or if he woke from dreams that seemed more like memories—of naked flesh and heat and release.

I couldn’t resist—I glanced back over at him.

He sat at the table, nursing his drink, his eyes hooded. This time, he wasn’t looking at me.

Since we’d arrived, scores of girls had come over to the table, flirting with him, practically giving him a lap dance. He’d ignored every one. Apparently he was taking this girlfriend more seriously than I’d thought.

We’d all criticized him for being a player and yet, here he was, faithful to someone far away. A better person would have been happy for him. It just made me want to drink more.

I turned my body slightly, sneaking another peek at him. He stared back at me, unsmiling, his gaze unwavering. It was the staring equivalent of a game of chicken, one he would probably win.

A girl walked over to the table, a sultry grin on her face. What was this, number six for the night? If anything, Samir’s lack of interest seemed to spur them on. I had no doubt he’d become a competition to them—the prize they all wanted to win.

The girl leaned down, her long blond hair brushing against Samir as she whispered in his ear.

My stomach clenched. It was harder than I’d anticipated, watching him with someone else. I hated that I even wondered, but the thought flashed through my mind: Has he slept with her, too? I wasn’t prepared for the spark of hurt I felt—irrational as it was—at the sight of another girl so physically close to him. I held my breath, waiting for his reaction, wishing I didn’t care.

He waved her off, his gaze connecting with mine. Something that might have been embarrassment flickered in his eyes before it was replaced by the same smug expression I’d come to know as classically Samir.

I glared back at him.

The girl remained at his side, a pouty expression her face. I knew I’d regret what I was about to do, but I couldn’t resist. It—all of it—was just too much.

I moved in for the kill, closing the distance between us. “He has a girlfriend, you know. He’s devoted to her. So you might as well not waste your time.” I wanted to hurt him, wanted to make him feel small, the way he’d made me feel. It was petty of me, but I was pissed off and spoiling for a fight.

The girl turned to face me, but I barely spared her a glance. My words weren’t for her. This time I met his gaze dead-on. Challenging him.

Samir’s eyes darkened. He stood and brushed past the girl, his gaze locked on me. As difficult as it was, I held his stare. I was done being the girl who backed away from a fight.

He moved toward me, coming to stand before me, mere inches separating our bodies. He was just tall enough, and close enough, that I had to tilt my head up to meet his gaze. It was the closest we’d been since we’d slept together, and my body knew it. My skin felt overly warm, desire pooling, spreading throughout my limbs. My body had terrible judgment and all too often around him, my mind followed suit.

For a moment, neither one of us spoke.

Samir leaned into me, his chest brushing against mine. I struggled to keep myself from swaying forward, from sinking into him. His lips brushed against my ear and a tremor ran through me. I clenched my hands into little fists.

You can look, but you can’t touch.

“Come with me.”

I shook my head, taking a step away from him. I wanted to act like I didn’t care, like his presence didn’t affect me. But I couldn’t. Self-preservation became infinitely more important than my ego. I couldn’t be this close to him again. Not when it hurt too much, made me want too much, made me reckless.

“We need to talk.”

“There’s nothing left to say.”

“Isn’t there? Are you just going to avoid talking about it?”

“Funny you should mention wanting to discuss what happened, considering you didn’t talk to me all summer.”

“Maggie—”

“No. You don’t get to talk now. You sent me texts. One that actually made me think you didn’t regret what happened between us. And then that cryptic text in July. ‘Are you okay?’ That’s what you had to text me?” My voice rose with each word.

“I was worried about you. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Really? Really? You were worried about me?” I laughed bitterly. “Was that in between the time you spent with your girlfriend?”

I didn’t know who I was angrier at, him or myself. Sure, he’d cheated on his girlfriend, but I’d been right there with him. I was the one who had been stupid enough to believe our night actually might have meant something. I was the one who had spent all summer obsessing about him, imagining seeing him again, preparing for it. More than anything, I was angry that I’d let my guard down with him for even a moment. It was my own stupidity that had gotten me into this mess in the first place. I wasn’t making that mistake again.

I turned away. Samir reached out, grabbing at my hand, pulling me back toward him.

“Don’t touch me,” I snapped.

“Do you want to do this now? In front of everyone? Come with me.” He tugged on my hand, curving his fingers on my wrist. They lingered for a moment, just over my pulse, stroking there.

“No.”

“I need to explain.” His voice was raw. “Please.”

“Don’t do this to me,” I whispered, forgetting I was supposed to be putting on a brave face. He had no idea how he affected me, what this whole summer had been like for me. He had no idea what the mere touch of his hand did to my body. Or about the hope I had to beat back, in order to keep from having my heart crushed again.

I couldn’t take a chance on him, couldn’t risk the near certainty of what it would feel like to have my heart broken by him. Because now that I’d had him—even just for one night—I knew he wasn’t someone I would be able to walk away from whole.

Samir

I WAS SCREWING this up so badly it wasn’t even funny.

I’d never been here before, never had to plead with a girl. Clearly it showed.

“Just give me a few minutes. Just a few minutes alone, and then you don’t have to talk to me again.” I swallowed. “Please.”

For a moment she didn’t answer me—it felt like an eternity. I’d blown it, I got that. But she had to forgive me. Maybe I didn’t deserve it, but I needed her forgiveness. I needed her, however I could get her.

Finally she nodded. “Okay.”

I clung to that word like a lifeline.

I reached down between us, grabbing her hand. She flinched against me, but didn’t move away. We stood there for a moment, frozen. It felt strange holding her hand again after all this time. Strange, yet right.

I led her through the club, my hand pulling her along like a magnet. The crowd was thick tonight, especially for a Sunday, but I elbowed my way through.

I stopped in front of the girls’ bathroom, hesitating for a moment. Then I pushed open the door.

Behind me, Maggie protested, but I ignored her. The words had been inside of me, pushing to get out, for months now. I needed this chance to explain. Hurting her was inevitable, always had been. Hadn’t I known, even the morning after, that I couldn’t keep her?

It didn’t matter how much I wanted to.

The startled bathroom attendant gaped at us—specifically, me. “You can’t be in here.”

Despite her protests, I doubted this was the first time something like this had happened here.

Two girls washed their hands in the sink, their faces avid with interest, but besides them, the bathroom was empty. I pulled out my wallet, peeling off some cash and handing it to the attendant.

“Can you give us five minutes? Please.”

She hesitated for a moment before glancing down at the money, and then back at me. Her gaze drifted behind me, focusing on Maggie.

“Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Maggie answered, her voice unusually quiet.

Something tumbled in my gut.

The woman looked back at me before nodding. “Fine. Five minutes.” She ushered the other two girls out, leaving Maggie and me alone.

Five minutes. It was a safe amount of time. Short enough to ensure I kept my hands where they belonged—off of her. Long enough for me to explain why things were the way they were.

But the second the room emptied, my words dried up. I was finally alone with her, and I didn’t have a thought in my head. Not in English, at least. French, Arabic—those words filled my head, desperate and pleading. But as hard as I tried to formulate what I wanted to say, my tongue felt thick and useless.

“You wanted your chance. You got it. Talk.” Maggie’s voice trembled slightly. “You have five minutes, and then I’m gone.”

That was the part that scared me the most. I didn’t want her to leave, but I wasn’t capable of giving her enough to make her stay.

Story of my life. Always close, but never quite good enough. Definitely not good enough for her.

It made sense to start with the most important thing I had to say.

“I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Maggie

NO SHIT.

“That’s what you have to say to me? You fucked up?” He didn’t respond. He just stood there, staring at me, his expression blank. “Seriously. That’s the best you can do?”

“Look, I know this is coming out all wrong. And I’m sorry. I know you deserve better than this. I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry. For all of it.”

“What do you mean ‘all of it?’”

“I should never have let things get out of control with you. I should have known better. You’re you and I’m me, and I should have known better.”

I didn’t even know what that meant. We were both speaking English, and yet I needed a dictionary to understand what he was saying.

“So you regret having sex with me?”

I pushed away the slice of hurt that knifed through my heart. I’d deal with that later.

Samir closed his eyes. I waited, staring at him, wishing he would just end this. It was like there was still a cord linking us, a tether tying me to him, and if I couldn’t have him, then I wanted nothing between us. I’d rather have nothing than live with the memories that made me crazy, gave me hope. They made everything worse.

“Just say it. Say you’re sorry we had sex. Say you regret it. Say you wish it never happened. Just say it and let me go.” My voice rose with each word, tears filling my eyes. I spun away from him. There was no way I was going to let Samir see me cry. No way I ever wanted him to know I was tangled up inside, that just standing here with him was gutting me.

“I can’t.”

I turned again. Samir stared back at me.

“I can’t say I’m sorry. I’m not sorry, okay? I’m not sorry I kissed you. I’m not sorry I had you in my bed. I’m not sorry that some nights I wake up from a dream of how fucking good it felt to be inside of you. I’m not sorry that every time I look at you, all I can think about is how badly I want to be inside of you again. I’m not sorry I cheated on my girlfriend. And as much as I know it makes me the biggest bastard on the planet, I’m not even sorry that I was your first. I fucking love that I was your first. The idea of someone else inside of you, of someone else getting to see your face when you come, makes me want to put my fist through a wall.”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think.

“But I am sorry. I’m so sorry. Because I can’t be what you want or what you need.”

I just stared at him.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I know—I should have told you I was still with her. I should have explained it to you.”

“Why?” It was the only word that filled my head, the only word that escaped from my lips. But there were other words there, too, stuck in between my head and my heart. Words I could never say.

Why her and not me?

Story of my life.

Samir

I TENSED. “I don’t want to talk about Layla.” I hated even saying her name in Maggie’s presence.

“Why?” Maggie repeated.

Why? Because I felt like a pussy admitting my parents had picked her out for me. Because I didn’t know how to make her understand what it was like.

The American kids didn’t get it. They thought arranged relationships and family pressure were things from another century. They lived their lives like the world was theirs for the taking, like they could do anything, be anything. Sure, most of them didn’t live like we lived—they didn’t drop thousands of dollars in a nightclub or drive a Range Rover. But they chose their own majors, and they dated who they wanted to date. Their lives were their own; their futures weren’t built on a legacy that threatened to drag them down.

I was a Khouri. In Lebanon and the Middle East, that meant something. Centuries of history. I was the only child—a son. My father’s legacy would pass down to me one day, just like mine would pass down to my son. Our family’s honor rested in my hands. To have the political career they expected me to have, I had to have a political wife.

Layla was perfect. Maggie was not.

Maggie was the kind of girl my parents would grudgingly accept me screwing around with, but would never accept as my girlfriend. Maggie deserved more, and I was running out of time.

“I have responsibilities. To my family. To my country. Layla’s father and mine have been political allies for a long time. It’s a good match.”

Maggie was silent for a moment. I desperately wished I could read the emotions brewing in her beautiful brown eyes. She looked down at the floor, and I couldn’t see anything anymore.

“Do you love her?” she finally asked.

A pounding noise sounded on the other end of the door.

“Just a minute,” we shouted in unison.

Maggie looked up at me. “Well. Do you love her?” Her voice cracked a bit. “Are you happy with her?”

She asked the question like my answer mattered. But I didn’t know how to answer that one.

“No. I don’t love her.” I hesitated, torn between needing to be open with her and not wanting to be so honest that she thought I was completely irredeemable.

“I like you, Maggie.” She flushed. “But you need to know, what you see with me is pretty much what you get. I can’t walk away from my life. I can’t promise anything other than a good time. I don’t have anything else; everything else isn’t mine to give.”

Maggie

HE WAS WARNING me off. I got it.

I didn’t know what to say anymore, didn’t know what to make of him. I couldn’t spend the whole year like this. We had the same group of friends, the same major. We went to a really small school. Even London felt small when you considered that we frequented the same places, liked the same restaurants. I couldn’t avoid him even if I wanted to.

“Okay. Let’s just forget this all happened. No one knows about it. It was a one-time thing. We feel awkward now, but I’m sure if we just give each other space, that feeling will eventually go away.”

Samir was silent for a moment. “That’s what you want?”

No. “Yeah. That’s what I want.”

“Okay.” He hesitated for a moment. “Friends?”

I wasn’t sure. Friends seemed a bit optimistic. Right now I just didn’t want to feel like I was dying inside every time I saw him.

“Something like that.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Samir

I LEANED BACK in my chair while the professor droned on. I hated the first day of school. In theory, I didn’t hate the material. I actually didn’t mind my major. I just hated the inevitability of it all.

This—me being here—was all a big joke. My grades didn’t matter. The material didn’t matter. None of it mattered. I was here for one reason—so my parents would have something to brag about to their friends. I was here because Khouris went to university. It didn’t matter how we did there, because we all joined one of the family businesses eventually. In my case, politics.

When I was a kid in Beirut, I’d told my mother I wanted to be a policeman. It wasn’t a well-thought-out career plan, but I was six and there was a TV show I really liked with a cool cop. She’d laughed and looked vaguely horrified.

That was when I’d learned I was meant to be a clone of my father.

Today, the first day of classes, felt like the start of a ticking time bomb.

“Enjoy your last summer of freedom,” my father had announced when I’d come home in May. “After graduation next summer, you’ll be married.”

I’d just turned twenty-three. I wasn’t ready to be much of a boyfriend to anyone, let alone a husband. But with Layla it wouldn’t matter. We both knew what we were getting into, understood the rules. We’d have a marriage just like our parents had—cold, indifferent, all flash and no substance.

It wasn’t Layla’s fault. She was pretty enough, nice enough. She was elegant and lovely, really. But I couldn’t talk to her like I talked to Maggie. She didn’t challenge me, didn’t fight with me. She didn’t make me laugh. She didn’t drive me crazy. She didn’t haunt my dreams or my every waking thought.

It wasn’t Layla’s fault; it was mine. I didn’t have the balls to stop this, even though I knew how wrong it was. Layla didn’t deserve to be saddled with someone like me; she just didn’t know to expect any better. She’d been raised the same way I had—we were both fulfilling the roles we’d been given despite the small, temporary reprieve.

It was a tradition of sorts. They gave you a limited amount of time. Time to go to some fancy Western university to get a piece of paper that was basically worthless for all we needed it. In my case, I got a little extra time—time to make sure my English was where my father wanted it to be. A year of studying in Boston before I went to the International School.