Still Falling (Accidents Happen 2)

The car hummed along the freeway as Eliza’s dad weaved between lanes with casual confidence. Some dance music from the eighties or nineties thumped from the speakers. Most likely it was one of his CDs, probably labeled something like “Rob’s Car Party Mix Tape #22”.

Her mother, Maureen, who had spent the entire drive with her face turned toward the passenger window, reached over without looking and turned it down.

Neither of them spoke, nor looked at each other, but Eliza didn’t mind. Silence was better than the alternative. She had her earphones in anyway, though she wasn’t really listening. Her face was illuminated by the soft glow of her phone as she smiled at its screen. It had been a month since the trip, and she and Dan were still together. Even better, in about twenty kilometers, they would be sharing a dorm room.

“I just saw a sign Groveside CFE 20 kilometers! Almost there xxx”

Dan received the message as his dad parked the car in front of his dorm. He grinned and thumbed out a reply: “I’m already here! Room 207!“, while his dad wrestled the first box out of the trunk.

He and his father began ferrying the boxes and bags from the trunk of the car to the door of his room, each trip slightly lighter than the last as the load dwindled.

Campus was already jammed with other families performing the same ritual: parents in sweats, students in hoodies, arms awkwardly laden with suitcases, tote bags, laundry baskets, and battered cardboard boxes. Doors slammed, siblings bickered, and couples said their goodbyes or, like Dan and Eliza, celebrated their arrival.

“That’s the last of it,” his father said, wiping sweat from his brow as he and Dan lugged the final box to the curb. “Let’s check you in.”

Dan felt an odd prickling in his stomach, part excitement and part the dread that came from seeing the car so suddenly empty. Walking to the central building, this feeling only built up more and more.

They paused at the dorm’s glass-fronted entrance, where a whiteboard announced “WELCOME TO GROVESIDE!” in purple marker.

Inside, the air buzzed with the chatter of students, parents, and the relentless click of rolling luggage on tile. A table was set up just past the doors, where an upperclassman with a tattoo sleeve and a clipboard flagged down new arrivals.

“Room and name?” he asked.

Dan gave both, and the guy ticked his name off, then pointed him to the office.

“Up the stairs, first door on your left. You’ll get your key and your welcome packet. Elevators are jammed, so I’d take the stairs.”

They climbed the narrow staircase, the walls plastered with flyers for clubs, a cappella auditions, and something called “Glow Yoga.” The office itself reminded Dan of his old high school principal’s office, only smaller and filled with boxes of printer paper stacked in every corner.

An admin assistant, hair dyed the same shade as a traffic cone, handed over the folder and key card with a conspiratorial wink.

“Don’t lose it. Replacements are twenty bucks.” She peeled a sticker off a sheet and smacked it on his folder: a green cartoon frog with flexing biceps. “Welcome, champ.”

As Dan, still pocketing the key, and his dad arrived back at the dorms, they saw Eliza’s car pull up beside the curb. Her parents emerged, her mother stretching with exaggerated care, her father glancing up, scanning, then breaking into a wave.

“Hey, Paul. How are you?”

“Good, Robert. Finally get some peace and quiet,” Paul said, laughing.

“Ha. Yeah.” Robert glanced sideways at his wife, who was already pointing at the trunk.

Eliza had meanwhile jumped out of the car and catapulted around Dan’s neck as they shared a deep kiss. He lifted her off the ground, nearly tripping backward with the momentum of her jump, her hair soft against his cheek, her breath warm and close like it already belonged there.

For a second, they forgot about the details: boxes, parents, arrangements, sign-in sheets. All Dan could smell was her shampoo, her floral sweet smell he had missed for days.

When Eliza’s feet finally hit the ground again, her sweet voice sounded like music to Dan’s ears.

“Hey sweetie,” she said.

“Hey honey, I missed you,” Dan replied.

“Come on, you two,” Robert called, half-laughing, as the couple placed one more hello kiss.

They walked over to Robert and Maureen. Robert shook Dan’s hand with a genuine smile. Maureen offered hers like she was doing him a favor, her eyes somewhere past his shoulder. Dan had never figured out what he’d done to earn that look, but it was always there.

Eliza had already crossed to Paul and pulled him into a hug. “Hey Paul, nice to see you!”

“Welcome, future teacher,” Paul said warmly.

Dan turned back to Eliza’s car and started pulling boxes from the trunk.

“Want to see the room?” he called over his shoulder, already heading for the door.

Eliza grabbed the nearest box and fell into step beside him. “Lead the way,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder. “Though if you’ve already claimed the good side of the room I’m moving back home.”

“Define good side,” Dan said.

“The one by the window.”

“Ah.”

She looked at him. “Dan.”

“You’re going to love your side,” he said. “Very characterful.”

Paul set a box down and looked around the room with his hands on his hips. “Cozy.”

“It’s small,” Maureen said. It wasn’t quite a complaint but it wasn’t a compliment either.

“It’s perfect,” Eliza said, not looking up from where she was organizing her books on the shelf.

Robert drifted toward the window and looked out at the campus beyond. “Good view at least.”

Maureen moved slowly around the room in the way people do when they’re looking for something to criticize without wanting to appear to be looking for something to criticize. She paused at the single window, then at the two desks pushed against opposite walls, then finally at the two narrow beds.

“They’re very close together,” she said.

The room went briefly quiet.

“That’s dorms for you,” Robert said, recovering first. He moved to the nearest wall and rapped his knuckles against it. “Plasterboard?”

Paul came over and did the same, two knocks, listening. “Sounds like it. Though the ceiling looks solid enough.”

And just like that the two of them were off, moving around the perimeter of the room like a pair of surveyors, tapping walls, testing the window latch, crouching to inspect the skirting boards. Robert jiggled the radiator valve. Paul crouched to check whether the wardrobe was level.

Maureen watched them for a moment, then turned back to the room with the expression of someone who had learned not to expect help.

Eliza was already deep into her unpacking, methodical and focused. Each item had a place. Books arranged by size on the shelf, spines aligned. Clothes folded and stacked in the wardrobe in neat columns. Her desk cleared, her lamp positioned, her small succulent plant placed on the windowsill — her windowsill, Dan noted, carefully not mentioning it.

Dan, meanwhile, set his books in a rough pile on his desk. Then another pile beside it. He considered the two piles for a moment, decided they had a certain character, and turned to his bag of clothes. He opened the wardrobe, put the bag inside, and closed the door.

“Done,” he said.

Eliza turned from her perfectly arranged shelf and looked at his desk. Then at his wardrobe. Then at him.

“That’s your system,” she said. It wasn’t quite a question.

“It’s a living system,” Dan said. “It evolves.”

Maureen had drifted over. She looked at Dan’s desk with its two leaning towers of books, then across at Eliza’s side of the room, immaculate and considered. She looked at Eliza with an expression that said, plainly, you see what I mean.

Eliza did not meet her mother’s eyes.

“The guttering on this side looks recent,” Paul announced from the window. “Last few years maybe.”

“Pipework’s older,” Robert said, from where he was now crouching beside the radiator. “But it’s solid. These old buildings are built to last.”

“Unlike the shelving,” Maureen said, to no one in particular.

Robert stood, brushing off his knees, and looked around the room with the satisfied air of a man who had conducted a thorough survey. Then his stomach made a sound that was impossible to ignore.

He patted it, unembarrassed. “Right. I am dying for a good pizza. What does everyone say?”

Paul straightened up immediately. “I say yes.”

Dan and Eliza exchanged a glance across the room. A fraction of a second, no more. They both knew what the other was thinking. That the families had been here for long enough, that the room was done, that the door was right there. But the look that passed between them also said soon, and that was enough.

“Sure,” Dan said.

“Sounds good,” Eliza chimed in.

Robert had his phone out before anyone responded, the pizza place already pulled up, the menu filling the screen.

“Right, gather round,” he said, holding it out.

He scrolled to his own choice first, a classic margherita, and tapped it without hesitation. “Simple. Efficient.” He handed the phone to Paul.

Paul took it, squinted at the screen for approximately four seconds, and pointed. “That one. The one with the spicy sausage.” He handed it on.

The phone reached Maureen.

She took it, adjusted it slightly away from the glare of the window, and began to read. Not skim. Read. Her finger moved slowly down the menu, pausing, backtracking, pausing again.

“Do they do half and half?” she asked.

“Mum,” Eliza said.

“It’s a reasonable question.”

Robert took the phone back, checked, and handed it back. “Yes.”

Maureen considered this new information as though it complicated rather than resolved things. She studied the menu again. Her finger hovered. Moved. Hovered again.

“No anchovies,” she said, mostly to herself.

Paul caught Dan’s eye. Dan looked at the ceiling.

“Okay,” Maureen said finally, with the gravity of someone who had made a difficult but necessary decision. “Half quattro formaggi, half vegetables. But no courgette on the vegetable half.”

“I’ll add a note,” Robert said, in the tone of a man who had been adding notes for twenty years.

The phone made its way to Dan and Eliza last. They leaned in together over the screen, shoulders touching.

“Pepperoni?” Dan said quietly.

“Obviously,” Eliza said.

He tapped it and chose spicy sausage for himself too. She took the phone and added garlic bread without asking him, which he appreciated. She handed it back to Robert.

“Thirty minutes,” Robert said, pocketing his phone. He looked around the room with the expression of a man who had completed his tasks and was now available for conversation. “So. College.”

“College,” Dan agreed.

“You’re studying education,” Robert said. It wasn’t quite a question.

“That’s right. Secondary school history.”

Robert nodded slowly, the way people do when they’re deciding whether something is a good idea. “Good. Good. Stable.” He glanced at Paul. “His mother’s idea?”

“His own,” Paul said, with quiet pride.

Robert nodded again, reassessing slightly.

“And you’ll be in the same classes?” Maureen asked Eliza, though her eyes moved briefly to Dan as she said it.

“Some,” Eliza said. “I’m doing primary education. We overlap on the theory side.”

“Mm.” Maureen smoothed an already smooth section of Eliza’s bedsheet. “Convenient.”

The word landed in the room and sat there.

Paul cleared his throat. “I read that Groveside College for Education has one of the best education faculties in the country. Top five, wasn’t it Dan?”

“Top three actually,” Dan said.

“Top three,” Paul repeated, nodding at Maureen with a pleasant smile that was doing a lot of work.

This awkward banter continued for the next thirty minutes, until a knock at the door saved everyone.

Dan opened it to find a delivery driver holding four flat boxes and a paper bag that smelled extraordinarily good. Behind him, the college grounds were alive with the noise of other students, music from somewhere down the hall, someone laughing very loudly at something.

Dan took the boxes, Eliza took the bag, and for a moment the room reorganized itself around the logistics of eating. Boxes balanced on desks and windowsills. Robert and Paul pulled the desk chairs over. Maureen sat on the edge of Eliza’s bed with her plate held carefully level. Dan and Eliza settled on the floor with their backs against Dan’s bed, close enough that their knees touched.

The pizza was exactly right. Hot and a little greasy and perfect for the end of a long day.

“This is actually very good,” Maureen said, of her courgette-free half, in a tone that suggested she had expected otherwise.

“Best decision of the day,” Paul said, already on his second slice.

Robert pointed at Dan with his crust. “Right. Since we’re all here. Embarrassing stories.”

“Oh, let’s not,” Dan said.

“I’ll start,” Robert said. He turned to Paul. “Has she told you about the camping trip? She was fifteen.”

“Dad,” Eliza said.

“She convinced her friend group to go wild camping. Organized everything herself. Tents, food, the route. Very impressive, actually.” He paused for effect. “Forgot the tent poles.”

Paul laughed. Maureen’s mouth curved, almost involuntarily.

“We slept under a tarpaulin,” Eliza said, with the dignity of someone who had made peace with a story they couldn’t escape. “It was actually fine.”

“It rained,” Robert said.

“It was fine,” Eliza repeated.

Dan was grinning at her. She pointed at him. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say it showed great initiative,” Dan said.

“He’s a good liar,” Paul said approvingly. “You need that in a teacher.”

Robert leaned forward. “Your turn then. Give us one.”

Paul considered for a moment, selecting carefully from what was clearly a well-stocked archive. “First week of secondary school,” he said. “Dan had just gotten his first proper backpack. Very proud of it. Big zip, lots of pockets.”

“I remember that backpack,” Dan said, in the tone of someone who already knew where this was going.

“He was walking down the main corridor,” Paul continued, addressing Robert and Maureen with the ease of a natural storyteller. “First day. Hundreds of kids. Very busy. Wanted to make a good impression.” He paused. “Caught the zip on a display board, spun himself completely around, knocked over a trophy cabinet, and took out a girl’s lunchbox on the way down.”

Robert burst out laughing. Even Maureen’s composure slipped slightly.

“The cabinet was already unstable,” Dan said.

“He was on the floor,” Paul said. “Surrounded by trophies and someone else’s sandwiches.”

“Oh no,” Eliza said, pressing her hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

“It gets better,” Paul said. “He stood up, face red as a lobster, looked at the girl whose lunch he’d destroyed, and said —”

“I was trying to help,” Dan said quickly.

“He said, ‘don’t worry, I meant to do that.’”

The room dissolved. Even Maureen laughed, a short surprised sound she seemed to immediately regret.

The laughter settled slowly, the way good laughter does, in waves, just when it seemed finished someone would catch Dan’s eye and it would start again. Dan sat with his pizza slice abandoned on his plate, shaking his head with the resigned smile of a man who had accepted his own legend.

“I meant to do that,” Eliza repeated softly, still giggling.

“You’re never going to let that go,” Dan said.

“Absolutely not,” she said.

Paul caught Dan’s eye across the room and gave him the small satisfied nod of a father who had done his job well.

The laughter faded into the comfortable silence of a meal that had run its natural course. Empty boxes. Crusts left in corners. The paper bag from the garlic bread reduced to a grease-spotted shell. Outside, the corridor had quieted somewhat, the earlier chaos of move-in day settling into the gentler sounds of a building finding its rhythm for the night.

Paul was the one who moved first, brushing crumbs from his hands and getting to his feet with the decisive energy of a man who knew when an evening had reached its natural conclusion.

“Right,” he said. “I think that’s us.” He looked around at Robert and Maureen with a smile that managed to include everyone. “Shall we let these two get settled?”

Robert was already standing, the universal language of a man who had been waiting for someone else to say it first. Even Maureen set down her plate with something approaching willingness.

The goodbye took the shape of all goodbyes in small rooms. A shuffle toward the door, a sudden desire to say things that hadn’t been said during the meal, a few false starts.

Paul hugged Dan first, hard and brief, the way they always did. Then he turned to Eliza and opened his arms without hesitation. She stepped into it and Dan watched her eyes close for just a second.

“You look after each other,” Paul said.

“We will,” Eliza said.

Maureen hugged Eliza with both arms but something held back, like she was aware of the shape of a hug without quite filling it. “Call me,” she said into Eliza’s hair.

“I will, mum.”

Robert shook Dan’s hand. Firm, formal, a fraction too long. “Look after her,” he said.

“Always,” Dan said, and meant it.

Maureen gave Dan a brief nod that was neither warm nor cold, just the acknowledgment of his existence, which was more or less what he had come to expect from her.

And then they were gone. The door clicked shut and the room was suddenly very quiet.

Dan and Eliza stood in the middle of their small room surrounded by empty pizza boxes and the remnants of the afternoon. The sounds of theee fellow students filtered through the door, distant voices, someone’s music, a door slamming somewhere down the hall.

Eliza looked at the door for a moment after it closed. Dan watched her watch it. He knew she was thinking about her parents walking down that corridor together, not touching, not talking, already somewhere else in their heads.

He didn’t say anything about it. He just crossed the room and took her hand.

She looked up at him. Something in her face shifted, lighter now, fully present in a way she hadn’t quite been able to be all day.

“Hi,” she said.

It was a small word for a large thing.

Dan smiled. “Hi.”