Page 35 of Save Me (Maxton Hall #1)

“That’s true,” says Mum. “It’s the birthday law.”

My cheeks flush, and I turn away from them. I refuse to analyze why James’s name was the first thing I thought of. Or why I take my parents at their words as I shut my eyes and blow hard.

It’s the nicest birthday party we’ve ever had.

After our brunch, we go out for a walk and take a new family photo in Gormsey Park, although it’s only on the tenth shot that nobody has their eyes shut.

Lin comes over in the afternoon, and we play board games and charades, which Lin and I narrowly win over Max and Aunt Trudy.

In the evening, Ember and I help Dad to serve up a three-course dinner, a lot of which he made in advance yesterday.

We sit around the table until late, and it surprises me how effortlessly Lin fits into our family circle.

She doesn’t seem to mind not getting the odd in-joke, she asks Mum loads of questions about her work at the bakery, and has a long conversation with Dad about his injury.

It turns out that Lin has an uncle who uses a wheelchair too, which was total news to me.

I admire how naturally she talks about the subject and the way she isn’t fazed by Dad’s disability.

By the time everyone leaves, I’m so full and content that I could drop off to sleep right away.

But once I’m in my pajamas, I catch sight of the black cardboard box on my desk.

I get up and walk over to it. Hesitantly, I lift the lid and pull out the satchel.

I open the two catches with a soft click.

Carefully, I take the things I need for school on Monday and begin to pack them, one by one, into the pockets.

It takes me a few attempts to be satisfied with my arrangement.

This is heaven on earth compared to my old bag, where everything had to go in together.

There are even little pen loops at the front, which I fill with the colors I use most often in my bullet journal.

I don’t know whether James could guess how thrilled I am with this gift.

But now that I look at the bag filled up like this, I realize that there’s no way I could give it back.

I bend down and reach into the left-hand front pocket for my phone, which I slipped in there experimentally.

I hesitate only a second, then find and dial James’s number.

I hold the handset to my ear and wait for it to ring.

It rings. And rings. I’m about to hang up when he answers.

“Ruby Bell.” It almost sounds as though he was expecting me to call.

“James Beaufort.” If he’s going to say my full name, well, two can play at that game. Once upon a time, the syllables sounded like swear words as I spat them from my mouth, but now they feel different on my tongue. Better.

“How’s it going?” he asks, although I can hardly hear him. There’s music in the background, getting gradually quieter. I wonder where he is and what he’s doing.

“It’s going great. I’ve just packed up my new bag,” I reply, running my fingers over the seam of the middle pocket. The stitching feels perfectly even.

“Do you like it?” he asks, and I wish I knew what he looks like right now.

What he’s wearing. In my head, he’s in uniform because I’ve rarely seen him wear anything else, but I try to conjure up the image of James in black jeans and a white shirt.

Standing on our doorstep that day, he looked like a perfectly ordinary guy.

Not the heir to a company worth billions. More human. Tangible.

“It’s beautiful. You know you didn’t have to do that, don’t you?” I add after a while. I close the bag and sit on my chair, feet up on the desk, ankles crossed.

“I wanted to give you something. And I thought the James would be a good choice for a person as organized as you.”

“The James?”

“That’s what the bag’s called.”

“You gave me a bag named after you?”

“I didn’t choose the name, that was Mum. There’s a Lydia too. And others named after my parents. But the Lydia would be too small for you, and the Mortimer’s too big. Besides, I thought it would be funny to see you around school with the James.”

I can’t help grinning. “Do you give all your friends Beaufort stuff?” I ask.

He goes quiet for a bit, and all I can hear is the music playing quietly in the background. “No,” he answers in the end.

That’s all he says.

I don’t know what that means. I just don’t know what this is between us, let alone what I want it to be. All I know is that it makes me really happy to hear his voice.

“When you own the company, you’ll have to name a bag after me one day,” I say to break the silence.

“Can I let you in on a secret, Ruby?” His voice is hoarse now, and rough. I wonder who he’s out with. And whether he’s ditched them to speak to me.

“You can tell me anything you like,” I whisper.

There’s a brief pause when all I can hear are his footsteps. It sounds as though he’s walking on gravel. The crunching sound fades away, and I can’t hear the music at all anymore.

“I…don’t want to take the company over at all.”

If he were here, I’d be staring at him in amazement. As it is, my only option is to press my phone more firmly to my ear.

“To be honest, I don’t even want to go to Oxford,” he continues.

My heart is beating so hard, I can hear it thumping in my ears. “What do you want to do then?”

He inhales with a laugh. “That’s the first time in ages anyone’s asked me that.”

“But it’s such an important question.”

“And I don’t know how to answer it.” For a moment he says nothing.

“It’s always been set in stone, you know?

Never mind that Lydia would much rather take Beaufort’s over or that she’d be much better at it too.

She loves the company, but I’ll be the one Dad will take onto the board next year.

I’ve known it all my life, and I deal with it.

But it isn’t what I want.” Another pause, then: “Doesn’t look as though I’ll ever get the chance to figure out what that is.

I don’t get to plan my own life, it’s always been planned for me: Maxton Hall, Oxford, Beaufort’s. That’s all there is for me.”

I grip my phone tighter, hold it to my ear, holding James as close to me as I can. That must be the most truthful thing I’ve ever heard him say. I can’t believe he’s trusted me with it. That he’ll let me keep this secret for him.

“My parents have always told me that the world’s my oyster. That it doesn’t matter where I’m from or where I want to go. Mum and Dad have always said I can go my own way and that no dream is too big. I think everybody deserves a world full of possibilities.”

He makes a quiet, desperate sound. “Some days…” he begins, then stops as if he doesn’t know whether he’s already said too much. But then he goes on, plucks up the courage for more honesty. “Some days I feel like it’s crushing me so that I can’t breathe.”

“Oh, James,” I whisper. My heart aches for him.

I never realized all the pressure on him, that his family responsibilities are such a burden to him.

He always gave the impression of enjoying the power his surname gives him.

But bit by bit, the jigsaw pieces fit together in my head: the way he tenses at the mention of Oxford, his stoic expression when his parents turned up in London, the way his eyes darken whenever anyone talks about the firm.

Suddenly, I get it. I understand why he acted the way he did at the start of term. What his childish pranks and don’t-give-a-shit pose are all about.

“This is your last year where you don’t have any responsibilities,” I murmur.

“It’s my last chance to be free,” he agrees quietly.

I wish I could contradict him, but I can’t.

No more than I can offer him a solution to his problems—there isn’t one.

An inheritance like that isn’t the kind of thing where you can just sit down around a table with your parents and talk it over.

Besides, I’m sure he’s already weighed all the options.

And if I’m right about James, he’ll do what his parents demand anyway. He’d never let his family down.

“I wish I was with you.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think about what they mean.

“What would you do if you were?” he replies. Suddenly, there’s a whole new undertone to his voice. He no longer sounds despairing, he sounds…teasing. Like he’s hoping for an indecent proposal.

“I’d give you a hug.” Not so indecent, but heartfelt.

“I think I’d like that.”

We’ve never hugged each other properly, and if we were face-to-face, I’d never dare say a thing like that. But now, with his dark voice in my ear and not having to look him in the eye, suddenly nothing feels impossible to me. I feel brave and sad and nervous and happy—all at once.

“Did you have a nice birthday?” James asks after a while.

“Yes,” I reply, starting to tell him about my day, my presents, and that Lin and I won at charades this evening.

James laughs at the right moments, clearly relieved at the change of subject.

Then we talk about all kinds of things: how his weekend’s been (crap), the English test he’s got next week (hard but doable), our favorite singers and bands (Iron Death Cab for Cutie, him), and films ( Rise of the Guardians , me; The Secret Life of Walter Mitty , him).

I learn so much about him. Such as his fondness for blogs, same as Ember.

He tells me about a travel blog he’s just discovered—he’d only intended to read one post on it but ended up going down a rabbit hole and missing a business meeting with his parents because he spent hours engrossed in the author’s travels around the world and didn’t notice the time.

Which is me right now. Before I know it, it’s three a.m., and I’m lying wide-awake on my bed, James’s voice still in my ear.

I stare at the folded lacrosse jumper on my bedside table.

And all I can think of is James.