Page 23 of Save You (Maxton Hall #2)

Ruby

“I think I’d prefer it a bit mintier,” Ember says thoughtfully.

I drag the cursor further left and upward over the color field, lightening the moss green and taking it in a bluer direction. “Like this?”

My sister gives a grunt of agreement. I save the color and click on preview in WordPress so that we can admire our handiwork.

Ember has been rebranding her blog, Bellbird , with a new logo, a more modern WordPress theme, and a fresh color palette.

Her latest post is right at the top—a guide to ethical plus-size fashion—and below that are three smaller windows with thumbnails showing her most popular articles.

On the right-hand side are links to her social media profiles and a photo of her that I took last summer.

She’s standing in a meadow of flowers, wearing a floral, summery maxi dress with a plunging neckline.

I remember the exact moment a grasshopper jumped onto her and I snapped her screaming and trying to shake it off—it was hilarious.

Sadly, she didn’t choose that one as her profile picture; she went for one where she’s laughing happily and stroking a strand of hair off her face. Beneath it, she’s written:

Hi, I’m Ember! I’m a plus-size fashion blogger who loves words and cake, and I find inspiration in everything beautiful. I hope you enjoy reading my blog!

“It looks great,” I say, impressed. “Really professional.”

“You say that every time,” Ember replies, scanning the page with narrowed eyes. When it comes to her blog, she’s as much of a perfectionist as I am with my bullet journal.

“I know, but it’s true.” I browse her latest outfit posts.

Even though I took the photos myself, I could look at them again and again.

Ember looks so beautiful. For the zillionth time, I wish Mum and Dad weren’t so critical of social media.

They’re worried that Ember might reveal too much personal information, but she takes an impressively professional approach to Bellbird .

These days, she even has a couple of brands that she works with regularly who send her clothes.

“Oh, by the way,” my sister says suddenly, “I saw a dress that could have been made for you. You still need one for the gala, don’t you?”

I nod. “Show me.”

She turns the laptop toward her slightly and her tiny desk wobbles dangerously.

I hastily grab my glass of orange juice to stop it tipping over.

We’ve been sitting here side by side, working on her blog for two hours now, with Frank Ocean’s melodic voice coming from the little speakers in her laptop.

Ember opens one of her bookmarks and we watch together as the page loads slowly, eventually revealing a dress that makes me breathe a sigh. It’s black, with a V-neck, and it’s in some flowing fabric, fitted at the waist and then falling in soft waves from the hips.

“Are there any more pictures?” I ask, but at that moment I catch sight of the price. “Oh, God. It costs over two hundred pounds,” I stutter, raising a finger to shut the window. “Why would you show me a thing like that?”

Ember catches my hand and grins at me. “Not for us, it doesn’t. The company is offering me a collaboration.”

I hesitate. I know that Ember gets a lot of offers of collaboration with shops these days, but that doesn’t mean she has to accept every one of them.

“You’ve been looking for ages,” my sister continues. “And this would be perfect for a fancy occasion like that, wouldn’t it? I could ask them.”

I shake my head at once. “No, I can’t accept that.”

“Why not?”

I give an uncertain shrug. “Dunno. Isn’t it kind of off to get stuff for free?”

“Do you think actors pay for the designer dresses they borrow for premieres and awards ceremonies?”

“I’ve never really thought about it, to be honest,” I admit.

“Well, now you know,” Ember says. “They offered me the chance to try three dresses, and they’ll even pay me if I write an honest review of the fit and so on. All I’d like to do is take a photo of the two of us wearing the dresses and publish it—if you don’t mind.”

I look back at the dress. I click through the other pictures, falling deeper in love with the sweeping skirt, the soft-looking fabric, and the little appliqué details on the neckline with every photo. I’ve never worn such an elegant dress—apart from the one the Beauforts lent me for last Halloween.

“I don’t even need to ask, do I?” Ember says suddenly, and as I turn my head to look at her in confusion, she won’t meet my eyes. Her smile is resigned. “You presumably still don’t want me tagging along.”

“Ember.” I sigh, taking a deep breath to give my automatic reply. But then I pause.

Ember’s been there for me day and night in the last few weeks. She’s taken care of me and hasn’t breathed a word about what happened with James to Mum and Dad—no matter how insistently they asked her.

I know how much Ember longs to come to one of our school events.

And now that I come to think about it, the charity gala is probably a more suitable occasion than any of the other Maxton Hall parties.

It’s the one event of the year where everyone’s on their best behavior.

There will be too many celebrities and VIPs around for anyone to want to make a bad impression.

So there’s a more sedate atmosphere, and the chances of anything bad happening to her are relatively low.

Ember watches me attentively. She doesn’t move a muscle, as if she’s scared that the least twitch would provoke a negative answer.

“I’ll take you,” I say in the end.

Ember’s eyes grow wide. “Do you really mean it?” she asks in disbelief.

I take a deep breath. These are our last few months together and I want them to be as nice as possible. Soon we won’t be seeing each other every day, and however much I’m looking forward to Oxford, that’s still a scary thought.

“On a couple of conditions,” I add in a firmer voice, because I want Ember to know that I’m serious. She waves to me to go on. “You have to stay with me the whole evening. And only talk to people I know and say are OK. I really don’t want you getting messed about by some creep. Deal?”

Ember flings her arms around my neck and hugs me so tight that I almost fall off the chair and have to cling on to her desk.

“You’re the best! I won’t leave your side for a second,” she declares.

I hug her back and close my eyes for a moment.

A wave of worry washes over me and I ask myself if I’m doing the right thing.

After all, I know more than her about what can happen at these parties.

But on the other hand, Ember’s nearly seventeen.

She’s clever and self-confident and knows what she wants.

I should probably just have more faith in her.

I’m certain that I’ve made the right choice when Ember pulls away from me and beams at me, eyes shining. “This means we can now officially start dress shopping. And I’ve got an event to wear it to! Plus, this is going to be the best blog post of all time. I can’t wait!”

I smile back at her and feel her excitement and genuine joy spill over to me. It’s the first time in ages that I’ve felt this at peace. “I’m happy that you’re happy.”

As I speak, my sister’s smile suddenly fades.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Ember avoids my eyes. She starts to click on random web pages, like she isn’t really focused on what she’s doing. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. I just can’t believe that these are our last few months together.”

“I’m only going away to university. It doesn’t mean we’ll never see each other again, Ember,” I say gently.

Ember keeps staring at her laptop screen. “It does, and you know it.”

I shake my head fiercely. “Things won’t be exactly the same, but that definitely doesn’t mean we’ll never see each other again.

I’ll come home every weekend and I’ll keep working with you on your blog.

We can chat and FaceTime, and I’ll send you cringey pictures of my lunch and tell you the books I’m reading and—”

She laughs and interrupts me. “Promise me, Ruby,” she says, her voice deadly serious.

I put an arm around my little sister’s shoulder and pull her to my side. “I promise.”

James

The week before the gala is one of the most stressful of my life.

I still have all the schoolwork that Lydia and I missed before Christmas to catch up on, and there’s so much to do for the event that I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.

Ruby and Camille decide on Monday to swap the lightbulbs in Boyd Hall for ones with a softer, more atmospheric light, so I have to buy the bulbs.

On Tuesday, the pianist suddenly announces that he wants to be paid way more for hardly any music, so Kieran and I have to go to see him and bring him round.

As we drive over there, Kieran talks me into coming to listen to the school choir rehearsal on Wednesday and checking their song list because Ruby’s too busy and Lin doesn’t appreciate the finer points of classical music (his words).

But the absolute highlight comes on Thursday when the entire team is called in to polish the silver cutlery (not my favorite job) and to fold napkins into miters (sheer hell).

I always thought I was reasonably good with my fingers, but apparently I’m incapable of following simple instructions on napkin-folding.

The lads give me funny looks when I turn up at lacrosse training already knackered, or have to skip it altogether, but they don’t ask questions. I wouldn’t even know how to explain what’s up with me.

It feels like I’m clinging on to a straw, refusing to let go.

On our way back to school, Ruby made it very clear that she still isn’t ready to hear what I have to say.

And I respect that. But that moment in the photo booth—when we were so close, Ruby’s lips less than an inch from my jaw, when I could feel her ragged breath on my skin…

At that moment I realized that I’m not fighting in vain.

And I’m not giving up as long as there’s even a single glimmer of hope for us. I’ve never been a particularly patient person, but when it comes to Ruby, I have all the time in the world—or I’ll make it. Ruby is worth it.

Even so, I breathe deeply as I pull on my jersey on Friday and finally get to run out onto the field.

The coach has us doing brutal circuit training, but the physical exertion is doing me good and taking my mind off things.

Right now, we have to give each other piggyback rides across the playing fields.

Alistair is pretty strong, but after ten minutes, he gives way beneath my weight and we both crash to the ground.

“Fuck,” I growl, rolling onto my back. It’s February now, so spring is within touching distance, but it’s still bloody cold out here, and the ground is fucking hard. I’m pretty sure I’ve just scuffed up both my knees.

“Don’t stop!” Mr. Freeman roars, blowing hard on his whistle.

“Up you get,” says Alistair, clapping his hands.

He crouches down in front of me again as Kesh runs past, Wren on his back.

“No, it’s my turn,” I retort, patting myself on the back. Alistair rolls his eyes but does as I say and jumps onto my shoulders. The next moment, I sprint away, past my teammates, as fast as I can, until every muscle in my body is burning and the gap to Kesh and Wren is shortening.

When we’re level with them, Wren groans. “Not again!” He slaps Kesh on the side to spur him on. “Get moving, bro.”

Kesh picks up speed, his face grim, and I follow suit as Alistair yells. I’m already missing a session every week, so I’m under scrutiny. Not just from my mates, but from the coach too. I can’t let myself down now, even though my chest burns like fire with every breath.

In the end, Kesh and I finish almost neck and neck. I’m so out of breath that it’s a major effort not to drop onto all fours. Kesh holds out his fist and I bump it with mine, while Wren gives me a shove. “You’re a beast. How the hell did you catch up that fast, Beaufort?”

“Good work today, lads!” shouts Freeman, clapping his hands. His gaze roams over each of us in turn, then a smile spreads over his lips. “You’ve definitely earned a reward. It’s my round.”

We cheer. Yes, the circuit training is brutal, but it’s only twice a term, and he generally then takes us down to the pub near the school and treats us to burgers and chips—after which we always forget how he made us suffer in the previous few hours.

“What’s Lexie doing here?” Cyril asks suddenly, his eyes on the edge of the field.

The whole team turns to look. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the head teacher down here on the training grounds before.

“Have you guys been fucking around again?” I hear someone ask behind me as the coach heads toward Lexington and has a brief conversation with him.

He means me and the boys, obviously, but none of us answers.

My mind is racing. Something must have happened for Lexie to be here right now. But I have no idea what.

A moment later, Freeman jogs back toward us and claps his hands. “Change of plan, boys! You’re needed in Boyd Hall. The events committee need your help setting up for the gala tomorrow evening.”

I freeze. It’s six o’clock. The décor firm should have finished ages ago.

Everyone grumbles, and the coach’s face darkens. “Didn’t I make myself clear? Boyd Hall. Now.”