Page 8 of Save You (Maxton Hall #2)

But as I open the image tab, I get to see another, less perfect side of him.

There’s a load of fuzzy phone pictures in which a younger version of James is leaning over a table with a line of white powder on it.

Photos of him walking in and out of clubs with assorted women—considerably older women—on his arm.

Photos where he looks out of it and off his head.

The contrast between this James and the one dressed up to the nines, at fancy galas and parties with his parents and Lydia, couldn’t be greater.

I click back to the regular search results.

Right under the row of photos there are tons of new articles, mostly about Cordelia Beaufort’s sudden death.

I don’t want to read them. It’s nothing to do with me and there’s enough of all that in the news as it is.

I scroll through more results until James’s Instagram account pops up. Without thinking, I click on the link.

His profile shows an eclectic mix of photos.

There are books, the mirrorlike facade of a skyscraper, a close-up of a stucco-decorated wall, benches, winding staircases, London from the air through a plane window, his feet in leather shoes on a railway platform, the morning sun shining into a room.

If pictures of his friends and Lydia didn’t keep turning up among them all, I’d never have linked this account to James.

In group photos with the lads, James is grinning that grin, the one that drives me wild—the breathtakingly arrogant one that’s so effortlessly attractive it gives you butterflies all the same.

One photo in particular catches my eye. It’s of James and Lydia, and they’re both laughing.

Pretty rare. I can’t remember ever having heard Lydia laugh.

But as for James, I only have to look at the picture and I can hear that familiar sound in my ears.

The butterflies in my stomach are replaced by a painful tug.

I miss James’s laugh. I miss the way he is, his voice, our conversations… I miss everything.

On the spur of the moment, I download the image onto my laptop. I know that’s fucked up, but I don’t care. I treat every aspect of my life with rational consideration. I can allow myself to be led by my emotions this once.

Under the photos at the top of James’s profile, there are hundreds of messages of condolence.

I skim through the comments and gulp hard.

Some of them are worse than tactless, they’re downright cruel.

Does James actually read all this stuff?

What would he feel then? If it makes me feel ill, I dread to think what it’s like for him.

One comment really stands out for its tastelessness.

xnzlg: for photos of the beaufort funeral check out my profile

My finger hovers over the touch pad and a furious heat floods my cheeks. I click on the link so that I can report it—and freeze.

xnzlg’s entire Instagram feed consists of photos of James and Lydia. The two of them, in black, at the cemetery. They’re standing side by side, leaning on each other for support. James has an arm around Lydia, holding her close, his chin resting on her head.

Tears fill my eyes.

Why would you do a thing like that? Why would you photograph the worst moments in the life of a family that’s already broken and then put the pictures on the internet? Nobody has the right to invade their privacy like that.

I wipe my eyes with my hand. I try to navigate xnzlg’s feed and report the account. Then I mark the comments under James’s photos as spam until they disappear.

That’s all I can do at this moment, and it isn’t enough. The photos have stirred up all the feelings that have been building inside me in the last few weeks until I can barely control them. I’m overwhelmed by sympathy for James and Lydia.

I shut my laptop and shove it back into its padded sleeve, then I reach for my phone and open my messages. I decide to text Lydia.

I don’t know whether or not she’s told her family that she’s pregnant, but she definitely needs to know that nothing’s changed and that, despite everything, I’m still there for her if she needs me. I open her last message to me and type a reply:

Lydia, I meant what I said. If you ever want to talk, just let me know.

I hesitate a moment, then send it. After that, I stare at the phone in my hand. I know that the sensible thing to do would be to put it away. But I can’t help it. Automatically, I open the chat between me and James.

I can hardly believe his first message to me was a little more than three months ago.

It feels like years since the evening when James invited me down to Beaufort’s in London with him.

I remember the moment we’d just put on the Victorian costumes and then his parents turned up unexpectedly.

My first thought when I saw Cordelia Beaufort was, I want to be like her .

I was impressed by the way her personality filled the entire room—she didn’t say or do a single thing, and yet she exuded authority and competence.

Despite Mortimer Beaufort’s hard face and physical presence, there was no doubting who had the final say in the company.

I never properly met her, but I’m still mourning James’s mother.

And I’m grieving with James. When I was with him, he said that he didn’t even really like his mum, but I know that’s not true. He loved her; I could see that very clearly as he wept in my arms.

My eyes flit back to my wardrobe. On impulse, I go over and open the door.

Then I bend down. Right at the bottom, on the bottom shelf, hidden behind an old PE bag, is James’s hoodie.

The one he dressed me in that time after Cyril’s party.

Carefully, I pull it out and bury my face in it for a moment.

It barely even smells of James’s detergent anymore, but the soft fabric stirs up memories.

I shut the wardrobe door and go back to bed.

On the way, I slip the jumper over my head and pull the sleeves down over my fingers.

I don’t know how it’s possible to be so eaten up with rage, and yet to be suffering so badly with James that I sometimes feel like I can’t bear it a moment longer.

Like now, for example.

Indecisively, I pick up my phone again. I twist it in my hands. I want to message James, but at the same time, I don’t. I want to console him and to scream at him, to hug him and to hit him.

In the end, I type a brief text:

I’m thinking of you

I stare at the words and take a deep breath. Then I click send. After that, I put my phone down. My eye falls on the alarm clock on my bedside table. It’s after midnight now, and I’m still wide-awake. Even if I switch the light off now, I won’t be able to sleep, I know that.

I pull my backpack onto my bed and get out my notes from this morning. I’m about to lean back on my pillow again and start reading when my phone buzzes. I hold my breath as I click on the message.

I miss you

I get goose bumps all over my whole body. I don’t know what I was expecting. But not an answer like that. As I’m staring at those three words, a second text comes in.

I want to see you

The words blur before my eyes, and even though I’m under my duvet, wearing James’s hoodie, I feel cold. So many different emotions are fighting inside me: yearning for James, unspeakable anger at him, and a deep sorrow, as if I’d lost someone too.

I’d love to write that I feel the same. That I miss him too and there’s nothing I’d rather do than drive over and be there for him.

But I can’t. Deep within me, I sense that I’m not ready for that. Not after what happened. Not after what he did to me. It just hurts too much.

It costs me every ounce of strength I can summon to type my reply.

I can’t.