Page 123 of Save You

“Yeah,” I croak in the end, then clear my throat.

I look around and see where we are.This is where I had my first real encounter with James, under the stairs, away from prying eyes.This is where he tried to bribe me and I threw his stupid money back in his face.I can’t help wondering whether everything at this bloody school is always going to remind me of him from now on.

“Good,” Keshav says.Just like that, he turns, puts his hands in his pockets, and walks away.I watch him until he’s out of sight.Less than thirty seconds later, Lin hurries out of the dining hall, her face angry as she looks around for me.

“I’m here, Lin,” I say, stepping out from under the stairs.

“I told them what I thought of them,” she growls, coming toward me.“Utter idiots.What did Keshav want?”

I wrinkle my brow and look in the direction he disappeared.“I have no idea.”

The first thing on the to-do list for the events meeting this afternoon is wrapping up the Secret Santa gifts.Over the last couple of weeks, people have been dropping off little presents to us, which then traditionally get handed out in homeroom on the last day before the Christmas holidays.

Normally I love making up parcels of letters and sweets and putting them in bags so that kids in the lower school can take them from class to class.But this time, even the Christmas music we’re playing can’t lift the mood.

That’s probably because an above average number of the letters are addressed to the Beauforts, and we can’t decide what we ought to do with them.James and Lydia haven’t come back to school, so we can’t give these to them in person, and I doubt that they’d appreciate having them sent to them at home.I wish I could just ask the two of them whether or not they want the letters.But that’s not an option, so the team votes on it and agrees to hold on to them for the time being.Apart from anything else, we don’t know what’s in them.Somebody might have gone in for a sick joke.

For the rest of the meeting, I keep catching myself staring at the empty chair where James sat when he was serving his punishment with us.Apparently, everything really is going to remind me of him now, even though I’d love to just forget our time together.Whenever I think of him, it feels as though someone’s pushed a hand through my rib cage, wrapped their fingers around my heart, and squeezed hard.

I’m so very angry with him.

How could he do that to me?

How?

Just the thought of letting anyone else get as close to me as he did makes me sick, but he didn’t hesitate to kiss somebody else.

And the worst thing is, I’m not only angry with James, I also feel sorrow and sympathy for him.He’s lost his mum, and every time I’m filled with white-hot rage toward him, I feel guilty.But I know that I don’t have any reason to.

It’s not fair, and it’s tiring, and by the time I get home, I’m totally worn out by the war all these contradictory emotions are waging inside me.The school day has robbed me of all my energy, and I can’t even muster up a cheerful façade for my family.Since Mum found out about Cordelia Beaufort dying, she’s treated me like a fragile eggshell.I haven’t told her what happened between James and me, but like all mothers, she has an instinctive understanding of certain things.Like when your daughter is heartbroken.

I’m glad when I can finally fall into bed at night.But despite my exhaustion, I spend over an hour tossing and turning.There’s nothing to distract me here.There’s nothing left to do, nothing that can force its way between me and my thoughts of James.I lay an arm over my face and screw up my eyes.I want to summon up the darkness, but all I can see is his face.His hint of a mocking smile, the lively glint in his eyes, the beautiful curve of his lips.

I swear, throw off the duvet, and stand up.It’s so cold that I get goose bumps down my arms as I walk over to my desk and grab my laptop.I head back to bed and pull the covers right up.I jam a pillow behind my back, open the laptop, and go to my browser.

It feels almost like I’m doing something illegal as I type the letters into the search box.

J-a-m-e-s-B-e-a-u-f-o-r-t

Enter.

1,930,760 hits in 0.5 seconds.

Oh wow.

At the top of the screen are image results.Pictures of James in tailored Beaufort suits, of James playing golf with his father and his father’s friends.They make him look respectable.Dressed to kill, like he’s got the world at his feet.

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 façade 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 hisfriends 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.