Page 85 of Save Me
After Mum and I make something that resembles more like food, in that it has more than one color to it, we settle comfortably onto the sofa to try and dissect each other’s week. She fills me in on all the gossip from back home, the news, the scandal of my aunt discovering that her husband has been talking to someone else online, and of course, the weather. No self-respecting Brit discusses anything without commenting upon the forever-changing weather back home.
I find myself becoming weirdly nostalgic over all things England, even though I haven’t lived there for some years now. I don’t think I would want to either, but only because of Xander. I can’t imagine not being with him, even though I soon will be. My thoughts soon turn to the realization that my time is running out, that everything is going to be happening this year. Before, I could always calm my fears by putting it all down to happening next year, but I can no longer say that. Things are suddenly moving at a fast rate of knots, and in just over three months, I will be eighteen and getting married to a man who terrifies me, who abuses me, and who is already claiming me as his own.
Shit!
Xander
Lying in bed with Beth is everything to me right now. I could watch her all night and be shit for brains tomorrow at school, but I don’t care. She is all I am focused on, anyway. The coordinates of my uncle’s cabin run over inside my head at least every five minutes, knowing that it’s currently all we have. Whether she likes it or not, we’ll be taking this last option. I silently promise both of us that as I run my hand over her back in continuous movements, taking in the softness of her skin and gentle breathing.
She’s sleeping after our vigorous lovemaking and while it usually knocks me out cold too, I can’t seem to let myself fall under. She mumbles incoherently in her sleep, and it makes me smile and think about how I could spend the rest of my life doing this with her and not even think twice about it.
I warn Casey on a daily basis not to repeat anything she had heard the day she had to call Doctor Rogers, not only for Beth’s safety but also for her own. I don’t want my sister anywhere near Oliver Lawrence, or his Mayfield, fucked up club. I trust her, but as I’ve said so before, common sense isn’t always her strongest quality. I’m just praying that if she does inadvertently open her mouth, it’s not to that idiot, Kyle.
My parents remain clueless over all things Lawrence, as well as my relationship with Beth. They know I have a girlfriend. My frequent sleepovers at Beth’s place, and my ‘mooning about’ as Mom puts it, made it virtually impossible to deny it. Since I gave in and offered the minimum amount of information that I could get away with, they have been consistently getting on at me to invite her over. However, so far, I’ve managed to bullshit my way out of it. Fortunately, it’s acceptance letter time, which has consumed all their attention. Their badgering to meet the girl who has finally had me falling for someone beyond puppy love, has taken a backseat to their anxieties over mine and Casey’s futures.
Casey isn’t holding out much hope, but neither does she care. She’s more than aware that she’s made very little effort in the way of studying, seeing high school as a social event rather than a means to further herself academically. She’s far from stupid, but she’s also not interested in anything beyond aesthetics. When questioned about her intentions for beyond school, she laughs it off and tells me she’s going to find a sugar daddy to marry. Worryingly, I can’t tell if she’s being serious or not.
Meanwhile, I’ve applied to several colleges, all of which are not that far away, opting to focus on journalism and readying myself to follow in Stephen’s footsteps. I’ll admit, I resisted for a while, but after everything that has gone on with Beth, I suddenly have a new-found determination to uncover the truth. This is with the hope that one day, scum like Oliver Lawrence won’t be able to hide behind their rich, powerful, and equally fucked up friends.
“Xander?” A bleary-eyed Beth stares up at me with her brow furrowed. During these last few weeks, her brow seems to be permanently furrowed in anxiety, her eyes are pained, and her pale complexion betrays how exhausted she is through disrupted sleep caused by nightmares. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing, baby,” I say before softly kissing her cheek, “just thinking, go back to sleep.”
“I don’t wanna sleep,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around my chest again, “the more I sleep, the quicker my time runs out.”
“I know,” I sigh, clenching my fists in frustration over not having any other kind of answer for her right now. My soul is shattering with hers, but all I can do, is hold her all the more tightly.
Beth
Samuel’s soft smile greets me when I open the door to him on Sunday morning. His kind features and a look of the grandfather I’ve recently lost never fail to have me smiling back at him. He makes me feel safe, comfortable, and ready to face whatever fresh new hell awaits me when I am summoned to Oliver’s house.
Mum and I have been discussing Carl Steele, aka Grandad, for most of the morning, trying to dissect and study what we do know about him. It isn’t a lot. However, the more we talked, the more I realized I am just as terrified and suspicious of him as I am Oliver. This only makes today’s lunch all the more horrifying to think about. After everything that rumor and speculation have taught me about this man, I know he isn’t someone to be trusted or liked. Not only that, but I also know he is the only man from who Oliver won’t do a thing to save me. For all I know, he could let the guy beat me to a pulp and he wouldn’t even lift a finger to help me.
All the way there, my mind considers all the possible scenarios of what could go down today; what might be discussed; what might be expected of me; what answers I should give to save myself from as much pain as possible. Samuel practically has to shout at me when we pull up outside of the enormous gates, ready to drive up to Oliver’s ostentatious house. A place that fills me with dread, fear, and loathing. A place I’m supposed to one day call home.
Outside, in the turning circle, another car, a black Jaguar, already sits in the driveway. Samuel looks at me through the rear-view mirror, as though asking if I’m ready for this spectacle to go down. I give him nothing because telling him I’ll never be ready for this isn’t an option. A slight nod later, and he opens the door to get out, rounding the car to come and assist me with my wobbly legs and fluttering heart rhythm. He looks at me, but almost immediately drops his eyes to the ground when he can see just how scared I am. He looks the way a concerned grandfather might look for his granddaughter. Unfortunately, he’s not my grandfather. That title goes to the bastard inside, waiting to gang up on me with my fiancé.
The door bursts open before we even have a chance to reach it, revealing Oliver, who is smiling, albeit a little nervously, when he walks over to us. He brushes Samuel away without words and takes his place to assist me up the steps in my ridiculous heels. Once through the ominous entrance to what I know to be my own prison, he leans in to kiss me on the cheek. I instantly want to wipe it, to push him away altogether, and it takes real effort not to.
“Darling, you look so much better,” he says as he takes my hand and leads me into the house. He turns my fingers over to face him, checking for his symbol of ownership and smiling smugly when he sees the huge rock shining back into his icy blue eyes. “Your grandfather is already here. I was just telling him how ill you have been. He’s as relieved as I am that you are now well.”
The living room is exactly the way I remember it - cold, impersonal, and suffocating. The only difference being is that Carl Steele is now sat in one of the old-fashioned, velvet armchairs, looking as out of place in the modern interior as the chair itself. In cliché fashion, he is sat nursing a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, and a thick, pungent cigar in the other. I half expect him to break into a Winston Churchill speech.
As the smell of cigar fumes hit me full throttle in the face, I can’t help beginning to cough and splutter. I curse myself for it, knowing my reaction may well prove upsetting to the old relic before me, but to my surprise, he ends up chuckling.
“I’m sorry,” I cough nervously, “I’m not used to smoking.”
I brace myself for something more abhorrent when he rises from his chair and walks over to give me a kiss on the cheek.
“Apologies, my dear,” he smiles, “it’s a habit I’ve had for many years. It was very fashionable when I was young. You look radiant, Beth.” He glances up and down at my formal outfit with a smile. “But then, your grandmother was always well put out too.”
Acting like any other kindly old gentleman, he pats my hand and pulls me away from Oliver, who I notice resists to begin with. Once free of Oliver’s hand, he leads us over to the sofa where we can sit next to one another.
“Did you know much of your grandmother?”
“Yes, we saw her frequently, even when she had to go into a home when I was eight,” I tell him, and then watch his brow furrow in confusion. “She has Alzheimer’s.”
I study his reaction as he looks to the floor sadly, as though this truly signifies the fact that he’ll never be reunited with her. A strange notion, given that I know he would most likely punish and abuse her if such a thing were to ever occur. Even so, I imagine he loved her in much the same way that Oliver loves me - psychotically.