How To Save A Life (Emerald Cove #1) Read online

  Then all words trail off as heated desire flashes through his eyes, his muscles tightening under my grip, his body inching farther toward me. Duke leans closer, those baby blues casting a spell, and then his eyes are shut, and my eyes are shut, but our mouths and our hearts are open.

  And my T-shirt is on.

  Because this is my release. When it all gets too much to deal with, this is where I go. Where I know I'll never be hurt. Duke is my safe place.

  And I need him so damn much.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I leave Duke's sometime before five. His mother doesn't know I stay; after Duke walks me to the door and kisses me goodbye at around nine-thirty, he then opens the window for me to scale the tree and climb back inside. Sleeping in his arms is the one place I truly relax. The one place that's mine, and mine only.

  I pull up in the drive and the frosty early spring air assaults my skin. Straight away, strains of music reach my ears and I know that it's happened again. Who knows why I'm surprised.

  She's lying on the couch, her mouth open, and a silvery trail of drool snaking from her lower lip to the tip of her chin. The photos are scattered over the floor except for one gripped tightly in her hand, and I don't need to look to know which one it is. Which one it always is.

  It was taken four years ago at the park. It had been her birthday, and we'd gone out to lunch. Our bellies deliciously full of pasta and pizza, we'd slowly walked home. They'd laughed, and smiled, and I'd giggled along with them. Dad pushed her on a swing. She'd danced like the autumn leaves floating in the breeze alongside her.

  When he'd pulled her tight and pressed his lips to her hair, he’d whispered how much he loved her. How beautiful she was. How he'd never do anything to hurt her.

  She loves that photo.

  I hate it.

  I yank the cord from the wall to shut Whitney up, and blissful silence coats the house. Bending down, I gather all the photos, placing them in an orderly pile inside the old shoebox where they reside. Then, I put that on the top shelf of the linen cupboard, and take out a fluffy plaid blanket, one I bought six months ago purely for occasions such as this.

  Shaking it out, I let it fall over her. She snuggles in, and I try to take the remaining image but she clutches it tightly to her chest. I can protect her from the cold, but only she can protect herself from her heart.

  I gather all the bottles of booze I can find and tip their contents down the drain. They clink as I throw them in the recycling bin, but they don’t break. They’re more resilient than she is. Then, I walk up the stairs and lie on my bed, staring at the stark white ceiling above me.

  Only 153 days to go.

  ***

  "Lee-Lee!"

  I spin around to see Kat, my beautiful best friend, running toward me. Her blonde hair flies out behind her and a huge grin lights her entire face, from her lips to her hazel eyes.

  "Hey."

  She slings her schoolbag from her shoulder to the asphalt floor of the quadrangle, that hair of hers flipping over her shoulder as she does so. "I hear you spent the night at Duke's. Again."

  "Sure did." I smile.

  "And ...?" she prompts.

  "And yes, of course we had sex." I roll my eyes. Sex is not something I feel comfortable talking about, especially after the weird midget dominatrix incident of the night before. And yet, for some reason, Kat always asks. Without fail. Every damn time.

  "And was it amazing? As usual? Did you ..." She sneaks a glance left and right before continuing. "Come?"

  "Ha!" I snort. "Isn't this what guys are supposed to talk about? Aren't we supposed to discuss feelings and stuff?"

  "Come on, Lee-Lee." Kat claps my shoulder playfully. "You know I'm living vicariously through you. My sex life is ..." She shakes her head and throws her hands out to the sides, the sentence remaining unfinished.

  "You've had sex with five different guys, Kat. I'd hardly say you need to live through me."

  She winks at me. "I do have a pretty good memory-based spank bank."

  I laugh, and run my hand over my eyes. The sun seems extra bright today, as if to try and make up for the cool winter months that are now far behind us. The bell rings, and the chaotic life that was flooding the quad now stops, then returns with purpose. Bags are picked up, goodbyes are called, and feet trudge toward hallways and doorways.

  Kat slings her bag back over her shoulder and we walk toward Block D. We both take Music together, even if, as Kat jokes, she maybe shouldn't.

  "So, have you thought about your birthday yet?" she asks. We stand to the side of the building as others file in before us.

  "Nope." I shake my head. "I told you, I don't want to do anything."

  "Lia Stanton, it is your eighteenth. It's my duty as your best friend to ensure you have a damn good time." She folds her arms over her chest.

  "I will have a good time. I'll wake up. I'll go to school. We'll drink some booze and then go home."

  "That is not having a good time, Lia. That's what we do every weekend." She levels her gaze at me, and I can't help but smile. That’s what she does every weekend. What I do is study. And occasionally drive her and my drunk-arse boyfriend home.

  That's not the sort of thing you tell your friends.

  "Besides, everyone will want to celebrate with you. Do you honestly think Lia Stanton, the new girl who rose to insanely popular heights by dating the hottest guy in school and befriending the most excellent girl"—she pauses for a not-so-subtle jab to the ribs here—"can get away with a small celebration?"

  I poke my tongue out. "I'm worried about your mental health. Maybe you should see a doctor."

  "Maybe you should. The amount of sex you're having could lead to an unplanned pregnancy."

  I laugh and we finally walk the two steps into the building, following the masses down the corridor until we get to the music room. "I assure you, there will be no unplanned babies here. You, maybe ..."

  "Shut up." Kat pauses at the door. "You know ... Duke's really going to miss you when you go, right?"

  Kat has been best friends with my boyfriend since another girl stole her yellow pencil in kindergarten, and Duke beat her up for it.

  "I know." I let out a breath of air that I didn't realise I'd been holding. "But I think maybe he’ll come with me. If I get this scholarship ..."

  "If you get this scholarship, he’ll come with, or you'll work things out long-distance or something. I couldn't bare to see my two best friends upset." Kat gives a small smile. "And if you don't get it, well, then you can just go to Sydney like the rest of us." At this, she tilts her chin into the air and struts into the music room.

  She doesn't realise that her words chill me to the bone. My chest tightens, and the air around me becomes harder to suck in, to release through my body. My heart pounds faster and I clench onto the doorframe for support.

  There is no way I'll be going to uni in Sydney.

  I can't.

  It’s too close to my past.

  "Baby." Duke's lips meet my cheek before I have time to snap out of my reverie.

  I take in a sharp breath, then paste a smile on my face and turn to him. "Hey."

  "Just wanted to let you know, Kat and I'll meet you outside at eight for Aiden's party on Saturday night," he says.

  "Aiden's ...?"

  "Remember? Eighteenth?" he prompts, as if that should jog my memory. Every weekend this year, it seems as if someone has turned eighteen and every seventeen-or eighteen-year-old in the district has been invited to celebrate. And every weekend I've been more than happy to go, just to get out of the house.

  But this time, it's different. We're months away from our final exams, and after Kat's speech on missing scholarships? Well, I feel about as much like going to a party as I do jumping into a bed of cactus needles.

  "I don't know if I can go ..."

  "Why?"

  I sigh, thinking of the ways my weekend is chewed up already. "You know I work at the café every Saturday. Plus, I'm behind in study.
History ... Music ..."

  "Lia? Duke? Are you planning on attending class, or simply standing outside it?" Mrs Evermore asks as she brushes past us, books in hand.

  Saved by the bell.

  "Yes, miss," I say, and make eyes at Duke, hoping that he picks up on my subtext of 'we have no choice but to close the conversation. Now.'

  "You know everyone will expect us to be there, babe." Duke brushes one more kiss to my cheek, and I offer up what I hope is at least a somewhat genuine smile. "And the less you study, the less chance there is of us having to … well, you know."

  And I do. Because he can talk about moving to Melbourne all he likes, but when push comes to shove, I don’t know that he’ll come with me.

  He moves past me and walks into the classroom, leaving me standing there, feeling like the worst person in the world.

  "Miss Stanton, inside, now!"

  ***

  The class is the last of the day, and it flies by as it always does. Today, we listened to a piece of music and analysed the components, identifying the instruments, the theming, and the emotion behind the composition.

  It's one of my favourite things to do—analyse all the smaller parts of a whole. Identify the nuances and sequences behind each section, work out what it is that gives the music that feeling. Sometimes, I feel as if it's an echo of life. Everything is complex, layered, structured, and if you work hard enough at controlling all the different chords and melodies, you can predict the emotional and literal outcome.

  It's how I've lived my life for the past twelve months.

  And I'm not going to stop.

  This time, it's an orchestral piece that lasts more than seven minutes, and by the time we get to the third movement, I'm so transfixed that Duke's hand sliding up my leg goes completely unnoticed. Until Kat kicks me in the shin. Then, I flick it off.

  It's after class that I'm most at ease. We all pack ours bags, and the three musketeers, Duke, Kat and I, walk to the toilets where I run in, shuck off my uniform and pull on a pair of jeans, before we make our way to the parking lot. Duke kisses me goodbye, then he and Kat hop in his shiny new Ute, laughing and talking as only true friends can, and I get in my old crappy car and drive away.

  I turn out of the lot and head toward home, but I don't take the turn-off to my street. Instead, I drive a little farther, then head down a street that leads to the lake, past the old abandoned bar, right to the cul-de-sac at the end where gravel flies up underneath my tyres as I park.

  Because it's Friday.

  And every Sunday, Wednesday and Friday, I'm let loose.

  The old scout hall is just a five-minute walk from my house. No longer used for scout meets, the hall houses a local CWA group, a fledgling dance academy, and, every Sunday, Wednesday and Friday afternoon, me. And a battered grand piano.

  I retrieve my hire key out of my glove box, grab my canvas bag from the back seat, slinging it over my shoulder, and then walk up the gravel path to the front door.

  Inside, the hall smells like damp and sweat. I switch on the light, the two high windows not letting in nearly enough for the cloudy afternoon. I leave the door open—I always do. When I play, I lose all sense of place and time. If the shadows don't cloak the entrance in darkness, I don't know when it's time to leave.

  I kick off my shoes, and pad over the worn floorboards to the old grand piano that sits unused in the corner. It's a majestic creature, all aged wood and yellowed ivory keys. Stains mar some keys, those most commonly used, and a thin film of dust rests on top of the cherry-wood housing.

  I raise my hands and poise them above those gorgeous fingers of a different kind, ready to create. To release.

  And then I let go.

  In a flurry of movement, I play fast, dynamic notes that express all of the tension I'm feeling inside, all of the worry that Kat inspired with her simple last words to me earlier today. I play away my feelings of shame, of betrayal for running away from Duke when he so clearly wants me to stay, to be with him and prioritise him over all of this. Of loss, because who am I without him by my side except for the girl who—

  The girl who they all look at.

  My chords become more complex, my notes more staccato, and now I'm playing for my desperate need to get out of this small town and leave the looks, the whispers and the history I have here behind.

  It heats up once more, and I'm playing for my father.

  Music swirls around me, combinations become discordant and it's no longer a work of art, something I'm proud of, but unorganised chaos, bleeding straight from my veins into the aged instrument before me.

  And then I break.

  I cry.

  And I leave.

  Just like I've done three times a week for the past twelve months.

  ***

  I walk out to my car, my canvas bag in hand. The lone streetlight gives me just enough light to make my way to the vehicle without encountering Death by Pothole. As I'm turning the key in the lock, I notice something odd. The unused bar next door has a golden glow coming from the front window.

  "Strange," I mutter, jerking open my door and throwing my bag over the driver's seat to the passenger one. That bar has been empty for as long as I can remember. I asked Mum about it once, but she said she didn't know if it had ever been opened either.

  Made sense.

  She's really only been drinking for eighteen months.

  I settle in the seat that sags beneath my weight, and I'm just about to turn the key over in the engine when I see it. A folded up piece of paper, no bigger than a Post-it note, underneath the wiper.

  Frowning, I open the car door again and reach around to grab it, settling myself back inside and this time locking the door behind me. I dart my gaze around the parking lot, searching for any sign of life, but there's nothing.

  The hairs on my arms rise as I open the folded piece of paper. It's white, A4, and quite thick in texture.

  Messily scrawled across it, in thick black marker, are the words:

  I AM ANGRY. I AM UNSURE.

  I AM LOST

  THAT’S HOW YOUR MUSIC MAKES ME FEEL.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It's always the same kind of dream.

  "Sweetie, you're going to be fine." Mum places a cool hand against my forehead, then jerks it back. "Once we get you some ibuprofen."

  My eyelids are heavy and my limbs weak. It happened out of nowhere. One moment I was in class, answering a question on the second concerto in Vivaldi's The Four Seasons—the next, a wave of dizziness washed over me, and I woke up in sick bay, a washcloth on my forehead.

  "Bring it back." I grab Mum's cool hand again and place it against my forehead, let it try and soothe the burning fire raging inside my skull. "S'hot."

  "I know, sweetheart." Mum strokes my sweat-dampened hair back from my forehead, letting me hold that first arm hostage as it cools my face.

  "And she's had some Panadol?" Mum asks the nurse. Nurse Taylor nods sagely, and utters off a list of the drugs they’ve given me, motioning to the cold washcloth on my head as further indication of her display of care.

  "I'm sorry to call you out of work, Mrs Stanton," Nurse Taylor says.

  Mum shakes her head and takes my arm, looping it over her shoulder. "It's fine." She smiles. She always smiles, my mum. She's always so ... smiley. "Lia's the most important thing to me."

  "They all say that." The nurse nods, and opens the door so we can hobble through.

  The whole walk to the car Mum smiles, telling me about the first time she'd fainted. I might have a fever, too, Mum says, and once we get to the car, we book an appointment with our doctor this afternoon using Mum's cell.

  We drive home, and the houses and beachside blur into a mirage of colour all mixed together, blues and greens and bricks and sand. It's sped up, as if in fast motion—

  Then it happens.

  It settles in the base of my stomach, a sense of impending dread.

  We pull up in the drive and my heart pounds, a deep, angry thu
d against my ribcage.

  "Stay in the car." I grab Mum's arm, but I'm not in control of my limbs any more, and Dream Lia happily sits there while Mum opens her door, then helps her to her feet.

  "Odd." Mum furrows her brow, noticing Dad's car in the open garage.

  Don't go inside.

  I try to scream the words, but I'm watching from the outer, and no one hears what I'm saying.

  Running forward, I slam my body into Dream Lia, pushing her down, trying to distract these stupid people, and stop them from the impending disaster they're about to walk into.

  Dream Lia limps forward, Mum smiling and laughing, gaily chattering away about what bad daytime television she's got planned for her poor sick daughter.

  By the time they reach the door, I'm yelling, throwing myself in their path, throwing other things in their path—the family photo on the side table by the front door. Dad's shoes, neatly toed off in line by the mat.

  Nothing.

  When Mum places me on the couch and then turns to walk upstairs, I give it everything I've got. I grab hold of the banister and wrench the wood from the railing off, but despite this destruction, she keeps walking. My heart races, and tears streak down either side of my face as I silently chant, "No, no, no, no." It's like watching a horror movie. I'm begging her to turn around, to not go there, only this nightmare is real—it's all too real.

  I know what she'll find up those stairs, and it will start a chain of events that will ruin her life forever.

  Our lives.

  And then it happens.

  Mum screams.

  And she doesn't smile so much anymore.

  ***

  Eventually, I wake up, covered in sweat, my heart in my throat. With shaking hands, I reach for my phone. Four am. Of course.

  It’s a time when it’s too close to my alarm to go back to sleep, and yet still an hour when it’s inconvenient to wake.

  It’s the time I wake after every nightmare about those days.

  I stumble downstairs. The living room is empty, and I pause to wonder if Mum went out last night, and if she did, if she came home. Or if she did as she likes to do every once in a while, and just shut herself in her room before I get home from practice, hiding under the covers. Sometimes, blankets protect her from reality.