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He smiles at my joke before it turns into a frown. His eyebrows pull together as he stares at the dashboard. I want to reach across and rub the crease between his brows away. His eyes have a tortured look, warning me that he’s reliving something traumatic.
“I was the one that caught my mum cheating. I overheard her on the phone with her lover. She sounded so… happy.”
When he looks at me, I can picture a young, confused Xavier, trying to make sense of his mother sharing loving words with another man.
“At first, I thought she was speaking to my father, but then she said his name. When she saw me, her smile vanished, and she was spluttering, trying to make her thirteen-year-old son think he misheard. But I knew the truth.”
Our gazes meet – mine sympathetic and his full of sorrow.
“What did you do?”
Xavier swallows hard. “I told her to go,” he whispers. “I was angry she would risk her family for someone else. Their marriage wasn’t perfect, but it wasnormal. My dad loved her, and knowing the truth would have killed him. I forced her to leave even though she promised to end the affair. She begged me, but I couldn’t see past the betrayal. I saidhorriblethings and called her every name under the sun. I told her she was dead to me, and if she stayed, I’d tell my dad what she did. I’d tell everyone we knew that she was a whore.”
There is no one in that story that my heart doesn’t ache for. His father who was betrayed by the love of his life. His mother who made a mistake and was villainised by her son. But most of all, Xavier who was trying to protect his father from heartbreak.
“You didn’t know any better. You thought you were doing the right thing. Were you wrong? Yes, but you were a kid trying to protect his father.”
“No,” he protests. “Because after she left, I sat alone for a few hours and told him anyway, but it was too late. I took her phone, so there was no way to beg her to come back. My dad ended up calling her lover and found her there. I think that is what killed us the most. I said some disgusting things, but she didn’t even fight. When my dad called, she went on about how we are better off without her; this way, we can all behappy. Do you know what that made me realise? She wasn’t happy with us. She wasn’t happy withmein her life. From that day, I decided she was dead.”
My heart breaks in two as his sad words resonate with my feelings of being unwanted. Not many people can understand the pain of your parent not wanting you or to be in your life. It tears you apart before you can ever be whole.
I climb out of my seat and kneel on the car floor in front of him. I thread my fingers through his and give them a squeeze.
“That was a shitty thing for her to say. It doesn’t matter how many hurtful things you said to her. When you’re a parent, your happiness is tied to your children. She doesn’t deserve you. She did you a favour by walking away. You and your dad deserved better.”
Anguish swirls in his eyes. “I can’t escape her. I see her in every woman I’ve dated. I thought Emery was different, but she did exactly what my mother did.”
Emery’s affair must have been a punch to his gut. The woman he loved dug her nails into wounds that weren’t healed. His anger towards her makes a lot more sense now.
My knees start to ache, so I move to go back to my seat. Xavier’s arm wraps around my waist and pulls me to him so our bodies are flush against one another. My heart pounds in my chest as our eyes meet. He pulls me onto his lap, forcing me to straddle him. There is nothing sexual about the interaction, but deeply intimate.
No words are shared, but emotion fills the car until it’s hard to breathe. His fingers lightly run up and down my side, not playful but gentle. The blue flecks in his eyes are bright against the grey in the shadows of the night. I love how alive they look as he watches, studies and admires my face. He makes me feelseenin a world where I’m overlooked for everything except my beauty.
“That was the ugliest part of me until I met you.” His voice is low, and it pulls me further under his spell.
“What do you mean?”
The back of his fingers stroke my cheek before tucking my hair behind my ear. “The ugliest part of me is that I understand why my mother cheated. I understand the temptation. I understand wanting someone so bad that your wedding vows are forgotten. I understand how it feels to be plagued with thoughts of someone who isn’t your spouse. I understand finding happiness in someone else. I understand why she betrayed her husband of years and risked her family.”
He pulls my head closer and rests his forehead against mine.
“Xavier…”
I don’t know what else to say because his raw honesty has stolen any lie I could feed him because a part of me wants him too. Despite the circumstances, I can see myself being happy with him. I could make him happy. I would appreciate him in a way that Emery doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean I should. If not for my integrity or out of respect for Emery, but for him because I know he will hate himself if he becomes his mother.
“I’m trying to be a good man, Savannah. But I’m tired. I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of hiding. I’m tired of carrying this lie.”
19
Ifthereisonething rich people love to do, it’s going to charity events to show off their humility by giving back to the poor and misfortunate. While I love that they are giving away pennies from their millions, why must it be made into a big deal? These charities host these grand parties and invite the richest and entice them with fancy food and expensive champagne to donate. Why not use the money needed for such events towards their goals?
Francesca gives me a weird look when I voice this to her. “I don’t think the charity pays for this. I’m pretty sure it’s the donors.”
I sip on my sewage-tasting fake champagne. “You’re missing the point. Regardless of who pays for it, why not put the money to use? What is the point of all this?” I ask, gesturing to the event I was forced to attend.
The hiring price for this golden globe probably cost more than the charity has ever made. The tables are lined around the edge of the room, leaving the centre cleared for a dance floor and live orchestra. The walls are made of golden panels that look fitting for a palace. Some of the Britain’s wealthiest people walk around, sipping wine and bragging about how much they donated to tonight’s cause. Funnily enough, I haven’t heard them mention what tonight is for. They saw tonight as a social event and signed a cheque their personal assistant put in front of them. They don’t care – it is as simple as that. For some of these people, a donation is probably a tax write-off.
Francesca shrugs. “I don’t know. Who cares why they donate, as long as they do.”
