Page 16 of Don’t Let Me Go
If there’s an upside to having a mom who abandoned you and a dad who works sixty-plus-hour weeks, it’s that you learn to cook
for yourself at a very young age. My culinary repertoire isn’t expansive or impressive, but when push comes to shove, I can
make some damn tasty cinnamon banana pancakes. And after the morning I’ve had, it’s honestly a relief to be doing something
so mundane.
I’m still a little freaked out by my dream. Correction—my second dream. But maybe it’s like I told Jackson. Maybe my brain is stressing about my internship, so it’s creating nightmares out
of a bunch of random facts I learned for my history paper. That seems logical. Mostly.
Though I’d feel a lot better if I could forget the burning hatred in that crazy priestess’s eye. Or the screams of all those
frightened people. Or the sickening stench of sulfur.
“Wow, those pancakes smell amazing ,” Jackson gushes as he returns to the kitchen. Fresh out of the shower, he doesn’t smell so bad himself: a mixture of soap
and citrus. He’s wearing a pair of tan cargo shorts and a black tank top that still manages to show off all his muscles. But
at least his current outfit is less revealing and distracting than those ridiculously tiny running shorts.
Not that I noticed.
“Breakfast is served,” I announce with a flourish, setting the platter of pancakes onto the kitchen table.
When we’re both seated, I scoop two pancakes onto each of our plates. Jackson sniffs at his breakfast like an excited puppy and picks up his fork. Then, remembering something, he hops out of his chair and rushes to the fridge.
“There’s already butter and syrup here on the table,” I tell him.
“I know. But you forgot the most important ingredient.”
Jackson rummages through the shelves, releases a cry of victory, and returns to the table with a canister of Reddi-Wip.
“Seriously?” I say, not bothering to hide my disdain.
“What?” Jackson asks.
“We’re having breakfast. Not dessert.”
“Dude, pancakes are the dessert of breakfast.”
Shaking my head, I watch in horror as Jackson smothers his pancakes in enough butter and syrup to send a diabetic into hyperglycemic
shock, before capping the whole thing off with a heaping mountain of whipped cream.
“You are such a boy,” I scoff, rolling my eyes.
“A growing boy,” he counters, shoving half a pancake into his mouth. Almost immediately, his eyes go wide, and he releases
a moan of approval that’s so intense, I can only describe it as pornographic. “Fuck, dude, this is incredible .”
My cheeks flush with pride. Seeing Jackson enjoying himself so completely, I can’t help catching some of his happiness.
“Glad you approve,” I say, taking a small bite of my own pancake. (No butter, no syrup, and definitely no whipped cream, thank
you very much. My work stands on its own.)
Jackson swallows another mouthful and unleashes another orgasmic moan. This time I can’t stop myself from laughing. “Do you
need to be alone with your pancakes?” I ask.
“What? I’m enjoying my breakfast.”
“Your enjoyment is obscene .”
Jackson gasps in faux indignation. “Are you slut-shaming me?”
“Yeah. I am. And I’m not afraid to say it. You’re a pancake slut.”
“That’s Mr. Pancake Slut, and don’t you forget it.”
As if to prove his point, Jackson crams an entire pancake in his mouth. We both burst out laughing, and I feel the last of
my anxiety leave my body. In fact, I feel so good right now, it seems almost inconceivable that I let myself get so bent out
of shape over something as ridiculous as a couple of silly dreams.
Seriously, who drives all the way over to someone’s house (after leaving them a stalkerish number of voicemails) all because
of a nightmare? I must have been out of my mind.
I was out of my mind. At least, that’s how I felt when I woke up this morning. Like something terrible had happened. Or was about
to happen. And the only thing that I could think to do—the only thing that I thought would make things better—was find Jackson.
Oddly enough, now that I’m here with him, everything is better. In less than an hour, I’ve gone from traumatized to tranquil to tickled. And Jackson did that.
Maybe that’s why I keep dreaming about him in these weird disaster scenarios. Because on some level, my subconscious knows that he’s the
person you want by your side in a crisis. Because Jackson has the rare ability to make everything better. Or at any rate,
to make me better.
“By the way, I’ve been thinking about the situation with your dad,” he announces, wiping his mouth with a napkin and pushing
aside the plate he’s licked clean.
“What situation?” I ask, thrown by his non sequitur.
“The work situation. You said you thought your nightmare might be stress related? Because you’re starting that internship?”
“Oh. Yeah. Right,” I agree, though I’m not sure where he’s going with this.
“And the reason this internship is freaking you out is that you don’t want to be a lawyer, right?”
“Right. Well, not anymore.”
“Not anymore?”
“When I was a kid, I thought being a lawyer was the most important thing a person could be. But as I got older, I started
realizing how many problems there are in the world. And the idea of having to fight all those battles for the rest of my life?.?.?.?it
just feels exhausting .”
Jackson nods. “Sure. I get that.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to do good or help people,” I explain. “I’m just not sure that being a lawyer is the best way
for me to do that. But I also don’t want to disappoint my dad. He’s really excited for me to start working with him. And,
as we’ve already established, I have literally no idea what else I want to do with my life.”
“You could make pancakes for a living,” Jackson jokes. “I’d buy them.”
He flashes me a smile, but I can’t quite smile back. It’s hard to joke about the future when yours isn’t looking so bright.
“Okay, so, here’s how I see it,” Jackson says, dropping the humor and getting down to business. “You’re pretty sure you don’t
want to be a lawyer, but maybe not a hundred percent sure. So I’m thinking, maybe you try this internship for the summer and
see how it goes. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be surprised. Maybe you’ll discover you actually like practicing law. In which case,
an internship at the ACLU will look totally badass on your résumé when you have to apply to colleges in the fall.”
“And if I hate it?” I ask, which seems the more likely scenario.
“Then you go to your father and say, ‘Hey, I gave this internship my best shot, but I don’t think being a lawyer is for me.’?”
“Just like that?”
“Why not? Is your father a reasonable man?”
“Yeah,” I concede. “He is.”
“Okay, so, if after a summer of putting in the work, you tell him that lawyering isn’t for you, he’ll know you’re speaking
from experience, and he’ll understand. Then you’ll have your entire senior year to figure out what it is that you really want
to do with your life.”
The simplicity of Jackson’s solution is as surprising as it is sound. I’m honestly embarrassed that I didn’t think of it myself.
“That’s really good advice,” I tell him.
“Try not to sound so surprised,” he chides. “Mr. Pancake Slut is more than just a pretty face, you know.”
Evidently feeling quite pleased with himself, Jackson begins loading a second helping of pancakes onto his plate.
“And, hey, if you do decide that law isn’t for you but you’re still nervous about telling your father, I can help you through
it. I know from experience what it’s like to have to disappoint a parent, so if you want me there for moral support or in
case things go sideways, just say the word, and I’m there.”
The generosity of his offer surprises me. Although it shouldn’t. Jackson has spent the past two days proving what a good person
he is. And what a good friend he can be. Still, I’m touched by his kindness. “You’d do that?”
“Of course. If you think it’ll help,” he says after swallowing another whipped-cream-smothered bite. Then he pauses and shoots
me a crafty look. “But I do have one condition.”
“What’s that?” I ask, already suspicious.
Jackson picks up the Reddi-Wip and holds the can over my barely touched pancakes.
“Absolutely not,” I say, pulling my plate away.
Jackson’s jaw drops. “Wow. Really ?”
Given that yesterday I barged into his house to accuse him of being a terrible person and today I showed up to tell him I
dreamed about his death, I decide that a small concession might be in order.
“Okay, but just a little,” I relent as I slide my plate back toward him.
“Totally,” he agrees before burying my pancakes under an avalanche of whipped cream.
I grab at the canister to try to salvage what’s left of my breakfast, but Jackson refuses to let go. We struggle over the
Reddi-Wip, Jackson laughing, me cursing. I can’t pry the can out of his grip, but I am able to turn it around and aim the
nozzle in a new direction—Jackson’s face.
“Oh. My. God,” he sputters, letting go of the can to wipe the thick ribbons of cream from his eyes, nose, and mouth.
Now it’s my turn to burst out laughing. Jackson is definitely going to need a second shower this morning. And even though
it’s technically his own fault for desecrating the sanctity of my breakfast, I decide to be magnanimous in victory. I set
the Reddi-Wip down on the table to fetch him some napkins—at which point I realize I’ve made a huge tactical mistake. Before
I can correct it, Jackson scoops up the canister with a devilish grin.
“ Don’t think about it,” I warn him.
Jackson nods innocently. But I can see the wheels turning in his head.
A second before he lunges at me, I bolt to the other side of the kitchen where I grab a batter-stained spatula out of the
sink and brandish it like a sword.
“Jackson, stop ,” I order.
He laughs and tosses the Reddi-Wip between his hands. “Sorry, dude. I’m gonna have to cream you.”
“You’re being a child.”
“Definitely.”
Jackson rushes me, but I’m too quick. I slip out of the kitchen, race down the hallway, and sprint out the front door. My
plan is to lock myself in my car until Jackson tires of this game. Unfortunately, I’m only halfway across the yard when I
remember that Jackson plays football. Or rather, I remember this when he tackles me from behind and slams me to the ground.
Cackling like a wild man, Jackson crawls on top of me, straddles my waist, and pins me down. He then holds the Reddi-Wip directly
over my head as I beg for mercy through gasps of laughter.
“Jackson, get off, I’m serious!!” I chortle.
“Say ah ,” he instructs, lowering the can to my face.
I close my eyes, preparing to get blasted with sticky sweetness. But before Jackson can let me have it, I hear a voice pointedly
clear its throat.
Risking a peek, I look across the expanse of Jackson’s yard to see Duy standing in their driveway. They’re holding an overflowing
blue recycle bin and staring at Jackson and me with one eyebrow arched in curiosity.
“Hey, Duy,” I say, giving him a feeble wave of embarrassment.
“Hey, Riley. Hey, Jackson. What’s going on over there?”
Looking like a naughty child who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Jackson blushes awkwardly and climbs off me.
“Just having a good old-fashioned food fight.”
“Uh-huh.” There’s a long, oddly protracted silence. Then Duy shrugs, sets the recycle bin on the curb, and heads back toward
their garage.
“See you tonight!” Jackson calls as Duy disappears inside.
“What’s tonight?” I ask, lying back on the grass, still attempting to catch my breath.
“Duy and I are gonna watch Xanadu .”
“You are?”
Jackson shrugs. “Yeah. I figured I should check it out. You know, since you and your friends are obsessed with it. You should join us.”
I’m flattered by the invitation, but my excitement is short-lived.
“I wish I could, but I’m heading out of town this afternoon. My dad and I are driving up to St. Augustine for the week to
visit my grandparents.”
“Oh. Really? That’s too bad.” To my surprise, Jackson looks as disappointed as I feel.
“Yeah. In fact, I should probably get back to my house and pack. My dad’s got to be wondering where I am.”
“Right. Sure,” Jackson says as he offers me his hand and helps me off the ground. “Well, thanks for breakfast. I hope you
and your dad have a great vacation.”
“Thanks,” I answer, brushing the grass off my jeans. “Enjoy your movie night with Duy. Although I should warn you, the music
and the idea of Xanadu are a lot better than the actual movie. You might want to lower your expectations. Like, really lower them.”
Jackson chuckles. “Thanks for the warning.”
“No problem.”
Even though our conversation is clearly over, neither of us moves to leave. Maybe it’s because we both know that when we do,
it’ll be at least a week before we see each other again. Whatever the reason, there’s only so long we can stand here in silence
before it starts to feel weird, so reluctantly I say goodbye and head for my Prius. Not that I get very far. I’ve only taken
two steps when Jackson calls my name.
Thinking I forgot something, I turn back—only to receive a face full of Reddi-Wip.
“Gotcha.”
Unable to suppress a smile, I wipe the cream from my eyes and see Jackson beaming proudly.
“Are we good now?” I ask.
Jackson considers. Then, with a grin, he runs a finger across my cheek, scoops up a dab of whipped cream, and pops it into
his mouth.
“We’re good.”