Page 18 of Don’t Let Me Go

I’m not a lawyer, but I’m pretty sure it is criminally unprofessional to be this tired. Especially as it’s only my first day

on the job here at the ACLU. I’ve already downed three cups of coffee but, despite this, it’s taking all my strength not to

lay my head on my laptop and conk out.

Thankfully, my duties so far have consisted almost entirely of filing and photocopying, and not (for example) arguing a case

in front of the Supreme Court that could determine the future of civil liberties. Still, I feel incredibly guilty. I might

not want to devote the rest of my life to the law, but, per Jackson’s plan, I do want to give this internship a fair chance.

Unfortunately, it seems that I also want to stay up until three every night texting with Jackson. That’s how I spent my entire

week of vacation in St. Augustine—chatting with Jackson all night, then drowsing by the condo pool all day.

I should’ve forced myself to go to bed early when I got back to Orlando yesterday, but once again, I couldn’t stop myself

from texting until dawn. Which is why I’m currently yawning so hard that I almost unhook my jaw.

“Someone needs some coffee,” Dad observes dryly as he looks up from his desk on the other side of the office. “Why don’t you

grab a cup from the break room and stretch your legs? I think Charmaine brought doughnuts if you need some sugar.”

I have no idea who Charmaine is. I’m sure I met her during my tour of the office this morning, but right now, I’m way too tired to put a face with a name.

I also doubt a fourth cup of coffee will help if the already dangerous levels of caffeine coursing through my veins aren’t doing the job, but I’ve got to try something.

“Good idea,” I say, setting aside my laptop and rising from the (far too comfortable) sofa that I’ve been working from. “You

want me to grab you anything?”

“Maybe a jelly if there are any left?”

I stop in the doorway and stare at him in incomprehension. “You want a jelly coffee?”

Dad blinks in confusion. “No, Riley. A doughnut. I want a jelly doughnut.”

Yikes . I must be more exhausted than I thought. There is no way my brain is this dumb.

“I know,” I say, covering with a forced laugh. “I was joking.” Then I hurry out of the office before Dad can call bullshit

on such an obvious lie.

I can’t keep up these all-night texting sessions with Jackson. I’ve got to start going to bed at a reasonable hour. Though if the last week is any indication of my self-control, that’ll be easier

said than done.

Over the past few days, Jackson and I have progressed from swapping memes and TikToks to swapping stories about our lives,

which is proving just as—if not more—entertaining. Not to mention informative. Seriously, I now know so much about Jackson

Haines, I could write his biography.

I know that when he was six, he was terrified of the Tooth Fairy and slept with a baseball bat under his bed to defend his

teeth.

I know that when he was ten, he discovered that girls really wanted to kiss him, so at recess he started charging them a dollar

per smooch.

I know that freshman year, he won first prize at his school’s Halloween carnival by dressing up in his mom’s old pageant gown and tiara.

Every story that he tells me makes me want to learn more about him. And the more he opens up about his life, the more I want

to open up about mine.

Already I’ve told him about my mom leaving when I was six, about the half sisters I’ve never met, about coming out to my dad

at twelve and the mortifying STI lecture he gave me with visual aids .

I’m honestly shocked at how much I’ve told him. I’ve never really been one to talk about myself. My life has always struck

me as too messy or sad or boring to share with anyone. But with Jackson, I don’t feel that way. He doesn’t make my life or

me feel small or pointless. Just the opposite, in fact. He makes me feel interesting and important. It’s actually quite intoxicating.

I haven’t had someone show this much interest in me since I dated Alex Vargas.

Not that you could call what Alex and I did dating . Alex certainly didn’t.

He was a junior when I was a freshman. He was tall, brooding, and (more important) deeply in the closet. During the day, he kept his distance from me at school. He never wanted to hang out in public or be seen in

the same room with me.

At night, though, it was a different story.

At night, Alex could be sweet and flirty, especially over the phone. We would text until dawn, and for a while our mutual

obsession with each other seemed almost magical. I even managed to convince myself that we were in a sexy Romeo and Juliet –style situation where no one could be allowed to discover our “forbidden love.” It made all the sneaking around seem exciting

and fun instead of what it actually was: pathetic.

We might have gone on like that all year, with Alex ignoring me by day and hooking up with me by night. But one day, in the parking lot after school, some of the guys from the Thunderbolts started harassing me about my hair, which I’d dyed pink for Halloween.

Alex came out of the building and saw what was happening. But instead of coming to my defense or trying to extricate me from

the situation, he kept on walking. Just got in his car and left me to fend for myself against six guys who were twice my size.

Thankfully, Audrey came to my rescue. She scared off the Thunderbolts with some devastating put-downs, and we’ve been best

friends ever since.

Alex, meanwhile, dumped me.

According to the text he sent me later that night, I wasn’t “discreet” enough. Apparently, me almost getting my ass kicked

by half the school’s homophobic football team was my own fault. I was “asking for it.” And since I clearly didn’t care how

my actions affected him , Alex decided it was best that we no longer had anything to do with each other.

In hindsight, I know that getting dumped was a blessing in disguise. A guy who cared so little about me that he’d leave me

in a potentially dangerous situation without a backward glance is definitely not boyfriend material.

At the time, though, getting dumped like that really fucking hurt. Alex was my first (almost) boyfriend. And those nights

we spent texting each other until the sun came up had been some of the happiest weeks of my life.

I’d almost forgotten how happy it made me to share my life with someone until Jackson came along.

Not that the situation with Jackson is anything like the situation with Alex.

Jackson’s not my secret boyfriend. Obviously . He’s not texting me for hours every night because he’s got a crush on me and hopes to get in my pants.

And I don’t want to get in his! Because I don’t crush on straight boys. And Jackson is straight.

Straight and bored.

Straight and bored and lonely.

Seriously, as amazing as getting to know Jackson has been, I’m not fooling myself that our time together is anything other

than a summer friendship of convenience. Once school starts in the fall and he makes a bunch of new friends in the popular

crowd, I’m sure he’ll find someone else to share his favorite cat videos with.

Probably some annoyingly pretty cheerleader who’s just like his ex-girlfriend.

Which is fine! Obviously. He’s allowed to have a girlfriend.

Like I said, Jackson’s not Alex. Jackson and I are not a couple. We’re just friends.

I mean, do we have amazing chemistry and a surprisingly strong connection? Sure.

Do I find myself occasionally thinking about him and replaying the R-rated parts of that incredibly steamy dream where we

pledged our undying devotion to each other? Guilty.

Has this past week been one of the best weeks of my life in a long, long time, and does the thought of having more weeks with someone as funny and thoughtful and handsome as Jackson make the world

seem like an infinitely less shitty place to live in? Absolutely.

But all that just means...

It means...

Oh, fuck.

I have a crush on Jackson.