Page 19 of Don’t Let Me Go

“Are you even watching this movie?” my aunt asks with an exasperated huff.

I look up from my phone and see her staring at me from the other end of the couch, her arms folded across her chest and an

amused smirk on her face. When we were cleaning up after dinner, she asked if I wanted to watch a movie since it was Friday

night and neither of us had any plans. I suggested the latest Zack Snyder zombie thriller, and Aunt Rachel agreed to give

it a try, even though she’s not a fan of horror or gore.

“I’m watching,” I tell her, somewhat confused by her question and tone.

Aunt Rachel’s left eyebrow arches so high, she looks like the suspicion emoji. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the last thing that happened?”

I turn to the TV to refresh my memory, but Aunt Rachel has paused the film at a point where the entire screen is black. I

try to remember what was going on with the zombies, but that proves more difficult than it should. I really was paying attention. At least, at first. But a couple of minutes into the movie, Riley texted me, and I suppose I got distracted.

But that’s only because Riley’s been acting so weird lately.

Ever since he got back from St. Augustine, he’s been insanely slow to respond to my texts.

Like molasses in winter slow. And when he does respond, his answers are always short and blunt.

Without any warning, we went from texting nonstop every night to texting only a handful of times during the day.

I was starting to get nervous again that I’d said or done something to offend him, but earlier tonight, a few minutes into the movie, he texted me to say that he and his friends have plans to go somewhere “really cool” tomorrow and asked if I wanted to tag along.

I’ve been pumping him for details, more to make sure he’s not mad at me than because of any real curiosity, but he’s being

surprisingly cagey. He keeps insisting that if he tells me, I won’t come, and I keep telling him that I’m so bored, I’m down

for anything. Even so, he won’t give me a hint, so I’ve been trying to bribe/cajole/weasel some clues out of him. Which is

why I haven’t necessarily been giving this zombie flick my undivided attention.

“Well?” Aunt Rachel asks, still waiting for my answer.

“The last thing that happened was the zombie attack on the Empire State Building,” I tell her. I know that was early in the

film, but I don’t think anything important has happened since then.

“The attack on the Empire State Building?” she repeats, her poker face giving nothing away. “Interesting. Is that your final

answer?”

“Yep. Final answer.”

Aunt Rachel reaches for the remote and hits play. There’s a swell of orchestral music, and the movie’s end credits roll.

Holy crap . I missed the entire movie.

I turn back to my aunt, expecting her to look annoyed that I made her sit through a two-and-a-half-hour gorefest when she’d

wanted to watch the new Pride and Prejudice remake. But she just grins a smug little grin.

“ So ...” she coos. “Who’s the girl?”

My cheeks flush with heat. “What?”

“Jackson, you’ve been texting nonstop for two hours, and you haven’t stopped smiling once .”

“I’m texting a friend,” I protest.

“Ooh, a friend .”

“A boy friend,” I clarify, then immediately realize what I said. “Not a boyfriend . A boy friend . Fuck. A friend who’s a boy. Riley. One of the guys I went with to the carnival and Rink-O-Rama. You know, Duy’s friend.”

Aunt Rachel looks momentarily thrown. “Oh. Huh. Okay.”

“He’s been going through some personal stuff, trying to figure out what he wants to do with his life,” I hear myself explain

in a voice that’s oddly defensive. “I’ve been helping him out.”

I’m not sure why I feel the need to volunteer that information or justify my friendship with Riley. It’s not like we’re doing

anything wrong. Aunt Rachel’s the one who misread the situation and made it weird.

“Riley, huh? Well, that’s great, kiddo!” Her face breaks into a delighted smile. “You’ve made a friend. I’m proud of you.”

Aunt Rachel squeezes my knee, and the heat of my cheeks burns twice as hard. Eight-year-olds get complimented on their ability

to make friends. I’m almost eighteen. Is the bar really so low for me that my family is now proud when I display basic social

skills?

“Okay, you’re being weird,” I say just as my phone buzzes with an incoming text. “I’m gonna need you to stop.”

“I’m not being weird. I’m excited. You very wisely took my advice about making friends, and it’s clearly improved your life.”

My phone buzzes again, and Aunt Rachel’s smile grows ever smugger.

I roll my eyes and hop off the sofa. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay, kiddo. Have a good night,” she trills in a singsong tone as my phone buzzes for a third time. “Tell Riley good night

for me!”

I don’t bother to dignify the remark with a response. Instead, I head to my room, shut the door, and flop down onto my bed,

where I see that my last three messages aren’t, in fact, from Riley. They’re from Micaela.

MICAELA: Crushed the first week of cheer camp.

MICAELA: Pretty sure I’ve been elected their new queen.

The third text is a photo of a football field covered in a sea of mostly preteen girls and pom-poms. At the very center is

Micaela. She’s flashing that thousand-megawatt smile that makes her stand out in any crowd.

I can’t help smiling back at her photo. And her texts. Despite the awkwardness of our last exchange (not to mention the awkwardness

of the past six months), Micaela seems determined to be a part of my life. That means a lot.

Congratulations, Your Majesty , I text, trying to keep things breezy so I don’t screw up and hurt her feelings like I did last time. Will you be using your new powers for good or for evil?

MICAELA: For good, of course. The Kingdom of Cheer is a joyous and beneficent place.

JACKSON: As long as you always get your way?

MICAELA: Let’s just say it will behoove my people to keep their queen happy.

JACKSON: Good to know.

MICAELA: So how are you? Do anything exciting this week?

JACKSON: Not really. Watched movies with Aunt Rachel. Looked for a job. Went roller-skating.

MICAELA: Skating? Like, around your neighborhood?

JACKSON: No. At this place called Rink-O-Rama. They had an eighties night. It was a whole thing.

MICAELA: You are literally blowing my mind right now.

JACKSON: I think there’s an emoji for that.

MICAELA: For real? Skating? In public? Who are you?

JACKSON: I’m going with Jackson 2.0.

MICAELA: Ha! Does Jackson 2.0 have any pics?

I actually have an amazing photo of Riley and me at the rink.

We’re standing between some blue fluorescent bulbs, so the lighting is dramatic but also flattering.

We look like we’re members of a boy band posing for our album cover.

If I hadn’t deleted all my social media, I’d definitely make it my profile pic.

Sending now , I text Micaela.

I start to attach the photo, but before I hit send, something stops me.

It’s my smile. Looking at the photo, I can sort of see what my aunt meant earlier. For the first time in a long time, I look

happy. Really, really happy.

Maybe too happy?

It’s possible I’m overthinking things, but if Micaela had moved halfway across the state because she needed “space” and “a

new start,” I’m not sure I’d want to see a photo of her looking ridiculously happy with another guy.

Not that this photo of Riley and me is anything like that. He’s a friend.

All the same, I don’t want Micaela to think I replaced her overnight with a new set of friends or that I’m rubbing my newfound

happiness in her face. Especially since I’m the reason she was unhappy for so long.

I’m waiting , she texts.

I can’t risk hurting Micaela’s feelings again. Not when things finally seem to be getting back to normal between us. Which

means there’s only one thing to do. Using the photo editor on my phone, I crop Riley out of the picture and send her the shot

of just me.

She writes back immediately.

MICAELA: Wow, looks like Jackson 2.0 is having a lot of fun.

JACKSON: He is. Though Jackson 2.0 is not a good skater.

MICAELA: Aww. Don’t worry. The next time I’m in Orlando, I’ll give you some lessons.

JACKSON: You’re on.

Based on Micaela’s reaction, it’s safe to say that cutting Riley out of the picture was definitely the smart thing to do, and I’m momentarily flooded with relief. But as I stare at the cropped image on my phone, I can’t help feeling something else. Something that feels a lot like guilt.

Which is weird. Because I did the right thing, didn’t I? I protected Micaela from getting hurt.

So why do I feel like shit?