Page 20 of Don’t Let Me Go

Jackson looks like a deer in headlights. Then again, I’m pretty sure I looked the same way the first time I stepped foot in

a gay bar. I probably should’ve given him a heads-up that we were coming to Heartbeats. But truthfully, I wanted to see his

honest reaction.

Ever since my realization that my crush on Jackson has morphed from the superficially physical to the full-on emotional, I’ve

been trying to think of a way to cure myself of the attraction. I’ve kept our texting to a minimum and refused to think about

the steamier and more romantic moments from my two dreams, but it hasn’t been enough. So when Audrey suggested an afternoon

of drag-queen karaoke, it occurred to me that this could prove the perfect opportunity to get over my feelings for Jackson.

I figured if we took him to Heartbeats without any advance warning, then his inner dude-bro might emerge, and he might freak

out and refuse to go inside, which would be super-shitty and cause me to lose all respect for him, but it would provide me

with the much-needed reminder that Jackson isn’t queer.

“Are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” he asks, gaping nervously at the brightly clad, big-bewigged drag queens like they’re

creatures from another planet, as we wind our way through the Saturday-brunch crowd.

“Why wouldn’t you be allowed here?” I ask.

“I don’t know. ’Cause I’m straight?”

“Straight people are allowed in gay bars,” Audrey explains with a groan as we slide into a U-shaped booth near the stage.

She’s been warming up to Jackson ever since Rink-O-Rama, but her patience for hetero-nonsense goes only so far.

“It’s straight people who like to exclude queer people from things—like bathrooms and civil rights—not the other way around. ”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry,” Jackson says, looking suitably chastised.

“For the record, I wanted to tell you where we were going,” Tala confides, shooting him a sympathetic smile. “I was outvoted.”

“I thought the surprise would be fun,” I lie.

“No, it’s cool,” Jackson says, casting another nervous glance around the room. “First time for everything, right?”

Despite my hope that the bar would freak him out and make him unworthy of my crush, I can’t help being relieved to see Jackson

so open to the experience. Then again, I should’ve known he would be. He’s been nothing but totally accepting of my friends

and me since the day we met. And Heartbeats isn’t exactly Sodom and Gomorrah.

At night, the club models itself after a romantic speakeasy. They keep the lighting low, and patrons have to be over twenty-one

to get in. During the day, though, anyone is welcome, and the place takes on a more casual diner vibe. In fact, on a morning

like today, there’s actually very little to alert a random passerby that this is a queer establishment. Except, of course,

for all the drag queens.

“So?.?.?.?we’re here to watch drag queens sing karaoke?” Jackson asks after our bouffant-coiffed server takes our food order.

“No, the drag queens work the bar and host the show,” I clarify. “Sometimes one of them will do a number. But for the most

part, they’re here to encourage other people to get up and sing.”

“Or discourage people if they don’t happen to approve of your song choice or if you’re a little off-key,” Duy grumbles, no doubt recalling the time they made the mistake of attempting to perform opera. “There are some very judgy queens in this room.”

“The roasting is all in good fun,” I assure Jackson. “Mostly. Except when it’s devastating.”

“I’m gonna sign up for a slot,” Audrey announces, scooting out of the booth. “Riley, I’ll put you down to go after me? Your

usual?”

“Sounds good.”

“Jackson?”

Jackson’s eyes go wide with panic. “Me?”

“Yeah,” Audrey says. “Do you want to sing something?”

“No. God— no .”

His horror is so palpable, it makes the entire table laugh.

“It’s all right,” Tala assures him. “You don’t have to. Duy and I never sing.”

“Not anymore,” Duy mumbles.

Jackson exhales in relief, looking like a man who was just pardoned from death row.

“I take it you’re not a fan of karaoke?” I ask as Audrey heads off to add our names to the sign-up sheet.

“Not really. I went once with Micaela for her birthday. Did not go well.”

“Ooh, tell us everything,” Duy demands, leaning forward in excitement.

Jackson lets out an embarrassed laugh. “So, have you guys ever seen one of those cheesy rom-coms where someone goes to a karaoke

bar and at first they’re really stiff and awkward but then magically, after thirty seconds, they somehow get confident, and

by the end of the song, the whole room is cheering for them and singing along?”

We collectively nod.

“Right, so picture that. Except in my case, I started off bad and then somehow managed to get worse until some guy who worked at the bar came up onto the stage and took my mic away.”

Tala’s jaw drops. “They can do that?”

“Apparently, if you’re bad enough, yeah.”

“No way,” I say, trying to stifle my laughter. “You’re making that up.”

Jackson shrugs, which makes me laugh even harder. If my plan was to convince myself to like him less , it’s so far a total failure.

“I’m glad my pain and humiliation is so amusing,” Jackson teases, playfully ramming his shoulder into mine. “I take it you’re

some sort of musical prodigy?”

“Me? No,” I protest. “I like singing, but Audrey’s the one with the voice. We all tell her she’s going to be famous someday.”

“Yes, my girlfriend is incredibly talented,” Tala boasts. “But Riley here is also talented, whether he chooses to believe it or not.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “I can carry a tune.”

“Come on,” Tala insists, “you’re literally the only person Audrey has ever deigned to duet with. And she doesn’t like to share

the stage with anyone.”

“Audrey likes singing with me because she knows I won’t question her artistic choices or steal the spotlight.”

“Oh my God, your low self-esteem is so boring .” Duy groans. “Can we please talk about something more interesting?”

“Sure.” I laugh, relieved to have the focus diverted from me and my supposed singing talents. As much as I appreciate Tala’s

words of encouragement, praise makes me uncomfortable. I’d almost rather be insulted so I can get offended and tell someone

off than receive a compliment that I don’t think I’ll be able to live up to.

“Okay, so, very important question,” Duy announces, looking across the booth at Jackson and me. “Do either of you have any

plans tomorrow?”

Jackson and I shake our heads.

“Awesome. I need you both to come over and model for my portfolio.”

Jackson furrows his brow in confusion.

“Don’t worry,” Duy insists. “It’ll be super-fun.”

I roll my eyes at this whopper of a falsehood. “Allow me to translate what Duy means by ‘fun,’?” I say. “They want us to come

over and stand in the hot sun for six hours wearing whatever elaborate outfits they’ve concocted while they sit in the shade

with an ice-cold pitcher of boba taking seven thousand photos and yelling at us to, ‘Look better!’?”

Jackson chuckles as if he thinks I’m exaggerating, but I know whereof I speak. One of the few perks of being as thin as I

am is that most clothes look good on me, so over the years I’ve helped Duy build up their fashion portfolio for colleges by

modeling some of the outfits they’ve designed.

The last time I volunteered, though, I almost got heatstroke, and I vowed never to do it again. Duy’s one of my best friends

and one of the most talented people I know, but when it comes to their clothes and getting the exact right shot, they can

be an infuriating perfectionist.

“Ha! Riley’s such a kidder !” Duy laughs in an attempt to brush aside my all-too-accurate criticism. “It’s actually a lot of fun. And the pitcher of boba is for everyone. You just can’t have any while you’re wearing the clothes.”

“So you just need me to model some clothes while you take my picture?” Jackson asks.

“Exactly.”

“I don’t have to get naked or anything, do I?”

At the thought of Jackson in nothing but his birthday suit, I feel my face flush. I immediately try to block out the image.

Though if my dreams are accurate, I’ve already seen plenty .

“Oh my gosh, of course not!” Duy laughs. “This shoot is about how good people look in my clothes. Not how good you’d look without any.”

Now it’s Jackson’s turn to blush. “Just checking,” he mumbles. “I guess I’m in if Riley’s in.”

Duy turns and flashes me a wide but pointed smile that makes it clear that I better not screw this up for them. Models like

Jackson don’t come along every day.

“Sure,” I sigh. “I’m in.”

“Yay!” Duy squeals. “This is going to be so much fun! You’re going to love the outfits. Just don’t eat anything for the next twenty-four hours. The camera adds ten pounds.”

“Duy!” Tala whispers, shooting them a warning look that I can only assume means Maybe don’t tell your friend who once had an eating disorder not to eat.

“Kidding!” Duy exclaims, turning slightly pink. “Everyone looks great. No one needs to worry about their figure. All bodies

are beautiful!”

I shake my head and let out an annoyed snort, which I instantly regret when Jackson clocks it.

“Am I missing something?” he asks.

Of all the things we’ve discussed during our late-night texting sessions, my (very) brief flirtation with anorexia is not

one of them, and I plan to keep it that way. I already have my dad and my friends playing Food Police; I don’t need Jackson

worrying about my weight or giving me concerned looks anytime I happen to skip a meal.

Thankfully, Tala notices my discomfort and deftly changes the subject. “Speaking of beautiful bodies, isn’t that the boy from

Rink-O-Rama that you were flirting with?”

Duy sits up ramrod-straight and instinctively smooths down their hair. “Where?”

“Over by the bar.”

Duy covertly looks over their shoulder and gasps. “Oh my God, it’s Caleb!”

“Who’s Caleb?” Jackson asks.