Page 26 of Don’t Let Me Go

“What’s your good side?” Duy asks, staring me down through the long black lens of their digital camera.

I have no idea how to answer them. It’s never occurred to me that my face might have a good or bad side. But as it turns out,

the question is moot.

“Ha! Kidding! As if people like you have a bad side,” Duy says as they shove their camera in my face and snap a flurry of

photos.

I swallow uncomfortably. “I thought you wanted to shoot the clothes.”

“We will. I just want to get a feel for your best angles before we start. The better I make you look, the better my clothes

will look.”

Duy keeps snapping away, and I do my best to follow their instructions, tilting my head or adjusting my posture as I pose

inside the gazebo that Duy’s selected as the backdrop for our photo shoot. Thankfully, the gazebo (as well as Duy’s entire

backyard) is surrounded by a tall red fence, so I’m not on full display to the world. Aside from Ms. Nguyen, who occasionally

peeks at us through the kitchen window, I don’t have to worry about an audience making me any more self-conscious than I already

am.

And right now, I’m pretty self-conscious.

When I agreed to model for Duy, I assumed I’d be wearing something, well, normal.

Like a T-shirt and jeans or a suit. But when I arrived an hour ago, Duy explained that they haven’t decided yet whether they want to pursue a degree in fashion design or costume design, which are apparently two different things.

Duy’s plan is to create two separate portfolios so that they can keep their options open when it’s time to start applying to colleges.

And today we’re focusing on their costume designs.

That’s why I’m dressed like some dude in one of Aunt Rachel’s Jane Austen movies. I’m talking tailcoat, waistcoat, breeches,

cravat—which are all words I’d never heard until an hour ago and which I hope I never hear again after today.

Not that the clothes aren’t incredible. Duy’s mad-talented. I’m sure my outfit would’ve been the height of fashion in “Regency

England” (whenever that was). But this is June in Florida. It’s already eighty-five degrees, and I’m in three layers of very

heavy clothing. If it gets much hotter, I’m legitimately afraid I might pass out. Again. And I really don’t want a repeat

of yesterday.

Or that dream.

“Relax your shoulders,” Duy orders. “You’ve gone stiff.”

No shit. I can feel the tension running through my neck, across my back, and down my spine. It’s been there for the past twenty-four

hours, ever since I hugged Riley goodbye and found myself more confused than ever about my feelings for him.

I barely slept last night. I just lay in bed trying to figure out what the heck was going on with me. So far, the only thing

I’ve come up with—the only thing that makes sense—is that somehow, for some reason, I’ve developed a very tiny but perfectly natural “man crush” on Riley.

That has to be it. After all, he’s been a great friend to me since I moved to Orlando. It makes sense that we’d develop a

strong brotherly connection. But that doesn’t mean that there’s something more going on between us.

It doesn’t mean that I’m—that we—

It doesn’t mean anything .

“Can you relax your face and stop grinding your teeth like an ax murderer?” Duy huffs, lowering their camera to shoot me an

exasperated glare.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “Foot cramp.”

I jump up and down for a few seconds, hoping to shake off some of this nervous energy. I used to do this whenever I got anxious

before a game, and it usually did the trick.

“Better,” Duy says, studying me through the camera lens once I’ve settled back into my pose. “Much better.”

I do actually feel better—for a second. Then I hear the screen of the back door screech open, and my shoulders stiffen even

before I see Riley stepping out of the house.

“Good, you’re finally dressed!” Duy exclaims, mercifully taking the camera out of my face and bounding over to Riley.

In his suit and topcoat, Riley could be my twin. Our costumes are almost identical—except for one crucial difference. Duy’s

put me in a navy-blue tailcoat with cream-colored pants, while Riley is decked out in head-to-foot pink.

“You look amazing !” Duy gushes.

“Thanks,” Riley answers, breaking into a sheepish smile.

“I was talking to the clothes.”

Riley shakes his head and lets out a snort of laughter. I can’t resist joining in, and for a second, all the tension leaves

my body. Then Riley notices me laughing. Our eyes lock; his green eyes stare into mine a fraction too long before he turns

away.

Things have definitely gotten weird again between us. Aside from a brief hello when we arrived this morning, Riley and I haven’t

spoken since yesterday. To be honest, I’m not even sure what to say to him.

I considered bailing on this photo shoot to avoid that particular problem, but I don’t want to start avoiding him.

For one, that’d be a shit thing to do. And for two, avoiding him would mean that my man crush is something more than a man crush.

And since it’s not, I need to stop freaking out and just be cool .

“Looking pretty swank there, Jackson,” Riley calls out, flashing me a somewhat strained smile as he and Duy make their way

over to the gazebo. “Loving the Mr. Darcy vibes.”

“The what?” I ask.

“He means you look hot,” Duy explains.

Riley’s face burns as pink as his outfit, and for a second, I think he’s gonna strangle Duy.

“Thanks.” I force myself to laugh, pretending not to notice his embarrassment. “You look good too, dude.”

And he does. In his usual outfit of distressed jeans, faded T-shirt, and scuffed Chucks, Riley has a tendency to look like

“an emaciated street urchin,” to quote something Duy said earlier. But under three layers of British formal wear, he looks

solid. Dapper. Handsome.

“Did guys really used to wear all this pink?” Riley asks as Duy fluffs his cravat.

“No. Well, actually, yes ,” Duy answers. “In the 1600s, before colors got gendered, pink was incredibly common for men. Especially rich men who didn’t

have to worry about getting dirty. It was a status symbol. But by the time the Regency period rolled around, which was about

two hundred years later, pink had become exclusively for women.”

“So why do I look like Barbie picked out my wardrobe?”

“Great question! I was thinking about what I could do to set my portfolio apart from all the other aspiring costume designers, and I thought it would be savvy to show that, yes, I can create authentic Regency menswear in my sleep—hence what Jackson is wearing— but I can also think outside the box and play with color and textiles to do a more fashion-forward, fantasy-inspired take on

Regency wear, which is what you’re wearing. Fantasy and reality. See?”

“Yeah,” Riley says, looking suitably impressed. “That’s smart.”

“I know, right? If I were any more of a genius, I’d be obsessed with myself. Now, let’s make some art!”

Riley sighs and shuffles obediently into the gazebo next to me. I try to shoot him a look of commiseration, but he avoids

my gaze, so I turn to Duy and await my instructions.

“Okay, so, for these first couple shots, I want some classic Colin Firth broodiness.”

“Uh?.?.?.?translation, please?”

“Just stand shoulder to shoulder, hands behind your back, and stare out at the camera like you’re not sure if you want to

kill it or make love to it.”

I can’t stop myself from guffawing at such insane directions. And neither can Riley. United in our awkwardness, we collapse

into a fit of giggles.

“Hey, focus!” Duy barks, impatiently stomping a foot on the ground.

“Sorry,” we both mumble, swallowing our silliness.

We then straighten up, stare out at the camera, and do our best to brood as Duy begins snapping away. Considering how much

real brooding I’ve done over the year, I’m surprised at how difficult it is to brood on command. But I glower at the camera,

trying to look sexy and bored at the same time, and it seems to work.

“That’s it, Jackson. Keep smoldering. Just relax your shoulders. Riley, chin up a bit, but keep looking down your nose at

me.”

For the next hour, Duy issues an unending stream of instructions from behind their camera, pausing only to mop the sweat off our brows or adjust a strand of hair. It gets significantly warmer as the morning wears on, but Riley doesn’t complain.

“I’m used to suffering for Duy’s art,” he quips on one of the rare boba breaks we’re allowed.

By noon, Duy has taken almost a thousand shots of us in every conceivable pose at every conceivable angle. There are shots

of Riley and me together, apart, standing back to back, sitting in the gazebo, leaning against the gazebo, staring into the

camera, gazing off into the horizon, lying on the grass, sitting under a tree, holding a book, holding a rose, and a hundred

other variations that I can’t even remember at this point because I am so damn tired .

Duy, though, isn’t satisfied.

“Some of these are okay,” they concede with a sigh as they sit under the shade of a dogwood tree, scrolling through the morning’s

photos on the camera’s viewscreen. “But I’m not sure I’ve gotten the shot.”

“What shot?” I ask, fanning myself with a book.

“ The shot,” they answer, not making things any clearer.

“I’m sure you’ve got something you can use,” Riley gripes, shooting me a sympathetic smile. If there’s an upside to being this hot and tired, it’s that

we’re both too worn out to be uncomfortable around each other. The easiness has returned between us. And as long as I don’t

think about that dream or hug, there’s no reason things can’t stay easy.

“No. This isn’t good enough,” Duy complains. “There’s not enough fantasy. Not enough romance.” Releasing a groan of frustration,

they slump over their camera in defeat. Then almost as quickly, they bolt upright as a look of inspiration flashes across

their face. “I know! Go back to the gazebo!”

Riley and I exchange a weary glance and shrug, partners in exhaustion. But we do as we’re told. We trudge back to our place under the ivy-twined arch.

“What do you want us to do now?” Riley asks.

“I want you guys to face each other, gaze into each other’s eyes, and look like you’re about to kiss.”

Despite the hot afternoon sun blazing down on us, I feel the color drain from my cheeks.

“Sorry, what?”

“Face each other, gaze into each other’s eyes, and look like you’re madly in love,” Duy repeats, completely oblivious to my

distress.

I turn to Riley, who looks equally tense, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Oh my gosh, seriously ?” Duy groans when neither of us moves. “You guys don’t have to actually kiss. Just get close to each other and look like you want to kiss.”

Riley shoots me a questioning glance that says Your call .

I’m not sure what to do. Considering how confused I’ve been since yesterday, the last thing I want to do is put myself in

a position that’s even remotely romantic.

Then again, it’s only romantic if I let it be romantic. If we can pose together like lovers or whatever, and it’s not a big deal, isn’t that proof that everything’s actually fine between us and we really are just friends ?

“What do you think?” Riley asks, his eyes unable to meet my own.

“I’m down if you’re down,” I answer.

“Great!” Duy chirps. “Now, put your arms around each other and stare into each other’s eyes like you’ve just found the love

of your life and you can’t wait to rip each other’s clothes off.”

Riley curses under his breath but takes a tentative step closer. Cautiously and clumsily, I slide my arm around his waist

and pull his body against mine.

“Is this okay?” I ask him.

He’s stiff in my arms, unsure what to do with his hands or where to look, but he nods.

“Okay, Riley, you look like you’re being molested,” Duy calls out unhelpfully. “Can you, like, try to pretend that Jackson

is hot?”

Riley reddens. I feel his chest expand against me as he forces himself to take a deep breath. Then he tilts his face upward,

and his green eyes stare into mine with such a look of longing, they take my breath away.

“Good!” Duy shouts. “That’s what I want. Keep looking at each other like that .”

I hear the click-click-click of the camera shutter, but all my attention is on Riley. My eyes drink in his face: his long black lashes, the smattering

of freckles across the bridge of his nose, his surprisingly full lips. How have I never noticed how handsome he is?

“Turn your face a bit to the left, Riley,” Duy orders. “And, Jackson, can you lean your forehead closer to Riley’s? That’s

it. Closer. Closer. Closer .”

My face is so near Riley’s that there’s scarcely an inch of space between our lips. I can feel the heat on his cheeks and

the pounding of his heart. Or maybe it’s my heat and my heart. With our bodies pressed together, it’s hard to know where Riley

stops and I begin. What I do know is that I don’t want this moment to end. Because for the first time in my life, I feel like

I’m exactly where I belong. And where I belong is with Riley.

Oh, fuck...

This isn’t a man crush, is it?

I feel my body start to panic. My legs are shaking. They’re itching to make a run for it. But at the same time, all I can

think about is Riley and what it might be like to actually kiss him. His lips are so close. I’d only have to tilt my head...

“Yes, this is amazing, guys! Keep doing what you’re doing!”

What would Riley do if I kissed him?

Would he kiss me back?

Do I want him to kiss me back?

There’s only one way to find out.

I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna kiss Riley. I’m just gonna lean forward and—

“Okay, we got it!” Duy announces triumphantly. “We got the shot!”

Before I know what’s happening, Riley slips out of my arms. He darts out of the gazebo, dashes over to the pitcher of boba,

pours himself a glass, and chugs it down like a man dying of thirst. But even when he’s done, he refuses to look in my direction.

“That was so good !” Duy gushes as they scroll through the images on the camera. “Look at these shots!”

I don’t move. I can’t move. All I can think is that I missed my chance. I missed my chance to kiss Riley, and I don’t know

if I’ll ever have another.

“That’s great. That’s great. That one’s really great,” Duy comments as they shove the camera’s viewscreen in Riley’s face. “My clothes look amazing, obviously . But you guys? You guys look so hot . I was, like, totally convinced you were going to kiss!”

I can’t see the photo, but I can see Riley’s face.

“Yeah,” he says, his expression not giving anything away. “We look good together.”

Then slowly, deliberately, he looks at me. Our eyes lock and just for a moment, neither of us looks away.