Page 27 of Don’t Let Me Go

I need two things right now: to get as far away from Jackson as humanly possible and a shower. My body is drenched in sweat

from being baked under the sun all morning. God knows what I must smell like under all the suffocating layers of this costume.

Actually, I don’t need to guess. As I make my way to Duy’s bedroom to change, I catch a whiff of myself and cringe.

I’m ripe .

How did I not notice the smell earlier? How did Jackson not notice? We were standing so close together in that gazebo, we

were practically sharing the same skin.

Then again, Jackson was sweating just as much as I was, and I don’t remember him smelling too bad. I don’t actually remember

much of anything, if I’m honest. Except how much I wanted him to kiss me.

Why did I agree to this stupid photo shoot?

Seriously, if I was trying to get my feelings for Jackson under control, I couldn’t have picked a more self-sabotaging way

to spend the day. I might as well have asked him to go skinny-dipping or mud wrestling. I was five seconds away from losing

what’s left of my self-control and sucking his goddamn face off. And if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that Jackson felt

the same.

Only I do know better. Which is why I need to change and get the hell out of this house before I do something I’ll regret—like

throw myself at Jackson and ruin our friendship forever .

I slip into Duy’s bedroom and shut the door behind me, relieved to be alone at last. I then strip off the heavy layers of my pink prison and toss them to the floor.

The air-conditioning feels so refreshing against my skin that for a full minute, I just stand in my underwear, letting my body breathe in freedom.

Then I hear the bedroom door open behind me, and my heart starts to race.

In my feverish state, I’m just delusional enough to think that I’m right about Jackson’s attraction and that he’s followed

me here to Duy’s bedroom to give me what we’ve both been craving.

But Jackson simply walks over to his pile of clothes and starts to change.

“Man, who knew modeling was such hard work?” he asks with a strained laugh as he peels off his topcoat.

“I’m pretty sure I warned you,” I force myself to answer.

“Yeah,” he concedes. “You did.”

Jackson strips down to his underwear, and it takes all my strength not to stare at that stupid body of his that I want to

cover in honey and then lick clean with my tongue. I consider grabbing my clothes and changing in Duy’s bathroom. But that

would practically be announcing to Jackson that I can’t trust myself to be alone with him. Which, to be clear, I can’t . But he doesn’t need to know that.

“So, um?.?.?.?you got any plans this afternoon?” he asks, mercifully slipping on his cargo shorts so I’m no longer tempted

to stare at the all too prominent bulge in his underwear.

“Nope,” I squeak, zipping up my jeans.

“Do you maybe want to come over and?.?.?.?hang out?”

My heart stops. I don’t know why this question feels so loaded, but it sucks the air out of the room. It’s as if, instead

of inviting me over to watch a movie or play video games, he’s inviting me over for something else. Something?.?.?.? more .

But that’s absurd, right?

The very fact that I think more is even an option is proof of how out of touch I am with reality and how out of control my feelings have gotten. I need to go home. I am going home. Right now.

But then I catch a glimpse of Jackson’s abs before they disappear under his shirt, and all that comes out of my mouth is “Sure,

I’d love to.”

Jackson’s aunt isn’t home when we get there. Apparently she’s hitting up the farmers’ market over in Winter Park, which means

we have the entire house to ourselves. This fact alone is enough to bring on a full-blown panic attack. But when it looks

like Jackson is about to lead us to his bedroom, I swear I feel my heart stop.

Thankfully, he seems to reconsider, and instead he deposits me on the living-room sofa before heading to the kitchen to fetch

us some water.

“Are you hungry?” he asks when he returns and hands me my glass. “Do you want to order something for lunch?”

“I’m good. Just dehydrated.”

“For real,” Jackson chuckles as he plops down beside me. “I think I sweated off twenty pounds today.”

Then he polishes off his glass of water in one long, seamless chug that leaves me thirstier than ever. I can scarcely bear

to look at him. I’m about ten seconds away from throwing myself into his arms.

But then?.?.?.?maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world?

I know I’ve been trying (albeit very ineffectively) to put some emotional and physical distance between us, but that’s because

I’ve been operating under the assumption that Jackson likes me only as a friend. But if he likes me as something more—and

based on some of the looks he was giving me during our photo shoot, I can’t help thinking he does—then maybe it’s okay if

something more happens.

But what if more happens, and Jackson doesn’t like it? What if I’m just an experiment to him? An itch that he only thinks he wants to scratch but that he’ll actually regret if he does? He wouldn’t be the first curious person to make that mistake.

What if he freaks out afterward? Or ends up hating me? What if I hate him?

“Are you okay?” Jackson asks, the concern in his voice pulling me back to the present. “You seem kind of distracted.”

I sip my water so I have an excuse not to look at his face. “I’m fine. I was just wondering if we should invite the others

over.”

“Oh.” Maybe it’s my imagination, but does Jackson sound disappointed?

“I think Duy said they were going to a movie this afternoon,” he adds. “With that Caleb guy.”

“Oh, right.” Duy did tell us that.

“But if you want to invite Audrey and Tala over, that’s cool.”

“I’ll just see what they’re up to,” I say, quickly pulling my phone out of my pocket. I need a buffer. Or a chaperone. Someone

to keep me from making a fool of myself.

I open my texts, but before I can start typing, I notice I have a message waiting for me.

ALEX: Hey again. Guessing you didn’t write back because you’re still angry with me. I don’t blame you. But I’d still like the chance

to apologize. To be clear, you don’t have to accept my apology. You can spit in my face and tell me to fuck off when I’m done.

But I’d really appreciate the opportunity to give you the apology you deserve. Is there any chance we can meet up?

“Jesus Christ,” I groan as I toss my phone aside in disgust.

“Is everything all right?” Jackson asks.

I shake my head and let out an exasperated snort. “This guy that I used to date keeps texting me. He’s in town and wants to

meet up so he can apologize for being such a shitty-ass boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Jackson blinks. “Are you gonna see him?”

Again, maybe it’s my imagination, but does Jackson sound jealous?

“No, I am definitely not going to see him.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t believe in second chances.”

Jackson flinches like I’ve hit him. I’m not sure why until I realize what I’ve said.

“I didn’t mean that,” I backtrack. “Of course I believe in second chances. But even if I didn’t, my situation with Alex is

completely different from your situation with Devon. Those are two totally different scenarios. Alex was a shitty person who

did shitty things. You’re a good person who made a mistake and owned it.”

Jackson nods but doesn’t look convinced.

I wish I could take back my words. I hate that I’ve let my bitterness toward Alex hurt Jackson. I guess this is why literally

every therapist in the world says it’s not healthy to hold on to resentment.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Don’t be,” Jackson says, rallying slightly and forcing a smile. “You’re allowed to be mad at this Alex guy. Especially if

he hurt you.”

“He did. But he hurt me because he was scared. He didn’t want anyone to know he was gay and that fear really messed him up.

I know I should forgive him, but dating Alex kind of kicked off the worst year of my life. And part of me wonders if a lot

of the shit that I went through could’ve been avoided if I’d just never met him.”

“What shit?” Jackson asks, his eyes narrowing in concern.

Crap . I was really hoping to avoid this conversation. It’s never much fun introducing new people to your old trauma. But after

my “I don’t believe in second chances” comment, I feel like I owe Jackson the truth. Besides, if I’m worried about any lingering

sexual tension between us, a trip down memory lane to the worst year of my life seems like a surefire way to kill the mood.

“This is going to sound way more dramatic than it was,” I say, hoping to play down what I’m about to tell him. “But basically, after Alex dumped me, I kind of got depressed and stopped eating for a bit, and I wound up in the hospital.”

As I expected, Jackson looks horrified by my announcement. “Shit, Riley. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I insist, hating the pity in his voice. “ I’m fine. This was almost three years ago. I’m okay now. It’s not a big deal. It’s just something that happened.”

Jackson nods. “You must have really liked this Alex guy.”

“I guess I did,” I concede with a shrug. “But if I’m being honest, the whole not-eating thing wasn’t entirely his fault. There

were other factors. I was being bullied at school. The teachers weren’t really doing anything to stop it. And Florida had

just passed yet another fucking awful anti-gay law that was bringing all the homophobes out of the woodwork. Basically, there

were a lot of crappy things happening in my life at the exact same time, and Alex was just the final straw.”

“So you stopped eating?”

“My therapist at the time told me that when people feel like they don’t have a lot of control over their lives, they try to

take back control by imposing a sense of order. And one of the ways that some people do that is by deciding not to eat. I

know it doesn’t seem like that makes sense, but by refusing to eat, you kind of feel like you’re in charge of your body.

“You might not be able to control anything else in your life—like which of your classmates is going to call you a faggot on any given day or which of your rights the government is going to take away—but you can control what you eat. You can control your weight. You can control how much of you actually exists in the world. It’s not healthy—obviously—and you absolutely shouldn’t do it.

But it does make you feel like you have a certain amount of control over your life.

Like you’re not just spiraling through chaos. And sometimes you need that.”

Jackson doesn’t say anything. Instead, he runs his eyes over my body, and I can tell he’s asking himself the same question

that my dad and my friends have asked themselves every day for the past two and a half years.

“I don’t have a problem anymore,” I tell him, answering his unspoken question. “I’m just thin.”

“I know,” he protests, attempting an unconvincing smile.

“Really, Jackson, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“Maybe I like worrying about you.”

He says it with a slight laugh, but his eyes aren’t joking. I’m about to ask what he means when his face clouds over. “What

I mean is, if you were feeling stressed or like your life was out of control again because of something—or someone—you’d tell

me, right?”

Something or someone ?

“Alex isn’t stressing me out,” I assure him.

“I didn’t mean Alex.” He swallows. “I mean me.”

For the second time today, it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room.

“Why would you be stressing me out?” I ask.

Jackson opens his mouth to say something but stops himself. He stares down at his hands and shakes his head like he’s debating

whether to answer. Finally, after a deep breath, he looks at me and says, “You’ve been a really good friend to me since I

moved here. Hell, you might be one of the best friends I’ve ever had. I know that’s a weird thing to say. We only met, like,

two weeks ago but—”

“I feel the same,” I tell him, unable to stop myself.

Jackson looks surprised, then relieved. Like I’ve just lifted a huge weight off his shoulders. But his relief is fleeting. After a few seconds his eyes lose their confidence and his face darkens.

“That’s?.?.?.?good to know. But what I’m trying to say is?.?.?.?if we’re friends, the last thing I’d ever want to do is stress

you out or make you feel bad about yourself, you know? I don’t?.?.?.?I don’t want to hurt you.”

I’m not sure what’s prompting Jackson’s concern about his behavior toward me or why it’s coming out now, but I hate seeing

him so distraught.

“I know that,” I assure him. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Not intentionally, no. But Duy told me you have a hard time trusting people and letting them in, and I’m worried that I might?.?.?.?do

something that would make you regret being my friend. And I don’t want to screw you up or make you think that you can’t trust

people just because I don’t have my shit together or know what I want.”

What he wants? Does that mean me?

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head in frustration. “I know I’m not making any sense. I just—I don’t want to be another Alex.

I don’t want to be another shitty thing that happens to you and causes you to have another worst year of your life. I want

to be one of the good things—one of the best things. Because?.?.?.?because that’s what you are to me. You’re one of the best

things in my life, Riley. And I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you .”

Jackson looks at me, his face a roiling mixture of sincerity and confusion, and I have no idea what to say. What can you say

to someone who tells you that you’re one of the best things in their life? There aren’t words.

But maybe the time for words is over.

I reach out and take Jackson’s hand in mine. Much to my relief, he doesn’t pull away. He just looks at me, his eyes full of tenderness and something else. Something that I feel welling up inside myself. Something that I’m pretty sure is longing.

I bring my face closer to his until our lips are only a breath apart. With a tilt of my head, I start to close that distance

when, without warning, the front door swings open.

“Oh, hello!” Jackson’s aunt exclaims. She’s standing at the front door, her arms straining under the weight of half a dozen

canvas grocery bags. “I didn’t know anyone was home.”

“Hello,” I squeak, my voice barely a whisper.

I wait for Jackson to say something. Anything. But the color’s drained from his cheeks. He stares at the floor, unable to

look at me, his face an unmistakable portrait of shame. And I know with every fiber of my being that I have truly and irrevocably

fucked up.

“I have to go,” I mumble, rushing toward the door.

Jackson doesn’t stop me.

He doesn’t say a word.