Page 32 of Don’t Let Me Go

“Okay, enough ,” Aunt Rachel announces, yanking back the curtains and flooding my room with blinding light. I pull my sheets over my head

to block out the morning sun, but my aunt stomps over to my bed and whips them back.

“Get up. We’re having breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry,” I grumble.

“Too bad. You’ve been moping in this room for almost a week, and I’m sick of it. Get your butt out of bed now .”

“I’m in my underwear.”

Aunt Rachel folds her arms across her chest. “Jackson, either you get up and join me in the kitchen where we can talk about

whatever’s turned you into this reclusive, lethargic slug while we enjoy some delicious Belgian waffles and fresh-squeezed orange juice that I’ve spent all morning preparing or I can call your parents and you can tell them what’s going on. Your choice, kiddo.”

Aunt Rachel pulls out her phone and waits for my decision.

“Fine,” I groan. “I’ll get up.”

“Good. Get dressed and I’ll see you in the kitchen in five minutes. Or else .”

Aunt Rachel leaves, and I grudgingly pull on a pair of rumpled cargo shorts and an old T-shirt.

After days of barely leaving my bed, I feel like a zombie.

But I force myself to trudge to the kitchen, where I find my aunt sitting at the table next to a pot of steaming coffee.

She slides two waffles covered in sliced strawberries off a decorative serving platter and onto a plate that she sets in front of me, then pours some coffee into my mug.

“Sit. Eat.”

The aroma of fresh coffee and waffles makes my stomach growl, and for the first time in days, I realize I’m famished. I sit

down across from my aunt and tuck into my breakfast. Before I know it, I’ve cleaned my plate.

“Nice to know my cooking is appreciated,” Aunt Rachel says as she dishes out seconds. “Now, let’s talk.”

I set down my fork and stare at my plate as my appetite vanishes.

“You’ve been sullen, moody, and, frankly, a real buzzkill for the past week. So talk to me, kiddo. What’s going on?”

I shake my head, unsure where to begin. Do I start with the fact that I almost kissed Riley? Or do I start with that batshit-crazy

dream I had immediately after, the one that left me so freaked out, I haven’t wanted to leave my room all week? The one I

can’t stop thinking about no matter how hard I try?

And not because of the sex. If it had been only a sex dream, I think I could’ve handled that. It would’ve been weird, for

sure, but at least it would have been a pretty clear message from my subconscious about what I want. But it wasn’t only a

sex dream. It was a sex dream that ended with Riley and me being blown up.

By Nazis .

What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Is my brain trying to tell me that if I have a relationship with Riley, I’ll

blow up both our lives? Is it a warning?

But if that’s the case, why did my brain dream about us having sex in the first place? Because honestly, I can’t get that

image out of my head.

For the past week, I’ve been thinking nonstop about what it might be like to kiss Riley—to hold him in my arms and do exactly what we did in that dream.

At the same time, I also can’t stop thinking about us dying on that bridge.

I know it was only a dream, but it was fucking terrifying . And I think that fear was a message. A message that I’m not ready to deal with these feelings and that I need to stay away

from Riley.

Even though right now, staying away from him is fucking killing me.

“Okay, let me rephrase the question,” Aunt Rachel says when I continue to stare at my coffee in silence. “Does this recent

bout of brooding have something to do with what happened back in December?”

I shake my head.

“Okay. I didn’t think so, but good to rule it out.” She takes a sip of her coffee, and I can feel her eyes studying me. “So,

if this sudden funk isn’t football related, would I be right in assuming it has something to do with your friend Riley?”

Despite my intention not to tell my aunt anything, I find myself nodding.

“Did you guys have a fight?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Okay. So...”

I consider lying or telling her it’s none of her business. But if there’s one person who might actually be able to help me

make sense of everything, it’s Aunt Rachel. She knows me better than anyone.

“So?.?.?.?Riley’s gay,” I begin, starting with the simplest part of the story.

“Yeah, I got that from the skinny jeans.”

When I don’t laugh, she stops smiling and sets down her coffee. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

“No, of course not,” I say.

“Okay. Just checking. I love my big brother, but I know better than anyone that Wyatt doesn’t have the most progressive views on certain subjects. I’m allowed to make sure that he’s not passing on his toxic, macho bullshit to my favorite nephew.”

“I’m your only nephew.”

“Take the win, kiddo.”

I smile, and Aunt Rachel plucks a strawberry off her waffle, pops it into her mouth, and considers what I’ve told her. “So

if you don’t have a problem with Riley’s sexuality, what is the problem?”

I take a deep breath. It’s now or never, I suppose.

“Riley likes me,” I explain. “He likes me likes me.”

Aunt Rachel starts to reach for another strawberry but stops. Her expression doesn’t change but there’s a definite shift in

her energy as she turns her full attention to me.

“I see. And how do we feel about that?”

The way she poses the question, I know exactly what she’s asking. It’s the same question I’ve been asking myself for the past

six days.

“I don’t know,” I tell her.

Aunt Rachel nods, and I can see her picking her next words carefully.

“Well, one of the great things about being young, maybe the only great thing—aside from being able to drink like a fish and

roll out of bed the next morning without a hangover—is that you don’t have to have all the answers. Contrary to what my brother

believes, you don’t need to have your whole life figured out by the time you’re eighteen. That goes for your professional

life and your personal life. You’re allowed to take as much time as you want to decide who you are, how you want to spend your life,

and who you want to spend that life with. The only thing you need to know right now is that, whatever you decide, I am always, always,

always going to be here for you.”

Aunt Rachel reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. My relief is overwhelming. After days of suffocating under the weight of my fear, I feel like I can breathe again.

“What do I do about Riley?” I ask once I trust myself to speak. “What do I tell him?”

“Tell him what you told me. That you don’t know how you feel, and you need time to figure things out. If he cares about you

the way he should care about you, he’ll understand.”

Despite how reassuring her words are and how much I want to believe them, I can’t shake the memory of my dream. Or what it

might mean.

“I’m afraid I’ll hurt him,” I confess. “Not intentionally but...”

Aunt Rachel nods sympathetically.

“When you care about someone, there’s always a chance you might end up hurting them. Or getting hurt yourself. But that’s

no reason to stop caring about them. Pain is an inevitable part of life, Jackson. There’s no way to avoid it. But love? Love

isn’t inevitable. Love is a choice. We have to choose love. And when we do, it doesn’t erase the hurt or shield us from pain,

but it does make it bearable. More than bearable. Love is one of the few things that make life worth living.”

I nod. Everything she’s saying makes sense. And yet?.?.?.?“I’m afraid.”

“Oh, Jackson.” My aunt laughs, giving my hand another squeeze. “There are so many things in this world to be afraid of. But

love? Love isn’t one of them. Never be afraid of love.”