Page 33 of Don’t Let Me Go

Someone keeps ringing the doorbell. I want to break their fingers. Instead, I bury my head under my pillow and try to block

out the noise. I don’t understand why Dad doesn’t answer the door. It’s almost ten o’clock. He must be awake.

“Are you going to get that?” I shout.

Dad doesn’t respond, at which point I vaguely remember him saying that he was going to some work event or charity breakfast

this morning. I’m not sure of the exact details. I wasn’t listening.

The doorbell grows more insistent. Whoever’s outside clearly isn’t going to stop ringing until they get an answer, so with

a groan, I kick off the bedcovers. Despite being dressed in only a T-shirt and boxers, I march downstairs, fling open the

front door, and bark, “ What? ”

Jackson jumps back. He guiltily yanks his finger away from the doorbell as his face turns red with embarrassment. But he’s

not the only one momentarily at a loss for words.

“What?.?.?.?what are you doing here?” I stammer when I finally find my voice.

But I know what he’s doing here, don’t I? He’s come to tell me off. To tell me our friendship is over and that he never wants

to see me again.

“Sorry,” he says, looking surprisingly contrite for someone who’s here to eviscerate me.

“I was gonna call before I came over, but I wasn’t sure if you’d.

..” He blushes again. “What I mean is?.?.?.?it’s been a while.

Since we hung out. And I thought I might as well come over. You know? So we could talk.”

“Oh.” I swallow.

“Can I come in?”

Jackson’s energy is definitely more “polite nervousness” than “angry retribution.” Which means this is going to be the nicest

telling-off in the history of tellings-off or I’m wrong about why he’s here.

“Sure,” I answer cautiously. “Come in.”

Jackson steps inside, but instead of moving farther into the house, we linger in the entranceway, neither of us quite able

to look at the other.

“How are you?” he asks after an awkward silence.

“Good,” I lie, because what the hell else can I say? “How are you?”

“Good.”

We both nod stupidly at each other, and I can feel another awkward silence looming on the horizon.

“What did you want to talk about?” I force myself to ask. If this friendship is over, I might as well rip the Band-Aid off

and put us both out of our misery.

My question, though, seems to throw Jackson. He clears his throat, stares at his Nikes, then clears his throat again.

“I just wanted...” he begins, then abandons the thought. He opens his mouth to try again but, at the last second, seems

to think better of it and settles for shaking his head.

His nervousness is making me nervous. In fact, it’s safe to say that I’m on the verge of a full-blown freak-out when, without

any warning, he looks at me with his clear blue eyes and asks, “Have you had breakfast?”

“Breakfast?” I’m not sure I heard him right. “Um?.?.?.?no. I just woke up.”

Jackson nods eagerly, like that was the answer he was hoping for. “My aunt just cooked up this huge breakfast. For real, we’ve probably got enough waffles to feed the Miami Dolphins. Do you want to come over and have some? Then afterward, if you’re not doing anything, maybe we could hang out?”

I am so confused. This is why he dragged me out of bed and nearly broke my doorbell? For waffles?

But maybe this is a good thing. After all, if he was going to end our friendship, I doubt he’d insist on feeding me first.

But are we really not going to discuss what happened?

“Are you?.?.?.?are you sure?” I ask.

Jackson nods so vigorously, I’m afraid his head might snap off. “Absolutely,” he says, flashing me a smile so bright, it’s

like the sun burning through the early-morning haze. And all at once I understand. He didn’t come over this morning to offer

me breakfast. He came over to offer me a second chance.

The relief that I feel is so immediate and so intense, it almost knocks me off my feet. I thought I had ruined any possibility

of having Jackson in my life. But here he is, grinning down at me and asking for my friendship. And this time I won’t screw

it up.

If he needs to discuss what happened last Sunday, I’ll have that conversation and own my mistake. If he wants to pretend the

whole thing never happened, I can do that too. Because whatever my feelings are for Jackson, the most important thing is our

friendship. And I won’t do anything to jeopardize that again.

“Okay,” I say as my heart fills with hope for the first time in days. “Waffles sound great.”

I shower and dress in record time, then Jackson drives us back to his aunt’s house in his Jeep.

Along the way, I decide to text Duy, Audrey, and Tala to see if they want to meet up with us later this afternoon.

I’ve barely responded to any of their texts this week, and I want to make it up to them for being such a moody, melodramatic dick.

Also, it probably wouldn’t hurt to have other people around—just in case there’s any lingering awkwardness between Jackson and me, and we need a buffer.

Sorry I’ve been MIA, I text my friends. Anyone got any plans this afternoon?

To my surprise, Audrey texts back almost immediately. What do you mean, “got any plans”? We’re seeing the Glorious Peccadilloes. REMEMBER?

I have no idea what Audrey is talking about, though her angry capitalization seems to suggest I should. Sure enough, scrolling

back through our group text, I see that a few days ago she sent out a reminder that one of her favorite bands is playing a

free concert at the Lake Eola amphitheater.

I don’t have any memory of agreeing to go, but I keep scrolling and see a later text from Audrey in which she laid out the

exact details of when and where we’d be meeting up this afternoon and to which I apparently responded with the thumbs-up emoji.

“Everything okay?” Jackson asks when he notices me engrossed in my phone.

“Yeah. Slight change of plans, though,” I say as we turn onto his aunt’s street. “After breakfast, how would you feel about

going to a concert with my friends?”

“Oh. Uh, sure,” he says. “Who’s playing?”

“The Glorious Peccadilloes.”

“Who are the—”

Without warning, Jackson brakes sharply and brings his Jeep to an abrupt stop in front of his aunt’s house. I’m not sure why

until I see that the driveway is occupied by a sporty silver BMW.

Beyond the BMW, two people are lounging in lawn chairs and sipping iced tea in the shade of the garage.

One is Jackson’s aunt. The other is a very pretty Black girl with flawless skin and long box-braided hair.

She looks about my age, and her outfit is like something out of the closet of Elle Woods in Legally Blonde: pink blouse, pink skirt, pink blazer.

She’s deep in conversation with Jackson’s aunt, but when she spots Jackson’s Jeep, her

face breaks into the most radiant smile I’ve ever seen outside of a toothpaste commercial.

“Jackson!” she shouts, leaping out of her chair.

I turn to Jackson, who’s staring like he can’t believe his eyes.

“Micaela?”