Page 39 of Don’t Let Me Go

For one soul-crushing second, I think it’s all been a dream. Then I hear Jackson’s soft breathing against my ear. I feel his

strong arms wrapped around my body, holding me while he sleeps, and I know it was no dream. This is real. The realest moment

of my life.

I lift my head off his shoulder and glance up at Jackson’s sleeping face. It’s pale and luminous in the moonlight. I want

to cover it in kisses. I want to taste his lips and feel the heat of his breath against my skin. He looks so peaceful, though,

so content .

I wouldn’t dream of waking him. Instead, I settle for admiring all the wonders of his handsome face: the curl of his lashes,

the slope of his nose, the light dusting of freckles that cluster on his cheeks.

He’s a work of art. My work of art. My beautiful, wonderful, impossible Jackson.

“Are you watching me sleep?” he murmurs.

Caught by surprise, I feel my cheeks redden in embarrassment. “No,” I lie.

Jackson opens one drowsy eye and studies me with a mischievous grin. “You weren’t?”

“If you’re asking me a question, then clearly you’re awake, which means technically I wasn’t watching you sleep.”

Jackson chuckles and wraps his body around mine even tighter so that there isn’t an inch of space between us. “You’re lucky

you’re cute, you weirdo.”

We cuddle in the moonlight, Jackson gently stroking my hair as I breathe in the intoxicating musk of his skin.

I’m surprised how comfortable it all feels.

Comfortable and familiar. Like this isn’t our first time together like this but the fiftieth or the seven hundred and fiftieth.

Like we’ve being doing this all our lives.

The holding, the stroking, the breathing each other in, even Jackson chiding me for watching him sleep—it all feels like part

of some age-old routine that we’ve spent our entire lives perfecting.

“You know,” I tell him, nuzzling my chin against his chest, “I actually had a dream where we had almost this exact conversation.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow. “You did?”

“Yeah. You remember that dream I had about Pompeii?”

“The volcano dream?”

“Right. Only before it became a volcano dream, it was kind of a?.?.?. sex dream.”

“I knew it!” Jackson crows triumphantly. “I knew when I asked about that dream and you got all cagey that there was something

you weren’t telling me.”

“Okay. Yeah. Fine. I admit it. We did filthy, unspeakable things, and we loved every minute of it. Also, you’ll be happy to

know that Dream You also complained when Dream Me watched him sleep.”

“That’s wild.”

“Isn’t it?”

Jackson lets out a little chortle. “Well, since we’re sharing R-rated dreams, I guess I should tell you that I also had a

sex dream about us.”

“You did?” I gasp. The idea of Jackson having naughty dreams about me is almost more exciting than all the naughty things

we actually just did to each other. “Was it also set in Italy?”

“No.” He laughs. “London.”

“London?”

“Yeah. And for some reason, we were both pickpockets who lived on the streets.”

“You mean like Dickensian orphans?” I ask.

“Like what?”

“You know, like in the movie Oliver! ‘Please, sir, can I ’ave some more?’?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” I sigh. “Just tell me about your sex dream.”

Jackson shrugs. “It was actually pretty weird. We were in the 1940s, you know, during World War Two. And the Germans were

bombing London. That’s how we died.”

“We died?” I ask, pulling back in surprise.

“Yeah. In the dream. We were standing on this bridge and a bomb fell right on top of us.”

“I thought you said this was a sex dream?”

Jackson laughs. “It was. We had sex right before the Germans blew us up.”

“On a bridge?”

“In a bathtub.”

My entire body tingles at the thought of Jackson and me in a tub together. That’s definitely something we’ll have to try in

the near future. Though for the moment, I want to hear more about Jackson’s dream. It’s interesting that he’s been dreaming

about us in England at the same time that I’ve been having those nightmares about Italy.

“Why do you think you dreamed about London?” I ask. “Have you been there?”

“No. But my father and I used to watch a lot of war movies. You know, Dunkirk, The Darkest Hour, Saving Private Ryan . It was our thing.”

“Have you watched any recently?”

“No. Why?”

“No reason.” I shrug. “It’s just odd that we both had these elaborate sex dreams set in foreign countries. And that we died

in them.”

“I guess,” Jackson says, not sounding particularly concerned. “Maybe we were both just stressed out, you know? And that was

our brains’ way of dealing with it.”

“Maybe,” I concede. Though I’m not sure I believe that. Two sex dreams that turned into death dreams and they both took place in another time and country? That feels like way too much of a coincidence.

Before I can give the question any more thought, though, Jackson pulls me to him and chuckles mischievously into my ear. “So

tell me about some of these filthy, unspeakable things that we did in your dream.”

“You tell me about yours,” I counter.

“I’d rather show you,” he purrs, slowly sliding his hands down my stomach.

“Haven’t you had enough?” I ask, pretending to be scandalized at his voracious appetite. “You really need to learn some self-control.”

“But it’s my birthday.”

“ Tomorrow is your birthday. Today is—wait. What time is it?”

I sit up and grab my phone off the nightstand. Jackson peeks over my shoulder.

“Well, well, well. Look at that,” he gloats. “It’s after midnight. I’m officially eighteen.”

“In that case,” I say as I lie back against my pillow, “I suppose the birthday boy is entitled to a small treat.”

“Not so small.” He smirks.

“Put on some music.”

Jackson doesn’t hesitate. He hops out of bed like an excited puppy and hurries over to the oak bureau on the other side of the room where his phone is docked in a very sophisticated-looking sound system.

Still not believing my luck, I let my thirsty eyes drink in his body. In the pure white glow of the moonlight, he looks like

a Greek sculpture: smooth and hard and timeless. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful or wanted something as

much as I want him.

Even these few seconds apart are agony. I’m longing for his lips, his hands, his heat. I want every part of him, and I’m going

to have every part of him.

Just as soon as he stops fiddling with those speakers.

“Everything all right over there?” I ask when Jackson continues to linger by the bureau. I can’t see what he’s doing because

his back is to me, but he seems to be staring off into space.

“Jackson?” I ask when he doesn’t answer.

His head turns slightly in my direction. He looks confused. And tired. More than tired; he looks exhausted.

“I’m so?.?.?.? hot ...” He groans.

Then he collapses.

With a cry of panic, I leap out of bed and race to his side. When I lift his head onto my lap, I can see he’s unconscious

but breathing. Just like he was at Heartbeats. I pat his face and call his name, but it doesn’t have any effect. I can’t bring

him around.

With a sinking fear, it occurs to me that Jackson might have some medical condition. Something he hasn’t told me about. If

so, I need to get his aunt.

I slip on my boxers so I won’t completely freak out Miss Haines when I wake her in the middle of the night and dash to Jackson’s

bedroom door. But just as I’m unlocking it, my head grows dizzy, and my vision blurs.

Jackson’s room tilts around me. It’s like the whole house is turning upside down. I feel seasick. Disoriented. Just like I did at the carnival. Right before I—

My legs give out, and I collapse to the floor.

Beside me, Jackson lies helpless and unconscious. I don’t understand what’s happening, but with the last ounce of my strength,

I reach for him—and the world goes dark.