Page 8 of Don’t Let Me Go

When I get back to Aunt Rachel’s after my morning run, it’s almost ten. Which is late for me. Normally, I’m up and out of

the house at the crack of dawn. It’s part of the daily regimen that my father devised for me after I made running back freshman

year, and I’ve maintained it ever since, even over these past few months. My days playing for the Wolverines might be ancient

history, but with all the changes in my life, it’s been comforting to have a routine to fall back on.

Today is the first day I’ve broken that routine. My internal alarm clock, which is always so adamant about waking me up with

the sun, must have decided to let me sleep in. Not that I’m complaining. Maybe it was my talk with Aunt Rachel or maybe it

was hanging out with Duy and Riley and the others, but I slept better last night than I have in months.

“What time are you heading out to meet your friends?” my aunt asks, nibbling a piece of buttered toast as she finishes a late

breakfast in the kitchen.

“I’m supposed to go over and collect Duy in an hour,” I answer as I pour myself a large glass of orange juice, which I immediately

polish off in one long satisfying gulp.

“Roller-skating and Olivia Newton-John.” Aunt Rachel chuckles. “Everything old is new again.”

“Or maybe everything old is still old, and Duy and their friends have really bad taste.”

“Duy? Bad taste?” My aunt shakes her head. “Have you seen the outfits that kid makes? They’re going to be the next Oscar de la Renta.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“Oh, go shower. Your teenage funk is stinking up my kitchen.”

Laughing, I lean over my aunt’s chair and wrap her in a sweaty bear hug. “Love you.”

“Gross! You’re getting boy smell on my favorite robe. Go away!”

I grab a piece of toast and head off to my room, which technically is Aunt Rachel’s guest room. With the exception of my Xbox

and some clothes, I haven’t unpacked any of the boxes that I brought with me from Tallahassee, and when I see them stacked

haphazardly against the wall, it occurs to me that I should get around to that. After all, I am gonna be here for a while.

I peel off my sweat-stained tank top and toss it into my hamper along with my shorts and underwear. I’m smelling pretty ripe

after my run, but before heading to the shower, I check my phone to see if I have any new messages. When I texted the group

chat last night to say I was down to hang today, Tala wrote back, Great! Audrey sent a thumbs-up. And Duy replied with Yay spelled with about twenty-five y’ s and a string of emojis that meant they were either really excited or having a stroke.

The only person who didn’t text back was Riley.

That surprised me. I felt like the two of us had a connection. Not at first, obviously. But by the end of the night, it felt

like we were vibing. Like we got each other. It’s odd he hasn’t responded.

Then again, maybe he doesn’t want me to come? I did say a lot of asinine things last night. It might’ve pissed him off more

than I realized. Maybe I should text him. Just to make sure we’re good.

Wait. Hold up. What am I doing?

Why am I acting like some girl who got stood up by her prom date? Riley doesn’t owe me a response. It was Duy who invited me. For all I know, Riley isn’t even coming. I need to chill .

I toss my phone onto my unmade bed and head down the hall to the guest bathroom where I take a quick shower. Once I finish

drying off, I wrap a towel around my waist and return to my room just in time to hear my phone buzz with an incoming text.

Despite my previous instructions to myself to chill, I can’t help checking to see if it’s Riley.

It’s not. But I don’t have time to be disappointed, because after four long weeks of silence, Micaela has finally sent me

a message.

MICAELA: Hey.

It’s just that one word. With a period. But given how I treated her, it’s more than I deserve.

She was the one person who stood by me despite everything that happened in December. And how did I repay her? By ignoring

her calls and shutting her out of my life. Even then it took her months to dump my ass. And that was only after I told her

I was moving to Orlando.

Hey , I write back.

I’m not sure what else to say. What can you say to someone whose heart you broke?

I don’t think I was ever in love with Micaela, but we were good together. At least in the beginning. We’d been friends for

years before we’d started dating, so in a way, it almost seemed inevitable that we’d end up together. She was a cheerleader;

I was a running back. We were at all the same games and all the same parties. We were both on strict diets but couldn’t resist

Taco Bell on our cheat days. It just made sense to be together.

Everything with Micaela was easy. Effortless. Until it wasn’t.

How’s Orlando? she texts back.

JACKSON: Okay. Different.

MICAELA: Good different or bad different?

JACKSON: Just different-different.

Micaela sends me the confused-face emoji, and I chuckle because I know in real life, she makes that exact same scrunched-up

expression.

How are you? I text back without thinking, then instantly regret it. What can she possibly say to that? Great! My boyfriend ghosted me for an entire semester, then moved to a different city. #Blessed. #BestLife.

After a longer pause than usual, she responds. Heading off to cheer camp this afternoon.

Aren’t you a bit old for camp? I joke, hoping to keep things light.

Ha-ha , she types instead of using the laughing emoji, which is how I know she’s being sarcastic. I’m one of the instructors.

JACKSON: Ah. So you’ll be molding the next generation of cheerleaders?

MICAELA: I like to think of them as cheer warriors.

JACKSON: Sounds intense.

MICAELA: Just doing God’s work.

Like I said, easy. Even after our awkward breakup and a month of not talking, we’re able to fall into our old routine like

no time’s passed.

MICAELA: Do you think you’ll come back to Tally for a visit this summer?

Her question catches me off guard. I’m not sure how to respond. Is she asking because she wants to see me? Because she’s hoping

we might get back together? I don’t want to lead her on or make her think that’s a possibility, but I also don’t want to hurt

her any more than I already have.

I don’t know , I type back noncommittally. Right now, vagueness seems like the best course of action. Or inaction.

MICAELA: What about your birthday?

JACKSON: I’ll probably spend it here with Aunt Rachel.

MICAELA: That’s so sad.

She’s not wrong. I always figured that when I turned eighteen, I’d throw a huge house party, invite all the guys from the

team, maybe hire a DJ. Micaela would be there, of course, along with the rest of the cheer squad. There’d be too much smoking

and drinking, and the neighbors would complain about the noise. My parents, though, would conveniently be out of town because

despite their insistence on excellence, they also understand that every once in a while, champions need to celebrate.

But I’m not a champion. Not anymore. And I never will be again.

How the mighty have fallen , I text.

I mean it as a joke. But as soon as I hit send, the truth of that statement hits me with the force of a linebacker. I suspect

it’s hitting Micaela the same way. She doesn’t text back for what feels like an eternity, and when she does, all she says

is Sorry. Mom’s nagging me to finish packing. Got to go.

There’s so much more I want to say to her, so much I want to apologize for. But I don’t know where to begin. Thanks for checking up on me , I type.

She doesn’t respond.

Maybe it’s for the best. Even if I have no desire to get back together with her, a part of me wishes we could still be friends.

But I don’t think that would be good for either of us. I moved to Orlando so we could have a clean break. It’s what I need

and what I’m sure Micaela needs. There’s no point in clinging to the past.

An abrupt and angry banging on my bedroom door jolts me out of my self-pitying spiral, and without thinking, I call out, “Come

in.”

The door swings open and Riley enters, his face screwed into a scowl and his shoulders tensed. He looks like someone ready

for a fight.

“We need to talk,” he barks—then stops in his tracks.

I’m not sure why he’s staring at me like a deer in headlights until I realize that the only thing I’m wearing is a damp bath

towel. Three years in a locker room have pretty much made me numb to nudity (especially my own). Riley, though, is clearly

uncomfortable.

“My bad,” I apologize. “Just got out of the shower.”

I grab a pair of underwear out of my dresser and slide them on under the towel while Riley stares at the floor. It’s kind

of funny how freaked out he is.

“All clear,” I assure him after pulling on some chinos and a pink polo.

Riley cautiously glances up from the carpet to confirm I’m no longer naked. Satisfied, he shakes off his awkwardness and grumbles,

“Sorry,” though he sounds more annoyed than contrite. “Your aunt let me in.”

“That’s okay. What’s up? What did you want to talk to me about?”

Riley fixes me with his sharp green eyes. “Devon Sanderson.”

I can feel the color drain from my face. “What?”

“Devon Sanderson,” he repeats. “You know, the kid that you and your friends put in the hospital.”