Page 121 of Don't Let Me Go
“You’re also not eating,” Dad adds, pointedly holding my gaze.
“Oh my God,” I scoff. “Is that what this is about? You think I’m developing an eating disorder again?” I spear the chicken breast with my fork, bring it to my mouth, and tear off a huge chunk with my teeth. As with everything else I’ve tried to eat over the past few days, the meat tastes bland and flavorless. It’s like chewing plastic. But I force myself to swallow.
“There? Happy?” I ask. I know I’m lashing out at the person who least deserves it, but I can’t help myself. I’m hurting. And right now, all I want to do is pass that hurt onto someone else.
Dad removes his glasses and massages the bridge of his nose like he’s fighting off a migraine. “Riley, you’re clearly in pain. I’m trying to help. I’m your father. I’m allowed to be concerned about your eating habits. The last time something like this happened, you wound up in the hospital.”
The fact that my father is comparing Jackson to Alex makes me even more furious. Alex was a closeted jerk who used and discarded me. Jackson is—was—the best thing in my life. And every other life. Those two names don’t belong anywhere near each other.
“I’m tired,” I say, pushing away from the table and starting to rise. “I’m going to bed.”
“Sitdown.” Dad’s voice is hard and sharp. Out of instinct, I obey, even though I’m certain he’s about to lay into me like he’s never laid into me before.
Instead, Dad just stares down at his half-eaten dinner and sighs. In his exhaustion, I can see the toll that the past few days have taken on him. With his pinched expression and tired eyes, he looks almost as shattered as me.
“I know you’re upset about Jackson,” he says, struggling to keep his voice under control. “I know you’re hurting. But, Riley, you need to take care of yourself.”
His request is so urgent, so full of concern, that it breaks what’s left of my already broken heart. I feel my ice-cold anger melt away, leaving behind only a rising tide of remorse.
“I will,” I hear myself say, much to my own surprise. “I’ll start eating more. I promise.”
“It’s not just the eating. When something’s wrong, you need to tell me about it so that I can help you. I know you’re an independent person and you think you need to face all your problems on your own, but it’s okay to ask for help. I want to help you. Your friends want to help you. But you have to let us in.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I’ll try.”
Dad nods. I’m not sure if he believes me. I’m not sureIbelieve me. But after a week of worrying about me and my diminishing diet, he’s eager to accept any win he can get.
“It’ll get easier, Ri, I promise,” he says, reaching across the table and squeezing my hand. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but there will be other boys. Right now, you’re hurting, and you probably feel like you’ll never find someone as amazing as Jackson, but you will. Trust me. You’re a thoughtful, considerate, incredible young man, and you’re going to have so much love in your life from so many wonderful people. But in the meantime, son, you need to remember to love yourself.”
I nod and force myself to smile.
I know Dad is only trying to help me. I know everything he’s saying is something I need to hear. And if Jackson really were just another Alex, Dad’s words would make me feel a thousand times better.
But Jackson isn’t another Alex.
He’s my soulmate. He’s the one and only person on the planet that I’m meant to spend the rest of my life with. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to live without him.
How does a person live with only half a soul?
Chapter 49
Jackson
“Jackson? Can you wake up?”
My ears must be playing tricks on me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that if I opened my eyes, I’d see my mother standing at the foot of my bed. But that’s about as likely as the Jacksonville Jaguars making it to the Super Bowl.
A second later, though, my mattress sags under the weight of someone sitting beside me, and I feel a hand squeeze my shoulder. “Jackson? Baby?”
The wordbabysends a jolt through my body. Nobody calls me baby. No one except—
I open my eyes and, sure enough, my mother is leaning over me, her blond power bob framing a face pinched tight with worry. At least I assume it’s worry. Years of Botox and cosmetic surgery have gradually stripped my mother’s face of its ability to express the most basic human emotions. Staring into it can be a lot like looking at one of those Rorschach tests. You see what you want to see.
“Hello, Jackson.”
My mother runs an immaculately manicured hand through my bedhead, pushing my hair out of my eyes. It’s meant to be affectionate, but her touch makes me flinch. I don’t know what she’s doing here, but after the way she and my father treated me, she’s the last person I want to see.
Across the room, I notice Aunt Rachel lingering in the doorway in her blue dungarees. She avoids my eyes with a guilty sideways glance, and suddenly my mother’s appearance makes a lot more sense.
