Page 16 of Don't Let Me Go
Sure, overall, he seemed like a not-terrible guy. I didn’t mind hanging out with him. If I’m honest, I also didn’t mind his piercing blue eyes. Or his ridiculously toned biceps. Or his strong but surprisingly soft hands. Or...
Crap.
I don’t need to look between my legs to know what the situation is down there. I can feel all the blood in my body rushing to a certain extremity.
What is wrong with me? There’s literally nothing more mortifying or clichéd than crushing on a straight boy.And yet my stupid body has decided to betray me all because Jackson has a cute smile and a tight ass.
“Traitor!” I hiss at my erection.
There’s no way I’m going to indulge my body’s problematic taste in boys. Instead, I turn the water temperature down as low as it will go. Sure enough, it takes only about ten seconds of waterboarding my groin with ice-cold water to get my libido under control.
With my hormones in check, I step out of the shower and dry myself off, thankful for the warmth of my towel. Then I head back to my room, where I slip on a clean pair of boxers and consider trying on the new suit so I can show Dad that I’m not the world’s shittiest son. Before I can make it to my closet, though, my phone buzzes. Much to my surprise, I see the group text has a message from its newest member.
JACKSON:Had fun tonight. Looking forward to skating tomorrow if the offer still stands.
Huh. Okay. Interesting.
Duy must have invited Jackson to Rink-O-Rama. I should’ve expected that.
What I wouldn’t have expected was for Jackson to accept.
Or that I would be so excited that he did. I can feel my heart racing in my chest. Which is ridiculous, because I so don’t care one way or the other if I ever see Jackson again.
Which isn’t to say that ifhewanted to hang out, I’d be against the idea. I could see a future where we might be friends. Maybe. We do sort of seem to have a connection, at least when it comes to hating psychics and predestination.
Is that why I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve met before? Because he’s some sort of kindred spirit?
Oh my God, what the hell am I saying?Kindred spirit?That’s ridiculous. I literally just met the guy. I barely know him!
But if that’s true, why did I have that very inappropriate dream where I was going on and on about how he was the other half of my soul?
Somehow chalking it up to physical attraction doesn’t seem like a good enough explanation. Not for such a vivid and elaborate dream. There must be a practical reason why Jackson seems so familiar.
I know this mystery is going to keep me up all night unless I get to the bottom of it, so I grab my laptop off my desk and flop down onto my bed, hoping that a quick search of his socials might provide me with a clue as to where I’ve seen him before.
There are three people named Jackson Haines on X but none of them are high-school students. Next I try Instagram, but he doesn’t seem to have a profile there either. Same for TikTok and Snapchat. In fact, as far as I can tell, Jackson Haines has no social media presence whatsoever.
Which isodd. Even serial killers have fan accounts.
I decide to try an old-fashioned Google search, but it turns out Jackson Haines is an annoyingly common name (as well as a nineteenth-century figure skater). I narrow the search parameters toJackson HainesandTallahasseeandfootball(which are the only things I know about him), and the first result that comes up is a link to a news story from December with the headline “Friday Night Lights (Out).” Next to it is a thumbnail of Jackson in a football uniform with the rest of his team, the Tallahassee Wolverines.
I click the link, and it takes me to the website of a Tallahassee newspaper. I start to skim the article, but I don’t need to read more than the first few paragraphs to realize two very important things.
One, I definitely know who Jackson Haines is.
And two, I was right not to trust him.
Chapter 7
Jackson
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.
