Page 18 of Don't Let Me Go
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 isSorry. 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.”
