Page 33 of Don't Let Me Go
“No, of course,” I agree. “I’m just trying to understand what happened. Get all the details.”
“I don’t remember much more,” Riley sighs. “Seriously, the whole thing is so hazy now. I can’t really tell you anything.”
I nod, though I’m not sure I believe him. “Okay. Well, if you ever do remember more or you want to talk about it...”
“It’s fine.I’mfine. It’s probably just stress. I’m starting that internship in a week, so my brain is just freaking out and being a drama queen about it.”
“Yeah. Could be,” I concede, remembering some of my own sleepless nights from these past few months. “When I was going through all that stuff with Devon, I had nightmares all the time.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t dream about volcanoes or time traveling. It was the usual anxiety dreams, you know? People yelling at me. Feeling trapped. It was more stressful than scary. But it wasn’t fun.”
My words seem to have a reassuring effect on Riley. “When did the nightmares stop?” he asks.
“When I moved in with Aunt Rachel.”
Although that’s not exactly true. My first week in Orlando, I still had plenty of restless evenings. I don’t think I truly had my first solid night of sleep until after I went to the carnival. After I met Riley.
Maybe it’s the breeze of the AC on my damp back or maybe it’s the unpleasant memory of those sleepless nights back in Tallahassee, but a shiver creeps across my skin. For some reason, I suddenly feel?.?.?.?exposed.
Though that’s probably because I’m standing around in nothing but my running shorts, smelling like a dirty locker room.
“Anyway, um, I’m gonna grab a quick shower,” I announce, edgingtoward the hall. “Make yourself at home. When I get back, I’ll make us some breakfast.”
Riley arches an eyebrow and smirks. “You cook?”
“I can pour two bowls of cereal like a pro.”
Riley laughs. “Go shower. I’ll cook breakfast.”
“What? No. You don’t have to do that.”
“Please. I’m the one who came over uninvited and made you listen to my ludicrous dream. It’s the least I can do.”
Chapter 13
Riley
If there’s an upside to having a mom who abandoned you and a dad who works sixty-plus-hour weeks, it’s that you learn to cook for yourself at a very young age. My culinary repertoire isn’t expansive or impressive, but when push comes to shove, I can make some damn tasty cinnamon banana pancakes. And after the morning I’ve had, it’s honestly a relief to be doing something so mundane.
I’m still a little freaked out by my dream. Correction—myseconddream. But maybe it’s like I told Jackson. Maybe my brain is stressing about my internship, so it’s creating nightmares out of a bunch of random facts I learned for my history paper. That seems logical. Mostly.
Though I’d feel a lot better if I could forget the burning hatred in that crazy priestess’s eye. Or the screams of all those frightened people. Or the sickening stench of sulfur.
“Wow, those pancakes smellamazing,” Jackson gushes as he returns to the kitchen. Fresh out of the shower, he doesn’t smell so bad himself: a mixture of soap and citrus. He’s wearing a pair of tan cargo shorts and a black tank top that still manages to show off all his muscles. But at least his current outfit is less revealing and distracting than those ridiculously tiny running shorts.
Not that I noticed.
“Breakfast is served,” I announce with a flourish, setting the platter of pancakes onto the kitchen table.
When we’re both seated, I scoop two pancakes onto each of our plates. Jackson sniffs at his breakfast like an excited puppy and picks up his fork. Then, remembering something, he hops out of his chair and rushes to the fridge.
“There’s already butter and syrup here on the table,” I tell him.
“I know. But you forgot the most important ingredient.”
Jackson rummages through the shelves, releases a cry of victory, and returns to the table with a canister of Reddi-Wip.
