Page 34 of Don't Let Me Go
“Seriously?” I say, not bothering to hide my disdain.
“What?” Jackson asks.
“We’re having breakfast. Not dessert.”
“Dude, pancakes are the dessert of breakfast.”
Shaking my head, I watch in horror as Jackson smothers his pancakes in enough butter and syrup to send a diabetic into hyperglycemic shock, before capping the whole thing off with a heaping mountain of whipped cream.
“You aresucha boy,” I scoff, rolling my eyes.
“A growing boy,” he counters, shoving half a pancake into his mouth. Almost immediately, his eyes go wide, and he releases a moan of approval that’s so intense, I can only describe it as pornographic. “Fuck, dude, this isincredible.”
My cheeks flush with pride. Seeing Jackson enjoying himself so completely, I can’t help catching some of his happiness.
“Glad you approve,” I say, taking a small bite of my own pancake. (No butter, no syrup, and definitely no whipped cream, thank you very much. My work stands on its own.)
Jackson swallows another mouthful and unleashes another orgasmic moan. This time I can’t stop myself from laughing. “Do you need to be alone with your pancakes?” I ask.
“What? I’m enjoying my breakfast.”
“Your enjoyment isobscene.”
Jackson gasps in faux indignation. “Are you slut-shaming me?”
“Yeah. I am. And I’m not afraid to say it. You’re a pancake slut.”
“That’sMr.Pancake Slut, and don’t you forget it.”
As if to prove his point, Jackson crams an entire pancake in his mouth. We both burst out laughing, and I feel the last of my anxiety leave my body. In fact, I feel so good right now, it seems almost inconceivable that I let myself get so bent out of shape over something as ridiculous as a couple of silly dreams.
Seriously, who drives all the way over to someone’s house (after leaving them a stalkerish number of voicemails) all because of a nightmare? I must have been out of my mind.
Iwasout of my mind. At least, that’s how I felt when I woke up this morning. Like something terrible had happened. Or was about to happen. And the only thing that I could think to do—the only thing that I thought would make things better—was find Jackson.
Oddly enough, now that I’m here with him, everythingisbetter. In less than an hour, I’ve gone from traumatized to tranquil to tickled. And Jackson did that.
Maybethat’swhy I keep dreaming about him in these weird disaster scenarios. Because on some level, my subconscious knows that he’s the person you want by your side in a crisis. Because Jackson has the rare ability to make everything better. Or at any rate, to makemebetter.
“By the way, I’ve been thinking about the situation with your dad,” he announces, wiping his mouth with a napkin and pushing aside the plate he’s licked clean.
“What situation?” I ask, thrown by his non sequitur.
“The work situation. You said you thought your nightmare might be stress related? Because you’re starting that internship?”
“Oh. Yeah. Right,” I agree, though I’m not sure where he’s going with this.
“And the reason this internship is freaking you out is that you don’t want to be a lawyer, right?”
“Right. Well, not anymore.”
“Not anymore?”
“When I was a kid, I thought being a lawyer was the most important thing a person could be. But as I got older, I started realizing how many problems there are in the world. And the idea of having to fight all those battles for the rest of my life?.?.?.?it just feelsexhausting.”
Jackson nods. “Sure. I get that.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to do good or help people,” I explain. “I’m just not sure that being a lawyer is the best way for me to do that. But I also don’t want to disappoint my dad. He’s really excited for me to start working with him. And, as we’ve already established, I have literally no idea what else I want to do with my life.”
