Page 44 of Don't Let Me Go
Which is weird. Because I did the right thing, didn’t I? I protected Micaela from getting hurt.
So why do I feel like shit?
Chapter 17
Riley
Jackson looks like a deer in headlights. Then again, I’m pretty sure I looked the same way the first time I stepped foot in a gay bar. I probably should’ve given him a heads-up that we were coming to Heartbeats. But truthfully, I wanted to see his honest reaction.
Ever since my realization that my crush on Jackson has morphed from the superficially physical to the full-on emotional, I’ve been trying to think of a way to cure myself of the attraction. I’ve kept our texting to a minimum and refused to think about the steamier and more romantic moments from my two dreams, but it hasn’t been enough. So when Audrey suggested an afternoon of drag-queen karaoke, it occurred to me that this could prove the perfect opportunity to get over my feelings for Jackson.
I figured if we took him to Heartbeats without any advance warning, then his inner dude-bro might emerge, and he might freak out and refuse to go inside, which would be super-shitty and cause me to lose all respect for him, but it would provide me with the much-needed reminder that Jackson isn’t queer.
“Are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” he asks, gaping nervously at the brightly clad, big-bewigged drag queens like they’re creatures from another planet, as we wind our way through the Saturday-brunch crowd.
“Why wouldn’t you be allowed here?” I ask.
“I don’t know. ’Cause I’m straight?”
“Straight people are allowed in gay bars,” Audrey explains with a groan as we slide into a U-shaped booth near the stage. She’s been warming up to Jackson ever since Rink-O-Rama, but her patience for hetero-nonsense goes only so far. “It’s straight people who like to exclude queer people from things—like bathrooms and civil rights—not the other way around.”
“Right. Yeah. Sorry,” Jackson says, looking suitably chastised.
“For the record, I wanted to tell you where we were going,” Tala confides, shooting him a sympathetic smile. “I was outvoted.”
“I thought the surprise would be fun,” I lie.
“No, it’s cool,” Jackson says, casting another nervous glance around the room. “First time for everything, right?”
Despite my hope that the bar would freak him out and make him unworthy of my crush, I can’t help being relieved to see Jackson so open to the experience. Then again, I should’ve known he would be. He’s been nothing but totally accepting of my friends and me since the day we met. And Heartbeats isn’t exactly Sodom and Gomorrah.
At night, the club models itself after a romantic speakeasy. They keep the lighting low, and patrons have to be over twenty-one to get in. During the day, though, anyone is welcome, and the place takes on a more casual diner vibe. In fact, on a morning like today, there’s actually very little to alert a random passerby that this is a queer establishment. Except, of course, for all the drag queens.
“So?.?.?.?we’re here to watch drag queens sing karaoke?” Jackson asks after our bouffant-coiffed server takes our food order.
“No, the drag queens work the bar and host the show,” I clarify. “Sometimes one of them will do a number. But for the most part, they’re here to encourage other people to get up and sing.”
“Ordiscouragepeople if they don’t happen to approve of your song choice or if you’re alittleoff-key,” Duy grumbles, no doubt recalling thetime they made the mistake of attempting to perform opera. “There are someveryjudgy queens in this room.”
“The roasting is all in good fun,” I assure Jackson. “Mostly. Except when it’s devastating.”
“I’m gonna sign up for a slot,” Audrey announces, scooting out of the booth. “Riley, I’ll put you down to go after me? Your usual?”
“Sounds good.”
“Jackson?”
Jackson’s eyes go wide with panic. “Me?”
“Yeah,” Audrey says. “Do you want to sing something?”
“No. God—no.”
His horror is so palpable, it makes the entire table laugh.
“It’s all right,” Tala assures him. “You don’t have to. Duy and I never sing.”
“Not anymore,” Duy mumbles.
