Page 57 of Don't Let Me Go
But that’s not what happened.
Alex never apologized. I never got my happy ending. I never even got closure. All I got was an eating disorder and a raging distrust of men, two issues I’m very much still dealing with today.
So,no, I don’t want to meet up with Alex or hear whatever lame-ass apology he’s concocted. He’s three years too late. The damage is done. If he’s feeling guilty for how he treated me,good. He should feel guilty.It might stop him from hurting someone else the way he hurt me.
I consider textingthatto Alex. But honestly, I don’t want to engage with him ever again. Instead, I content myself with deleting his text and hoping that my silence speaks volumes about just how unforgiven he is.
Maybe that makes me a jerk, but I don’t care. Sometimes petty acts of revenge are the closest thing we get to closure.
Chapter 22
Jackson
“What’s your good side?” Duy asks, staring me down through the long black lens of their digital camera.
I have no idea how to answer them. It’s never occurred to me that my face might have a good or bad side. But as it turns out, the question is moot.
“Ha! Kidding! As if people like you have a bad side,” Duy says as they shove their camera in my face and snap a flurry of photos.
I swallow uncomfortably. “I thought you wanted to shoot the clothes.”
“We will. I just want to get a feel for your best angles before we start. The better I make you look, the better my clothes will look.”
Duy keeps snapping away, and I do my best to follow their instructions, tilting my head or adjusting my posture as I pose inside the gazebo that Duy’s selected as the backdrop for our photo shoot. Thankfully, the gazebo (as well as Duy’s entire backyard) is surrounded by a tall red fence, so I’m not on full display to the world. Aside from Ms. Nguyen, who occasionally peeks at us through the kitchen window, I don’t have to worry about an audience making me any more self-conscious than I already am.
And right now, I’m pretty self-conscious.
When I agreed to model for Duy, I assumed I’d be wearing something, well, normal. Like a T-shirt and jeans or a suit. But when I arrived an hour ago, Duy explained that they haven’t decided yetwhether they want to pursue a degree in fashion design or costume design, which are apparently two different things. Duy’s plan is to create two separate portfolios so that they can keep their options open when it’s time to start applying to colleges. And today we’re focusing on their costume designs.
That’s why I’m dressed like some dude in one of Aunt Rachel’s Jane Austen movies. I’m talking tailcoat, waistcoat, breeches, cravat—which are all words I’d never heard until an hour ago and which I hope I never hear again after today.
Not that the clothes aren’t incredible. Duy’s mad-talented. I’m sure my outfit would’ve been the height of fashion in “Regency England” (whenever that was). But this is June in Florida. It’s already eighty-five degrees, and I’m in three layers of very heavy clothing. If it gets much hotter, I’m legitimately afraid I might pass out. Again. And I really don’t want a repeat of yesterday.
Or that dream.
“Relax your shoulders,” Duy orders. “You’ve gone stiff.”
No shit. I can feel the tension running through my neck, across my back, and down my spine. It’s been there for the past twenty-four hours, ever since I hugged Riley goodbye and found myself more confused than ever about my feelings for him.
I barely slept last night. I just lay in bed trying to figure out what the heck was going on with me. So far, the only thing I’ve come up with—the only thing that makes sense—is that somehow, for some reason, I’ve developed avery tinybut perfectly natural “man crush” on Riley.
That has to be it. After all, he’s been a great friend to me since I moved to Orlando. It makes sense that we’d develop a strong brotherly connection. But that doesn’t mean that there’s something more going on between us.
It doesn’t mean that I’m—that we—
It doesn’t meananything.
“Can you relax your face and stop grinding your teeth like an ax murderer?” Duy huffs, lowering their camera to shoot me an exasperated glare.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Foot cramp.”
I jump up and down for a few seconds, hoping to shake off some of this nervous energy. I used to do this whenever I got anxious before a game, and it usually did the trick.
“Better,” Duy says, studying me through the camera lens once I’ve settled back into my pose. “Much better.”
I do actually feel better—for a second. Then I hear the screen of the back door screech open, and my shoulders stiffen even before I see Riley stepping out of the house.
“Good, you’re finally dressed!” Duy exclaims, mercifully taking the camera out of my face and bounding over to Riley.
