Page 58 of Don't Let Me Go
In his suit and topcoat, Riley could be my twin. Our costumes are almost identical—except for one crucial difference. Duy’s put me in a navy-blue tailcoat with cream-colored pants, while Riley is decked out in head-to-foot pink.
“You lookamazing!” Duy gushes.
“Thanks,” Riley answers, breaking into a sheepish smile.
“I was talking to the clothes.”
Riley shakes his head and lets out a snort of laughter. I can’t resist joining in, and for a second, all the tension leaves my body. Then Riley notices me laughing. Our eyes lock; his green eyes stare into mine a fraction too long before he turns away.
Things have definitely gotten weird again between us. Aside from a brief hello when we arrived this morning, Riley and I haven’t spoken since yesterday. To be honest, I’m not even surewhatto say tohim. I considered bailing on this photo shoot to avoid that particular problem, but I don’t want to start avoiding him. For one, that’d be a shit thing to do. And for two, avoiding him would mean that my man crush is something more than a man crush. And since it’s not, I need to stop freaking out and justbe cool.
“Looking pretty swank there, Jackson,” Riley calls out, flashing me a somewhat strained smile as he and Duy make their way over to the gazebo. “Loving the Mr. Darcy vibes.”
“The what?” I ask.
“He means you look hot,” Duy explains.
Riley’s face burns as pink as his outfit, and for a second, I think he’s gonna strangle Duy.
“Thanks.” I force myself to laugh, pretending not to notice his embarrassment. “You look good too, dude.”
And he does. In his usual outfit of distressed jeans, faded T-shirt, and scuffed Chucks, Riley has a tendency to look like “an emaciated street urchin,” to quote something Duy said earlier. But under three layers of British formal wear, he looks solid. Dapper. Handsome.
“Did guys really used to wear all this pink?” Riley asks as Duy fluffs his cravat.
“No. Well, actually,yes,” Duy answers. “In the 1600s, before colors got gendered, pink was incredibly common for men. Especially rich men who didn’t have to worry about getting dirty. It was a status symbol. But by the time the Regency period rolled around, which was about two hundred years later, pink had become exclusively for women.”
“So why do I look like Barbie picked out my wardrobe?”
“Great question! I was thinking about what I could do to set my portfolio apart from all the other aspiring costume designers, and I thought it would be savvy to show that, yes, I can create authenticRegency menswear in my sleep—hence what Jackson is wearing—butI can also think outside the box and play with color and textiles to do a more fashion-forward, fantasy-inspired take on Regency wear, which is what you’re wearing. Fantasy and reality. See?”
“Yeah,” Riley says, looking suitably impressed. “That’s smart.”
“I know, right? If I were any more of a genius, I’d beobsessedwith myself. Now, let’s make some art!”
Riley sighs and shuffles obediently into the gazebo next to me. I try to shoot him a look of commiseration, but he avoids my gaze, so I turn to Duy and await my instructions.
“Okay, so, for these first couple shots, I want some classic Colin Firth broodiness.”
“Uh?.?.?.?translation, please?”
“Just stand shoulder to shoulder, hands behind your back, and stare out at the camera like you’re not sure if you want to kill it or make love to it.”
I can’t stop myself from guffawing at such insane directions. And neither can Riley. United in our awkwardness, we collapse into a fit of giggles.
“Hey, focus!” Duy barks, impatiently stomping a foot on the ground.
“Sorry,” we both mumble, swallowing our silliness.
We then straighten up, stare out at the camera, and do our best to brood as Duy begins snapping away. Considering how much real brooding I’ve done over the year, I’m surprised at how difficult it is to brood on command. But I glower at the camera, trying to look sexy and bored at the same time, and it seems to work.
“That’s it, Jackson. Keep smoldering. Just relax your shoulders. Riley, chin up a bit, but keep looking down your nose at me.”
For the next hour, Duy issues an unending stream of instructionsfrom behind their camera, pausing only to mop the sweat off our brows or adjust a strand of hair. It gets significantly warmer as the morning wears on, but Riley doesn’t complain.
“I’m used to suffering for Duy’s art,” he quips on one of the rare boba breaks we’re allowed.
By noon, Duy has taken almost a thousand shots of us in every conceivable pose at every conceivable angle. There are shots of Riley and me together, apart, standing back to back, sitting in the gazebo, leaning against the gazebo, staring into the camera, gazing off into the horizon, lying on the grass, sitting under a tree, holding a book, holding a rose, and a hundred other variations that I can’t even remember at this point because I am so damntired.
