Page 68 of Don't Let Me Go
I hug him back, breathing in the fresh scent of soap on his skin. I swear I’d stay like this forever if I could: The air crisp. The sky a painting. And Charlie in my arms.
Then his shoulders stiffen, and he pulls away with a start. “What’s that noise?”
It takes my ears a second to clock what he hears, and when they do, my blood runs cold.
Charlie gasps in horror, and I follow his eyes to the sky. A sky full of planes. German planes. Not one or two stragglers, not the dozen or so raiders we’ve come to expect, but forty—no, fifty planes. The night sky is thick with them, so thick they almost block out the moon.
I don’t understand. The Germansneverattack twice in the same evening. And theyneversend this many planes. There’s no need. Not for a few strategic strikes. I mean, you wouldn’t send all these planes unless...
Unless you were planning to wipe London off the map.
“Jack,” Charlie gasps.
I grab his hand. But it’s too late. The bombs are already falling.
Orlando, Florida
(The Present)
Chapter 26
Riley
“No plans tonight?”
I glance up from my bed and see my dad leaning in the doorway. He’s nonchalantly cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief, a move I’ve seen him use in court whenever he wants to appear casual or disarming to the witness he’s about to question.
“Nope,” I answer, turning back to my phone on which I’ve been half-heartedly scrolling through TikTok since dinner. “No plans.”
“You’re not seeing your friends?”
I shake my head. Audrey and Tala are on a double date with Duy and Caleb tonight. They invited me to tag along, but I figured the only thing more pathetic than staying home on a Friday night was going out and being someone’s fifth wheel.
“You want to watch someDoctor Who?” Dad offers. “It’s been a while since we’ve cracked open the Blu-rays. I was thinking either Jon Pertwee’s fourth season or Sylvester McCoy’s third?”
It’s not lost on me that the seasons he’s suggesting are two of my favorites. Just like it’s not lost on me that Dad has been going out of his way to cheer me up for the last week. Not that he has any idea why I need cheering up. I’ve been too mortified to tell him (or anyone else) what happened between Jackson and me, so I’ve just been letting him think I’m in one of my teenage funks. Given my history, it’s not a hard sell.
“Maybe some other time,” I tell him.
“Oh.” Dad’s brows furrow in disappointment. “You sure? We can watch the extended cut ofThe Curse ofFenricwith the updated CGI.”
“I’m actually really tired,” I answer, forcing a yawn. “I’m just going to go to bed early. Can you close the door on your way out?”
Dad bites his lip. I can tell he wants to say something. But whatever it is, he decides it’s not worth pressing the issue. At least not right now.
“Sure, I’ll let you get some rest,” he says. “Maybe we can watch someWhotogether later this weekend.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Dad shoots me a weak smile. Then, with some reluctance, he leaves and shuts the door behind him.
I let out a tired sigh and collapse back against my pillow. It’s exhausting having to pretend that nothing’s wrong—that I haven’t been sick to my stomach thinking about Jackson.
Not that my brooding has been particularly subtle. Aside from going into the ACLU office every morning (where I do the bare minimum to avoid getting fired), I haven’t left my room all week. I’ve been sullen and uncommunicative at dinner. And I’ve barely responded to any of my friends’ texts.
I know I need to pull myself together and stop acting like the goddamn world is ending, but I can’t.
It’s been five days since I tried to kiss Jackson.Five days, and I haven’t heard a word.
