Page 69 of Don't Let Me Go
He must really hate me. Not that I blame him. He had literally just finished telling me in no uncertain terms that I was hisfriendand that he never wanted anything to jeopardize that—and what did I do? Nuked our entire relationship by attempting to shove my tongue down his throat.
How could I think that was okay? Or that Jackson would want that?
When I close my eyes, I can still see the horror on his face when his aunt walked in on us. He couldn’t even look at me. That’s how disgusted he was.
Is it any wonder I haven’t heard from him?
I betrayed his friendship. I betrayed his trust. I betrayed him.
Of course he’s never going to speak to me again.
I’ve ruinedeverything.
Chapter 27
Jackson
“Okay,enough,” Aunt Rachel announces, yanking back the curtains and flooding my room with blinding light. I pull my sheets over my head to block out the morning sun, but my aunt stomps over to my bed and whips them back.
“Get up. We’re having breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” I grumble.
“Too bad. You’ve been moping in this room for almost a week, and I’m sick of it. Get your butt out of bednow.”
“I’m in my underwear.”
Aunt Rachel folds her arms across her chest. “Jackson, either you get up and join me in the kitchen where we can talk about whatever’s turned you into this reclusive, lethargicslugwhile we enjoy some delicious Belgian waffles and fresh-squeezed orange juice that I’ve spent all morning preparingorI can call your parents and you can tellthemwhat’s going on. Your choice, kiddo.”
Aunt Rachel pulls out her phone and waits for my decision.
“Fine,” I groan. “I’ll get up.”
“Good. Get dressed and I’ll see you in the kitchen in five minutes.Or else.”
Aunt Rachel leaves, and I grudgingly pull on a pair of rumpled cargo shorts and an old T-shirt. After days of barely leaving my bed, I feel like a zombie. But I force myself to trudge to the kitchen, where I find my aunt sitting at the table next to a pot of steaming coffee.She slides two waffles covered in sliced strawberries off a decorative serving platter and onto a plate that she sets in front of me, then pours some coffee into my mug.
“Sit. Eat.”
The aroma of fresh coffee and waffles makes my stomach growl, and for the first time in days, I realize I’m famished. I sit down across from my aunt and tuck into my breakfast. Before I know it, I’ve cleaned my plate.
“Nice to know my cooking is appreciated,” Aunt Rachel says as she dishes out seconds. “Now, let’s talk.”
I set down my fork and stare at my plate as my appetite vanishes.
“You’ve been sullen, moody, and, frankly, a real buzzkill for the past week. So talk to me, kiddo. What’s going on?”
I shake my head, unsure where to begin. Do I start with the fact that I almost kissed Riley? Or do I start with that batshit-crazy dream I had immediately after, the one that left me so freaked out, I haven’t wanted to leave my room all week? The one I can’t stop thinking about no matter how hard I try?
And not because of the sex. If it had been only a sex dream, I think I could’ve handled that. It would’ve been weird, for sure, but at least it would have been a pretty clear message from my subconscious about what I want. But it wasn’t only a sex dream. It was a sex dream that ended with Riley and me being blown up.
ByNazis.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Is my brain trying to tell me that if I have a relationship with Riley, I’ll blow up both our lives? Is it a warning?
But if that’s the case, why did my brain dream about us having sex in the first place? Because honestly, I can’t get that image out of my head.
For the past week, I’ve been thinking nonstop about what it mightbe like to kiss Riley—to hold him in my arms and do exactly what we did in that dream.
