Page 74 of Don't Let Me Go
“Ugh.I’m dead,” Duy groans. “You would look stunning in the backless periwinkle gown I’ve been designing. Tell me you’re planning to visit Orlando again soon. I would love to get some shots of you in the gown for my portfolio.”
“Your portfolio?”
“Duy’s a designer,” Jackson explains, finally breaking his long and awkward silence. “They’re putting together a portfolio of their work so that they can apply to fashion programs.”
“Amazing!” Micaela’s enthusiasm is undeniably genuine. As is her sweetness, vivacious spirit, and generous heart.
Even so, I wish she’d fall into the lake.
I know I said I was going to keep my romantic feelings for Jackson in check—and I am—but I can’t help feeling jealous of Micaela. Not to mention betrayed by Jackson. In all our discussions, he never once mentioned that he was still in touch with his ex. Now it turns out that not only has he been texting her on the regular, he’s also been keeping our friendship and my entire existence a secret.
I’ve tried to convince myself that he must have some perfectly reasonable excuse for not telling Micaela about me. But the only explanation that makes sense is the simplest one.
He’s embarrassed.
Yes, he likes me. Yes, he wants to be my friend. But he’s also Jackson Haines, star athlete and former dude-bro. He can’t let his friends back home know that he’s spending all his free time with some queer little gay boy.
Then again, Jackson was strangely insistent that we spend the day together even after I gave him multiple opportunities to bail on our plans. Would he do that if he was ashamed of me?
I don’t know.
I don’t know anything except for the supremely frustrating fact that every time our friendship takes two steps forward, we immediately take three steps back. It’s like the universe is deliberately fucking with us.
“Speaking of my portfolio,” Duy says as they pull out their phone. “I have to show you the shots I took of Riley and Jackson. They arefire.”
Jackson stops in his tracks, and the color drains from his face. At the sight of his distress, my frustration with him instantly evaporates, and I’m left with an almost instinctive desire to protect him from anypotential humiliation—like having to explain incredibly homoerotic photos to his ex.
“You got Jackson to model for you?” Micaela exclaims, her eyes going wide with excitement. “Oh my gosh, you have to show me!”
“We should actually get to the amphitheater,” I say. “Audrey and Tala are waiting.”
But Duy lets out a dismissive snort. “It’ll just take two seconds. Besides, the concert doesn’t start for, like, half an hour. Audrey needs to chill.”
Jackson looks at me helplessly, but there’s nothing I can do. Duy is already shoving their phone in Micaela’s face, showing her the photo of me in Jackson’s arms, our lips about to kiss.
“Is this the sexiest thing everor what?” Duy boasts.
Micaela’s smile falters. If Duy notices her reaction, they don’t let on. Instead, they launch into an enthusiastic recap of the modeling session, pointing out specific details about the authenticity of the Regency design. Micaela nods and makes appreciative comments as the smile gradually returns to her face.
“So hot, right?” Duy asks, managing to be completely oblivious to the awkwardness they’re inflicting.
“Yeah, so hot,” Micaela echoes. She then turns to Jackson and adds, “I had no idea you had such an exciting life here in Orlando.”
“We were just fooling around,” Jackson mumbles, waving off the compliment that also sounds like an accusation. “It’s not a big deal.”
I know he’s talking about the photos, but I can’t help feeling like he’s also talking about us. This morning when he came to my house, I thought I finally had confirmation that, if nothing else, our friendship was solid. That it was important to both of us. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe Jackson has just been fooling around with me until something or someone better comes along.
“We should find Audrey and Tala,” I say, heading off to the amphitheater before anyone can see the hurt on my face.
I don’t look back to see if anyone follows. In an effort to get control of my emotions, I keep my head down and my eyes glued to the sidewalk in front of me. Which is how I end up walking straight into someone’s back.
“Ow! Watch it!”
“Sorry,” I mumble without looking up. I try to go around the person, but a familiar voice stops me in my tracks.
“Riley?”
I glance up and can barely believe my eyes. Clearly, the universe isn’t done messing with my life because standing right in front of me is Alex fucking Vargas.
