The Lost Daughter

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

For a second, just the shock of Jackson's sudden closeness almost overpowers the knowledge and feeling of his lips against mine, and for that moment all I can think about is the fact that I've never been this close to him before.

But then, all at once it seems to hit me. Of course I've never been this close to Jackson, I think to myself, he's kissing me.

He's kissing me. And then, I'm kissing him.

My heart flutters and thuds a rapid beat beneath my ribs, such a stark contrast to the slow movement of his touch.

Cautiously, I match the steady and sedate pace he sets. My blood rushing like waves in my ears as I catch his bottom lip between my own.

My hands shake as I slide them down along the line of his shoulders, I ball my fists and gather the soft material of his shirt in my hands, allowing myself one more moment to forget about everything else and live infinitely in those seconds.

But then, I push against the hard expanse of his chest—for effect, mostly, because I have to take a few steps backward myself when my strength fails to move him an inch.

I stare wide eyed at Jackson when I'm a few safe feet away, a surreal feeling dropping like a veil over this near-strangers hallway.

Everything falls away from me. The music blaring from deeper in the house, the vibrations it causes—pulsing through the hardwood floors and into my bones, and the thought of all those people just around the corner.

Even when I can hear them, I'm almost positive he and I are the only people in the world in that moment.

For his part, Jackson looks almost as confused and shocked as I do. Though, not at all in the same way I portray it, with my eyes wide and mouth stuck open with a hitched breath.

No, his eyebrows are angled together and low over his eyes, his lips pressed together in a hard line along with the clench of his jaw.

It's then I notice that along that square cut of his jaw there's a shadow of a bruise, hiding almost fully beneath the short, dark stubble covering the lower half of his face. It only stands out because of the purplish color amongst the almost black hair.

The thought gets lost almost immediately in the barrage of everything else swirling like a storm in my mind, and slowly I raise my fingers to touch them softly to my lips—like I could somehow either press the feeling of him further into my skin or use them as a sort of barrier between the two of us.

"Willa," Jackson speaks first, cracking the silence in between us like thunder despite the relative gentle quietness of his voice.

I open my mouth to speak and a thousand thoughts rush to fill the space. Why? I want to ask him. Why now?

I want to ask about Weston, what he will think about this. I want to ask about every girl I've seen cling to him, which ones mean anything to him. If I mean anything to him. And I want to ask about everything I don't know about him, every secret he hides beneath his impassive front.

But I also want to forget about all the reasons why not, and tell him to forget, too. If he ever even cared about those reasons to begin with. I want to tell him to do it again, to kiss me.

In the end, neither win out.

With my fingers still pressed against my lips, I walk swiftly passed him. My body tingles at every point of contact as I brush by.

He doesn't say anything else, but I feel the heavy weight of his stare on my back as I walk down the hallway and away from him.

The hall opens back up into the party and I stand there momentarily, lost and disoriented as I see everyone just as they were ten minutes ago: talking and laughing and dancing and drinking, everything normal and easy while I still feel the phantom warmth of Jackson's kiss on my lips and what feels like my entire world changing and shifting again.