Regret & Thrill

An odd thing is regret.

It does not hit all at once. It sneaks up on you—tightens around your chest when you least expect it. It hangs in the gaps between quiet and consequence.

And right now I only feel remorse.

Ava still not speaks with me.

Jaxon is passing for not knowing anything occurred.

And me also? I'm caught in the midst drowning in something I can't get away from.

I remind myself this was only one-time occurrence. a slip-off. a fleeting weakness not likely to return.

Deeply down, though, I am lying.

Since the actual issue is not my regret of kissing Jaxon.

The true issue is I want to do it once more.

The next several days are agonizing.

Ava is nice but detached; she only speaks with me when absolutely necessary.

Jaxon does not press. He does not show up suddenly or text.

Still yet, he is everywhere.

in the house. In my reflections. I attempt to pretend in every single instant that other things occupy my thoughts instead of only him.

I try to bury my head. I pretend I can fix this.

Still, there is always conflict—unspoken but inevitable.

One evening then, everything boils over.

Late, and I ought to be in bed.

Rather, I'm trying to calm my mind by standing on Ava's rear porch in the humid night air.

And then, as if by terrible twist of fate, I hear footsteps behind me.

I need not search for someone to know.

Jaxon walks beside me and exhales. You are dodging me.

I stay fixed on the yard. "Smart observing."

quiet as a pulse.

You regret it, he says then.

It is not a matter of inquiry.

It is a statement.

And for some reason that makes response more difficult.

I let out a strong gasp. "I hate to have hurt Ava."

Jaxon moves, and I feel his heat—too close and not enough.

And me, he murmurs?

My heart skips.

I start to swallow hard. "What?"

Jaxon turns slightly and now looks at me. Big. Strong.

"Do you wish I had gone differently?"

At last, I gaze at him.

The evening sharpens his features, renders him in shadows, and makes his presence impossible to ignore.

And I forget to breathe for a second—just a sliver of a moment.

Since I am not regretting him.

I am sorry I want him.

That still now, when I should be leaving, I find it difficult to back off.

I had told myself to look aside. "It has no bearing."

The jaw of Jaxon closes. "Matters."

" Why?" I catch myself, frustration boiling over. "So, you might come to view yourself more favorably? You can thus inform me it was not a mistake?

His voice lowers and his face gets harder. Is that what you would like me to say?

I respond not.

For unknown reasons.

Since I want him to say plenty of things—things I shouldn't want to hear.

Jaxon exhales harshly and runs a hand over his hair. Lena, you may lie to yourself all you want. But you are not lying to me.

I start to feel gradual, profound heat.

The truth is, he is right.

With regard to me, he is always right.

And that is precisely the reason this is so perilous.

I have no idea who moves first.

Possibly it's him. Perhaps that's me.

Perhaps it hardly matters at all.

All I know is that we are fighting in one second; the next is His hands on my waist.

My behind crashes against the porch railing.

And he has lips on mine.

The kiss is fire and frustration; we have been avoiding this collision but never escaping.

I ought to give it up. I ought to push him off.

But I don't.

Since nothing has ever seemed more unavoidable.

Jaxon gasps into my mouth, his hold tightening and pushing me deeper, harder.

With fingers wriggling into the fabric, the world narrows to just this and I hold his shirt like it's the only thing grounding me.

simply him.

Simply us.

One error I find impossible to stop.

The second we separate; reality crashes onto me like a chilly wave.

My heart is totally wrecked, my lips swell, my breath is irregular.

Jaxon is still too close; his forehead almost touches mine, his chest rising and falling as though he recently ran a marathon.

Then for a moment neither of us moves.

I then start to back off.

I push myself to turn away, to shatter the instant before I sink once more into it.

We cannot do this, I whisper.

Jaxon runs a hand through his hair and exhales hard.

"You keep saying that," he says quietly.

I start to bite my lip. "Because it is true."

He slants his head, dark eyes. Then why do you find yourself returning?

The inquiry strikes me right in the gut.

The response is too hazardous and too difficult.

I chew. "It's not important."

Jaxon observes me, and for a second, I believe he will let it go.

Subsequently—

His barely-there touch of fingers brushing my wrist shocks me.

Then gently, dangerously, he says, "It matters to me."

I reply nothing.

Since, should I do, I will say something I cannot undo.

I turn instead and go away.

The worst aspect, though?

I don't keep it more than ten steps before I start to wish to go back.

And it is this that most worries me.