Page 118 of Losing Faith

A laugh escapes him, and when his hand falls from my face, I try to hide my disappointment.

“You’re right.” He turns more serious. “That was inappropriate.”

I quickly shake my head. “I was kidding. I’m not unstable.”

“No?” He teases.

“Nope. Not vulnerable at all either.” I rise to my feet and he doesn’t move, keeping us inches apart.

A smile touches his lips as he tucks another strand behind my ear before cupping my face. “How about this,” he starts, voice low. “You promise to stay for the entire night and keep the inappropriate comments to a minimum, for my parents’ sake, and anytime you feel whatever you felt in here before I walked in, we can sneak away for one kiss.”

I shouldnotbe this excited at the possibility of the waves of my sadness hitting, but I suddenly want them tenfold if it means getting a feel-better kiss.

“That sounds fair.” I nod, realizing I would have agreed to anything he said if the ending of the deal was the same.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” I agree and he leans in, planting a soft, tender kiss to my lips.

As his lips press against mine, it’s nothing like the hungry, rushed, wet kiss after the pool show. This one is slow andsafe.

Before either of us can take this to the danger zone, he pulls away. “Better?”

I nod twice, not trusting my voice to come out strong enough.

“Good.” Without another word, he takes my hand, guiding me to the dining room. “Found her,” Jackson announces and Isabelle turns to us with a smile.

“Finally. Now we can start.” She turns back to the table, and across from her are Jackson’s parents, who, I don’t fail to notice, look down at our clasped hands before sharing a look.

I feel my face heat in embarrassment and I’m not sure why, but I suddenly care a great deal what they think about me. My eyes land on the table, and in front of each of them are cookies along with piping bags of frosting.

“Turkey cookie decorating contest,” Jackson explains. “Isabelle takes holiday games seriously, so for all of our sakes,pleasecolor the damn cookie and stick to the color palette. Donotmix them to make more colors, that’s cheating and will result in a very early bedtime forherbecause we’re not doing tantrums today.”

I stifle a laugh at how tired he sounds and I’m intrigued to see what else she planned for today.

Remember when I said Iwasintrigued? Untrigue me. I’m not interested in another turkey-themed activity.

Being that Isabelle is the only child in the house, we’re all stuck entertaining her. Pinning the feather on the turkey, making turkey paper headbands, turkey bowling withturkey-looking cupsthat we made,and a pumpkin for a ball. We’re not eveneatingturkey today because she refuses to allow her dad to cook thepoor thing.

I love the kid, but she’s driving me mad.

“Why don’t you have any thankful feathers on your turkey?” Isabelle glances at my bald bird that’s supposed to have a feather for everything I’m thankful for, but mine is empty because I’m drawing a blank. I don’t have anything I’m thankful for.

I know that sounds ungrateful, but I don’t have anything in my life going on.

Her grandparent’s turkeys are too far across the table for me to read, but they’re full.

Isabelle’s thankful turkey reads: Daddy, abuela, grandpa, KC, new house, new school! ballet, baking, my balising scils.

I feel my brows furrow at her last feather and lean closer. “What’s this one?” I point at it. I helped her with the spelling, but don’t recognize the last feather.

“My balancing skills. They’re really important in gymnastics.”

I smile at her as I take a new feather. “Let’s try spelling that one again.” I hand her a pencil instead of a marker so she can make mistakes. “Sound it out.”

She does and I correct her.

“Balancing. Not balising. Do you hear the difference? Ba-la-ah.”

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