The kiss he presses on the back of my hand should make me cringe. It should make me pull away from him. It should make me want to slap him in the face.
But it's customary. It's habit. It's expected.
I won't start a long tirade about how disgusting I find it, that upon meeting someone for the first time, it's okay for them to press their lips to a woman's skin.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Jackson says as he pulls his head up to look at me, his fingers still clasped in mine. “I'm honestly surprised this is the first time we've met.”
“Is that right?” I ask, playing coy as my father expects.
“It's my understanding that we run in the same circles.”
I don't have a circle. The people I associate with are usually at parties like the one I'm attending tonight. I don't have girlfriends that I call when I have good news. I don't have close relatives with shoulders to cry on when I'm upset.
I have events.
I have my schedule.
I have my expectations, and that's it.
“Jackson just got back from an overseas trip,” my mother interjects. “He probably has jet lag because he just flew in tonight.”
“Just in time to meet you,” Jackson says, his eyes glimmering under the chandeliers in the room.
Laying it on there a little thick, buddy.
“We’ll let you guys get to know each other better,” Mother says as she pats our joined hands.
It’s a sign of approval, and I have no doubt that it garnered the attention of others in the room. Everything is strategic, and tonight is no exception.
Within seconds, my parents disappear, walking a few feet away to greet another couple.
Jackson doesn't release my hand. Rather than sighing and leaning in conspiratorially to voice his opinion about these types of events, he looks down at me with the same fake-ass smile in place.
“How about we go somewhere a little more private so we can get to know each other better?”
Knowing I'm safe, knowing I don't have to worry about his intentions because of who his parents are, I allow him to escort me out of the room.
A real smile takes over my face when I realize his intentions. I love the beach. I'm excited every time the campaign brings me within even thirty minutes of the water. But the salty air wrapping itself around my skin doesn't hold the same appeal as it did earlier today.
Right now, the scent of salt is masked in the air by the putrid smells of sea life left behind after high tide.
It's not unusual for me to walk someplace in private with a guy. I’m not wearing a chastity belt or anything, so I don’t feel like I’m doing anything wrong, but it doesn’t keep my stomach from turning. I don’t want to be here with him. I don’t want him to somehow manage to ruin the joy I feel while at the ocean.
Some level of privacy, or at least the false sense of it, is expected by my parents.
Unreal bonds with people are very difficult to maintain for long periods of time. The charade of acting like you know someone when you really don't is always questioned in the media. So it's not unusual for Jackson to be leading me out closer to the water.
The sound of the party floats on the breeze, fading to nothing the further we walk. Jackson still hasn't released my hand, but I also don't want to be seen as a shrew.
I don't pull my fingers from his grasp. I can do what's expected because I know what's coming.
Jackson and I will share a polite conversation. He’ll probably ask me out on a date, something official of course, something that can be tracked by those people that are always keeping an eye on my father.
“It's a nice night,” Jackson says as he pauses his long stride to give me time to pull off my high heels. “Do you get to the beach often?”
I want to scoff. I want to look at him and sayreally? Do you come here often? Is that a line that actually works with other women?
But I don't.