~Jessica~
I saw Duane at church.
Reverend Seymour held two services every Sunday: the “fast service” at eight, and the “leisurely service” at ten.
Bethany Winston, when she was alive, and all the Winston boys went to the fast service. It lasted for an hour, tops. My momma called it fast-food religion. She complained loud and often about the regular attendees, calling them Catholics parading as Baptists.
My family had always attended the 10:00 a.m. service. It lasted anywhere between one and a half to three hours, and community worship was the name of the game. Sometimes it felt like everyone in attendance spoke at least once—asking for prayers, or saying a special prayer, or giving witness. Even after church was over, it was still going on. Groups of people met in the hall. They socialized, ate doughnuts, held prayer circles, and drank weak coffee.
For this reason I’d hardly ever seen Duane at church, and I likely wouldn’t have, except my daddy unexpectedly woke me up early Sunday morning for a heaping helping of fast-food religion.
I suspected he was anxious to get Sunday service out of the way because the Cowboys were playing the Patriots at noon. This suspicion was confirmed when I spotted the fixings for nachos and a six pack of Corona in the fridge—my father’s version of wild and reckless behavior.
We arrived a few minutes early and sat in the back. Duane and three of his brothers—Billy, Cletus, and Beau—arrived a short time later and strolled to one of the middle pews. At first I was struck speechless by the sight of them; four tall, fine-looking men, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, dressed in their Sunday uniform of black pants, white button-down shirts, moving with an intrinsic kind of swagger, grace, and confidence in their step.
Really, it was too much handsome. It felt like an assault.
The last time I’d seen so many male Winstons together all at once was when I was thirteen and all six of them were at a church picnic. Roscoe, Beau, and Duane had been in braces at the time. They were cute-handsome then. But now they were all grown up. I imagined it would be difficult for any red-blooded female to keep focus on the worship with an entire pew of Winston men in attendance.
As soon as my wits recovered from the Winston-handsome-assault, I thought about calling out or making some sign to Duane, but I felt my daddy’s narrowed eyes on me and therefore opted to remain quiet.
Furthermore, I felt conflicted about how our date had ended the night before. I’d assumed things were going splendidly. Well, it had gone splendidly until the very end when I’d tried to reciprocate his wonderful ministrations, and—instead of enthusiastically taking me up on the offer—he’d gently pushed away my advances. He drove me to my parents’ house, mumbling something about having me home by a respectable time. Once there, I received a kiss on the cheek, and he left without making any new plans.
Service started and I couldn’t concentrate. For me, the difficulty was having Duane within such close proximity. It’s problematic for your soul when your body is recalling fleshy pursuits from the night before, and the week before that, and the week before that. I felt a twinge of embarrassment at how I’d behaved, how I’d been behaving since weeks ago at the community center, how I’d basically thrown myself at him multiple times, and how he’d gently rejected me each time.
Maybe he didn’t want my enthusiasm.
Maybe he wanted to take things slow.
Or maybe my fervor—for his touch and kisses and embrace—was a turn off.
This last theory didn’t sit right. He seemed to like it, liked making me feel good, watching me lose my control. Maybe he just didn’t want to lose his control…
As well, this behavior was not typical for me, and my thoughts turned inward as I tried to determine why I’d been acting so out of character.
Yes, I liked to kiss and be kissed, flirt and have fun. However, anything beyond kissing hadn’t ever felt quite natural with anyone else. Putting on the brakes in the past had been effortless, and I’d mindfully explored at my own pace, even the guy (a.k.a. the Shetland pony) I’d lost my virginity with. In college, if I felt pressured by a boy to round the bases, I’d move on. Walking away had been easy.
Yet, with Duane…well, I realized I didn’t feel in control. I felt needy. I felt urgency. I felt desperate. I wanted to be with him or close to him all the time. When we weren’t together I was thinking about him, specifically conversations we’d had as kids and adolescents, and viewing them through a new lens. He was becoming dear to me with alarming speed because I was allowing our history to tangle with our present.
And, truthfully, part of the problem was I just liked him so much.
I wasn’t going to play games, games were dishonest, but I made a solemn promise to be more circumspect and careful about flinging my heart and panties at him in the future. He’d caught me unawares with his backstage trickery, then his vulnerable honesty at the lake. I decided I was going to slow down, adopt a more mindful attitude. If he wanted to take things slow then I could take things slow, too.
When the service was over just thirty-five minutes after it had begun, I was surprised my father didn’t rush out of church; he even placed a staying hand on my arm when I moved to leave the pew.
“Just a sec, Jess.”
I glanced at him, allowing my confusion to show on my face.
My daddy gave me a small smile and lifted his chin toward the aisle where people were filtering out. “Your young man is here. Wouldn’t be right, leaving without a word to Duane.”
I squinted at my father, immediately suspicious of his intentions. At best my father was indifferent to all my previous boyfriends—the ones he’d met anyway—and at worst he’d been dismissive and rude.
“Daddy, is this your way of telling me you like Duane Winston?” I whispered.
“No. This is my way of telling you I like Duane Winston,” he cleared his throat and returned my squinty expression, “Jess, I like Duane Winston.”
I couldn’t help the surprised laugh that bubbled forth or the smile of wonder that claimed my features as I studied my daddy. “But you don’t like anybody.”
“That’s because ain’t nobody good enough for you.”
“And Duane is?”
“No. But his momma, rest her soul, was the best sort. Now, if I had my pick I’d have rathered Cletus or Billy, but you know how Jackson and I are worthless with cars. It would be nice to have a mechanic in the family.”
I’m sure my eyes bulged. “Daddy. We just started dating!”
“Yeah, but it’s clear that man has his mind set on the long term, and if Duane Winston turns out to be a reason for you to stay in Green Valley instead of following through with your absurd plans, then I’ll happily put up with him courting my daughter.”
I gave my daddy a sad smile and my heart fell just a tad. He didn’t bring up my plans to leave often, but when he did, he always used words like absurd, reckless, preposterous, misguided, and foolish—stopping just short of calling me stupid. I didn’t like disappointing my parents, so I never brought them up.
“Hello, sir.”
I twisted back toward the aisle, finding Duane standing just inside our pew with his hand outstretched to my father. The other three Winstons were loitering in the pew to my right. I realized they were all waiting to pay their respects.
After greeting my father, Duane turned his attention to me. He didn’t offer his hand. Instead he stuffed both into his pockets, nodding once in my direction and saying, “Jessica,” in that way he did, with a slight whisper, and giving me the entirety of his intense focus.
“Hi, Duane.” I tried to be circumspect and mindful—after all we were still in church—but it didn’t work. My simple greeting sounded beyond delighted even to my ears, verging on enthusiastic. Music only I could hear switched on; this time is it was Just the Way You Are, by Bruno Mars—except the shes were replaced with hes.
Goodness, I was pathetic.
Because of the distracting music in my head and the intensity of Duane’s attention, I missed most of the other conversation, and the friendly chit-chat between my daddy and the rest of the Winston boys. I was only able to recover when Duane shifted his attention back to my father.
“I imagine you and Jess have plans for the day?” I heard my daddy ask.
We didn’t. We hadn’t made any plans.
Therefore, I was surprised when Duane nodded. “Yes, sir. We do.”
“What are you kids up to?” he asked, using his Sheriff’s voice.
“We’re heading to the shop and I’m planning to teach Jessica how to change a tire.”
I’m sure my face betrayed my astonishment. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Beau try to hide his smirk, and I was glad my back was mostly to my father so he couldn’t see my expression.
“Good idea, son. While you’re at it, teach her how to check the fluids, change the oil and such. Then she can teach me and Jackson.”
“Be happy to, sir.” Duane gave my daddy a short, respectful nod then returned his eyes to mine; once again I was struck by how he was looking at me.
He was looking at me like he had plans.
***
“Brown sugar? Why would he put brown sugar in the radiator?”
“Because someone told him it would stop the leak.”
“Did it?”
“No. Brown sugar doesn’t work. But eggs do.”
I’d left church with Duane. All the Winstons had driven their own cars. Now I was facing him, one leg tucked under me, my elbow resting on the bench seat of his Road Runner and my face propped in my palm. I stared at his profile, trying not to notice how he’d rolled his shirtsleeves to his forearms. The man had beautiful forearms.
“Eggs? People put eggs in their radiator?”
“Yep. I’ve done it before to stop a leak, in a pinch. Some places in these mountains it’s easier to find a hen house then it is to find electrical tape.”
“Why do eggs work and not brown sugar?”
“I reckon because they’re heavier when cooked, sink in hot water. Brown sugar gums up but it floats.”
I stared at Duane for a long moment, thinking about his reasoning. “Huh… That’s crazy.”
He shrugged as we pulled into the Winston Brothers Auto Shop. “I’ve seen crazier. People with no money, desperate to have a working car are worse than patients with no health insurance or access to a doctor. They’ll try anything.”
“Tell me something else.”
“Like what?” He didn’t park out front, instead opting to wind the car around to the back of the building—which I thought was odd for exactly three seconds. Then I remembered it was Sunday. I surmised he didn’t want anyone knowing we were here and therefore checking to see if the shop was open for business.
“Something about cars and wackadoodle customers. Tell me something else weird or funny.”
Duane cut the engine, and glanced at me. “Let’s see… Sometimes people will complain about the cost of service, but we can’t do anything about how much parts cost. So Cletus came up with the idea of adding fake line items, to spread the cost around.”
“Like what?”
“Like muffler bearings.”
“Muffler bearings?” I asked just as Duane exited. I was already out with the door shut by the time he made it to my side, despite his hustling.
“Yeah. It’s strange.” Duane took my hand, frowning at the car door behind me like he was irritated with it for letting me out. “People won’t question an itemized bill as long as each individual charge is small. I came up with a few fictitious charges after arguing with this one guy about the cost of a new transmission.”
“What are some of yours?”
“Well, let’s see…” Duane’s eyes went up and to the right as we walked toward the back of the shop. “Blinker fluid.”
I giggled. “Blinker fluid? You told people they needed blinker fluid?”
He nodded, a reluctant smile tugging his mouth to the side. “Or spark plugs for a diesel engine, power antenna fluid, that kind of stuff.”
I shook my head, laughing harder. “I can’t believe no one has caught on.”
“I don’t think they want to catch on. They feel like they’re getting a good price on the main work, and no one really wants to know how their car works. People just want it to work, they want it fixed." He released my hand in order to open the locked door and flipped on the overhead lights as we entered. The space was just as cold as the outside and smelled like a medley of oil and actual car fluids.
“I can see that. I mean, if you told me my car needed muffler bearings I wouldn’t know enough to contradict you.”
“We don’t do it to everyone, just people who are perpetual complainers, or we get a sense ahead of time who might be trouble. Watch your step.” His voice echoed in the cavernous shop and he squeezed my hand, lifting it as he indicated to a muffler on the cement floor directly in our path.
I followed his lead, careful to watch where I stepped, and spoke as I thought. “It’s interesting to me, how some people need to be pacified and don’t even know it—about themselves, I mean.”
“Lots of people are like that. Almost everybody, to one degree or another.”
“Yeah, maybe. I can see that. I’d like to think I will always want the truth from everybody, no matter what, no matter how uncomfortable or hurtful. But I’m sure there are some situations where remaining ignorant is likely best.”
“I agree, to an extent.” We skirted the garage to a side door, then navigated two landings of stairs to a big room. It appeared to be a combination office, break room, and apartment. A big desk and computer sat along one wall facing the window; a small cot, counter, fridge, and sink were along the other. File cabinets lined the third, and a single round Formica table with three chairs sat in the center.
“To an extent?” I asked.
“Yeah, to an extent.”
He left me at the door and crossed to one of the file cabinets. I wandered in after him, glancing around as he fished in a drawer for a few seconds. “Be more specific. What do you mean to an extent?”
He then withdrew something wrapped in a plastic bag and poked a hole to rip it open. “Well, take you for example.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. You’re almost too honest.”
I considered him and his statement for a beat, not sure if it was compliment, or an insult, or a complisult; when I couldn’t make up my mind I asked, “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“A good thing, real good,” he answered with no hesitation, drawing a set of new coveralls out of the plastic bag. “I like it. I’ve always liked it. But I worry for you sometimes.”
Now, that made my insides feel soft and warm. I was walking toward him without realizing I was moving, obviously he had me caught in some kind of charming tractor beam. “You worry for me?”
“Yes. Most of the time what you’re thinking is on your face, like an open book for anyone to read. I guess…” He paused like he didn’t know whether or not to continue, but then eventually shrugged. “It reminds me of my momma and my sister. You’re guileless, trusting, and that’s great for me. But it can also make you a target.”
“I’m not that trusting.”
Duane’s eyes narrowed and he issued me a sly smile. “Yes, you are.”
“I’m not,” I protested, feeling my hackles rise.
“Okay, whatever you say.” He shrugged, handing me the coveralls, obviously making a half-assed effort to pacify me.
I clenched my jaw, liking and disliking the way his sly smile lingered. “You think I’m naïve. I am not naïve. I’m worldlier than you know.” Naïve had always sounded like an insult to me, akin to childish.
“I’m just saying, when you trust someone, you really trust that person. You’ve always been that way, ever since we were kids.”
I studied him, wondering why we were talking about this; therefore I eventually asked, “Why are we talking about this? Are you trying to tell me not to trust you?”
“I would never tell you that.”
“That’s not a satisfactory answer.”
His features cracked with an involuntary smile. Then he took six steps forward, walking me backward until I was against the wall. Though he was invading my space, he didn’t touch me. I had to lift my chin to keep administering the dirty look I’d adopted.
“Jessica,” he whispered, his gaze sweeping over my face like he was attempting to memorize this dirty look I was giving him. “My priority is making sure all your dreams come true. You can trust me on that.”
“But can I trust you not to push me into a lake while I’m in my Sunday best? Or switch out my travel magazines with Urology journals?”
He nodded and placed a gentle kiss on my nose, but as he retreated he said, “No.”
“No?”
“No. If I get a chance to push you into a lake, I’m probably going to take it, especially if you’re wearing that dress.” His eyes flickered down just briefly, then back to mine.
I huffed, felt my dirty look transform into a disappointed frown. “See now, I’ve been working under the assumption you liked me.”
Duane’s sly smile returned and his eyes heated; I recognized this look, it was his I’ve got plans look. “I do like you, Jessica. See now, that dress is white. And if it got wet, it wouldn’t matter if you left it on or took it off.”
I kept my eyes narrowed, though I felt my own involuntary smile tug at the corner of my lips. A lovely spreading warmth moved from my chest to my stomach to my thighs. I remembered the solemn promise I’d made to myself during church, not to fling my heart or my panties in his direction, to be circumspect and mindful.
He was making it very hard to keep my solemn promises, let alone be mindful.
Nevertheless, and even though I was starting to feel that uncontrollable, desperate, building sense of urgency, I managed to squeak out, “I’d like some privacy while I change, please.”
The light behind Duane’s eyes wavered, like I’d said something to confuse him. “You want some privacy?”
I nodded.
“Really?” He took a step back.
I nodded again.
His smile was gone and in its place was a thoughtful—verging on concerned—frown; he examined me for a bit longer then said, “You can trust me, Jess. You know that, right?”
“I know. And I do—”
“Good.”
“—to an extent.”
He smile-scowled at my use of his earlier words, then shook his head like I was a nut. “Fine, I’ll meet you downstairs, Princess. We’ll be changing a tire first.”
I gave him two thumbs up. “Sounds good, Red.”
His scowl deepened, but so did his smile as he turned toward the door and yanked it open. I heard him mutter as he left, “Maybe after we can go find a lake.”
***
We changed four tires. The shop had one of those high-powered thingamadoodles, yet he insisted we do it the old fashioned way—with a carjack and a tire iron.
Next, he showed me how to check the oil and various car fluids, remarking on the differences between several makes and models, like the fact old VW Bugs’ engines were air-cooled and didn’t have radiators. I was having fun, mostly because watching Duane in his element was fun.
I realized Duane Winston loved cars. He loved how they worked, how each car was different, nuanced, a puzzle to be solved. And he told me more stories about nutty customers that made me laugh even though I couldn’t quite follow them. One was about a man whose air filter was sucked into the throttle body, and another described a customer who added eight quarts of oil to his four-cylinder engine because the dipstick looked dry, except at the tip.
Some of the terms he used—like throttle body—made me press my lips together, avert my eyes from his big hands, and fight a blush. I’d never realized before, but automotive speak was ripe with inadvertent sexual innuendos, like manifold couplings, dipstick, and lube.
Or maybe I just had a dirty mind.
Or maybe it was just Duane. Perhaps his mere presence did things to my throttle body.
Or maybe some combination of the three.
Whatever the issue, I was feeling hot under the collar of my oversized coveralls and had to unzip them to my chest, surreptitiously fanning myself after he’d used the phrases drive shaft and push rod in the same sentence. While I fanned myself, I walked over to a stereo sitting on a well-lit table. Small, greasy machine parts covered the surface of the table, making me think the car part was either being disassembled or reassembled.
I switched on the stereo to CD mode and pressed play, curious to see what had been playing last. To my astonishment, the cool harmonic melodies of The Beach Boys filled the air.
I glanced over my shoulder and found Duane watching me with not quite a smile, though his eyes were glittery.
“The Beach Boys?”
“That's right.” He nodded once and strolled to where I stood, wiping his hands on a rag and stuffing it in his back pocket. He’d changed into a set of coveralls, too. However, his fit, were old with faded grease stains, and had his name embroidered over the left side. “Everyone likes the Beach Boys, at least that’s what my momma used to say. Everyone likes the Beach Boys and pie.”
I grinned, because Bethany Winston was right. Well, she was right about me at least. I liked the Beach Boys and pie.
I turned to face him and he stopped in front of me, smirking as he studied my appearance. I was pretty sure I had grease on my face, probably my nose, and several smudges on the new coveralls. I likely looked a mess. Yet Duane seemed to like what he saw because his eyes grew warm with what looked like affection.
“Come here,” he said, holding out his hand.
I placed my hand in his as chords from Fun, Fun, Fun played over the stereo’s speakers. To my delighted surprise, Duane pulled me into a dancing hold and proceeded to swing dance us around the garage.
I was so shocked at first I’m sure I stepped on his toes and did more stumbling than dancing. But the steps I’d learned in college during my two-week swing dancing phase quickly came back to me—probably because Duane was an exceptional leader—and soon we were moving together in a way that felt effortless.
The next song on the CD was Brown Eyed Girl by Van Morrison. I laughed out loud when he sang the words to me—because I could either laugh or swoon—and I was delighted from the tips of my ears to my toes, feeling dizzy with the force of exhilaration and happiness.
Build Me Up Buttercup by the Foundations, I Want You Back by the Jackson 5, and Uptown Girl by Billy Joel rounded out the next three songs. I was out of breath, sweaty, and making no attempt to hide my euphoria when a slow song finally came on; again the Beach Boys, this time it was Don’t Worry Baby.
Duane grinned down at me and pulled me close, pressing my body against his, his bearded jaw at my temple, and moved us in a small, swaying circle. I closed my eyes, using the first full minute of the song to catch my breath. Then I used the next thirty seconds to force my heart to slow. But it wouldn’t.
First of all, I could smell him and he smelled good. So, so good. Plus his arms around me felt remarkable. And the way his body moved with mine, the feel of his chest and stomach and thighs… Oh sigh.
I both loved and hated his embrace—loved for obvious reasons, hated because I knew I needed to keep myself at a distance when all I wanted to do was snuggle, and kiss, and grope him with abandon. But if I did that then I’d likely have to face another of his gentle rejections.
I needed to be mindful and circumspect.
I felt the familiar building of desperation and urgency, but I pushed it away.
He wanted to go slow. I could go slow. I could do that. I could control myself. I could.
I felt Duane lean away, felt his gaze on me, so I opened my eyes and met his. He was frowning, searching my face.
“What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
His frown escalated in severity, his forehead creasing. “What’s wrong, Jess? And don’t say nothing. You’re all stiff and distant.”
Emotion I didn’t recognize felt like a swelling balloon in my throat and I pressed my lips together, not knowing how to respond.
And then he said, “Just be honest.”
So I sighed and was honest. “I’m trying to go slow. But, it’s not easy. I, well, I really like you. Like, really like you. I’m thinking about you all the time and last week was difficult, when we were apart. It may sound crazy, but I missed you terribly, and not because you get me all hot and bothered. Yeah, that’s part of it. But you make me laugh, and being with you feels so good, comfortable. But based on how you keep putting me off, I think you want to go slow. I’m trying to…” I shrugged, searched the space around his head for the right words, and finally settled on, “I’m trying to be less wild and reckless. I want to be respectful of you, of your wishes. And that’s the whole truth.”
Duane’s mouth parted slightly and his eyebrows lifted high on his forehead. All hints of his earlier frown had vanished. Unless I was misreading his expression, he appeared to be a little lost, like maybe I’d stolen his breath and his wallet and his passport and his memories. Really, he looked stunned.
I swallowed, not sure what to say or do as the slow song came to an end and silence took its place. My heart thundered painfully in my chest. The moment felt taut and untenable, so I moved to distance myself. Duane’s grip tightened, preventing me from stepping away.
Then something behind his gaze acutely sharpened, and the sharpness felt dangerous. My eyes widened in alarm just before Duane’s mouth sought and claimed mine. He kissed me—wet, devouring, open-mouthed kisses—and gripped my arms a little too tight. He walked me backward until my legs connected with the hood of the Mustang. Pushing me backward, he released my arms, his hands moving to the zipper of my coveralls.
Breathing hard, I gripped his wrists and ducked my head to the side to evade his mouth. Duane’s savageness caught me off guard and sucked me into a vortex of ferocious longing. “Wait…wait a minute. What’s—”
“I want you, Jess. So much. You don’t know…” He unzipped the jumper, pulling it off my shoulders with a yank and trapping my arms against my sides, lowering my back to the car. His mouth and tongue worked, kissing and licking and sucking from my jaw to my neck to my white lace-covered breast. I moaned and whimpered as he did something truly fantastic to my nipple with his teeth and the tip of his tongue. I didn’t know if I’d ever recover, as sharp slices of hot need ran down my spine and to my lower abdomen.
“Duane, please.” My arms were still trapped and I was laying on the hood of the car, writhing and arching my back, trying to get closer. He was over me, devouring my skin, pressing his thigh where I needed him.
“Don’t change a thing. God, Jess. Don’t change a single thing. Be wild for me, be reckless. I love your kind of wild. I love…”
His words were lost as he moved lower, his hand replacing his leg. My breath came in short, excited bursts and I briefly fought the sleeves holding my arms to my sides. But then my captivity was forgotten and I melted against the metal of his Mustang, a bundle of nerve endings and feelings and insensible desire.
He had me trapped. I was helpless to him. As he touched and tasted my body, he watched me, his gaze a mirror of the urgency and desperation I felt at his hands and mouth.
Maybe I was being absurd and reckless, misguided and foolish. I knew he would push me, I had no doubt. But I trusted him. I trusted that, even though Duane would definitely push, he’d also be there to catch me when I fall.