~Jessica~
“I guess you’re getting ready for your date.”
I turned and found my brother standing in the doorway to my room. He said the word date like I might say jury duty.
“Yes.” I kept my response terse, because I was determined to avoid another lecture from Jackson. Lord knows how he found out about my plans with Duane for tonight. Regardless, he’d seen fit to throw a fit Thursday evening when I got home. I was still driving the Mustang, so that might’ve contributed to his temper tantrum.
I was not in the mood then, and I certainly wasn’t in the mood now. I was on my own merry-go-round of confusion because I missed Duane. And I was missing more than his face, eyes, hands, and circumcised penis.
In the end, I’d accepted the car as a loaner, but did not accept it as a gift. Secretly, I planned on working something out with Beau and Cletus, taking less for the truck as a way to compensate Duane for the use of his car.
I’d have to be careful, though. If he found out about my scheming to repay him then he’d be pissed. Yet for some reason the idea of quarreling with Duane made me giddy. I wondered if we would disagree about the color of the sky on our date, fall into our old habit of debating and making mountains out of molehills. The possibility was exciting.
I was a little strange. Just a little… Only a little.
Since seeing him on Thursday, I’d thought about calling him approximately one million times just to hear the sound of his voice, maybe talk him into going for a drive so we could argue minutiae and kiss.
I’d always been a big fan of kissing when done right. I loved the accompanying hot pooling and heaviness in my belly, the anticipation of more, the whole experience of eyes closed, mouth open, and hot hands.
Basically, up until one week ago, my experience with the opposite sex had told me that kissing was as good as it got. All of my previous encounters went sharply downhill after the kissing.
As well as kissing, planning elaborate trips I would one day take, and looking for ways to freak out my brother had been my top three pastimes when younger. Since maturing while away from home, planning trips were still at the top of the list, but kissing boys had drifted down to the low fifties; this was because ninety-nine percent of boys weren’t what I would consider good kissers.
In high school everything was new and exciting. But in college the newness had worn off and kissing had grown tiresome. This was because I was doing the kissing instead of being kissed, and I wondered if that was the fundamental problem with kissing boys instead of men.
Boys usually do something not at all enjoyable that makes kissing a chore. They’re either just a pair of passive lips, saliva slobberers, or tongue thrusters.
Whereas men actually kiss.
“You’re going to wear that?” Jackson lifted his chin, indicating my outfit.
I glanced down at myself. Seeing nothing wrong with my blue jeans, hiking boots, and long-sleeved purple Henley with the top four buttons undone. I returned Jackson’s scowl with a frown.
“And what’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Your shirt is half undone, your boobs are busting out, and those jeans are awfully tight.”
I crossed my arms under my chest and glared at my brother. “Are you calling me fat?”
“No. I’m saying that outfit doesn’t leave much to the imagination. I don’t want that Winston boy getting ideas.”
Meanwhile, I wanted Duane to get lots of ideas.
Because I really liked him. And Duane Winston kissed like a man, and not just any man. He kissed like he enjoyed kissing me just as much as I enjoyed kissing him. And his skills made me think kissing was just the beginning of far better things to come. It was truly the whole experience of eyes closed, mouth open, and hot hands—hands in which I had every confidence.
And, just like that, Kissing Duane Winston jumped to the top of my favorite pastimes, my favorites list. Actually, debating, talking to, holding hands with, and hugging Duane Winston were also now on my list.
I tossed my long, loose braid over my shoulder. “His name, Jackson, is Duane.”
“I know his name.” Jackson scratched his scruffy beard, sounding ornery.
“Then use it.”
I was feeling ornery too. Ornery and frustrated.
I’d just lived through Thursday night and Friday without any contact between us. Even now, almost time for our date, and especially in retrospect, something about the way Duane had said, I want to do this right, made me think he’d be withholding kisses tonight. Or, he was planning on giving me only proper kisses, and only at the end of the night, and done with respect, and mindful of who my parents were.
Lord help me, but if he denied me kisses in some misguided effort to be respectful, I was going to have to tie him to a tree and take them by force.
Jackson mimicked my stance, moving his hands to his hips, and gave me his brother-knows-best glare. “Now you look here, those Winston boys are a bunch of criminals and deadbeats, just like their daddy. Duane is known around these parts for driving like a bat out of hell and taking dangerous chances on those mountain roads. I’m not happy about you driving his car and I’m not happy about you spending time in the same zip code as Duane Winston, let alone going on a date with the sleaze-ball. ”
“You made your feelings perfectly clear on Thursday. And like I told you, who I see is none of your ever-loving beeswax.”
“You’ll see.” Jackson lifted his voice, looking both exasperated and angry. “And then after he impregnates and abandons you, all those silly dreams of traveling the world will be over. Your life will be over.”
I’m sure I was looking at Jackson like he was made of compost worms and boogers. The boy was crazy. “I don’t even know where to start with you and your lunacy. I know how birth control works, big brother, and—spoiler alert—putting a wrapper on the banana is ninety-nine percent effective.”
“There will be no bananas!”
“There will be entire tropical rainforests of bananas! And coconuts!” I gestured to my breasts. “And, hopefully, bananas rubbing against coconuts.”
He sucked in a shocked breath. If he had on a string of pearls I felt certain he would have clutched them.
Finally he managed to choke out, “Jessica James, you are being crude and unladylike.” My brother’s shock and outrage made him ridiculous. I knew he kept company with several girls in town, and I was sure his banana had been wrapped on more than one occasion.
Therefore I growled, “What century are you living in?”
“Going to college put wrong ideas in your head, Jess. I live in the real world and see guys like Duane take advantage of nice girls like you every day. And you think you’ll be able to just travel around the world like some homeless nomad? You wouldn’t last one week in the real world.”
I hated it when my family brought up my plans as though it meant I was a flake. I wasn’t a flake. Having an intense desire to explore the world and travel doesn’t make me a flake, damn it!
“Oh please,” I started ticking off his ridiculous hypocrisy using my fingers, “you still live at home—”
“So do you.”
I ignored that comment because I’d lived away from home and supported myself for four years in college. As well it was an inconvenient truth.
“Momma still does your laundry. I’ve never seen you even make toast successfully. You’re a glorified meter maid. The most excitement you get during any given day is giving people tickets for parking in front of a fire hydrant.”
Jackson’s brown eyes widened again and I saw his cheeks grow pink above his blond beard. I was being purposefully bratty and I didn’t feel bad about it. My brother opened his mouth like he was going to launch into another argument, but was mercifully interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.
Not waiting two seconds for him to regain his ability to speak, I snatched my purse from my bed and pushed past him, making a beeline for the foyer.
I ignored Jackson’s hollering from behind me as I yanked open the front door and pushed the screen door forward, almost catching Duane in the face with the wooden frame. Thankfully, he deftly stepped to the side, thereby avoiding injury.
“Oh goodness, I’m sorry,” I said in a rush, reaching for one of his hands as I placed a kiss against his cheek. I was frazzled, but I still took the opportunity to smell him. He smelled good, like shaving soap and a tart hint of automotive grease. Since he had a beard, the shaving soap part didn’t make much sense, but he smelled divine nevertheless. I also enjoyed the way his red beard tickled my chin when I leaned close.
“Hey, Jess. You look—”
“Let’s go.”
I tried to use my grip on his hand to tug him toward the edge of the porch and away from the house, but he dug his heels in and didn’t move more than two steps.
“Wait a minute, is your momma here?”
“No, come on.” I turned back to Duane, issuing a look that I hoped conveyed urgency, but was stopped short when I saw him.
I’m afraid my mouth fell open, a sure sign of my surprise, as my eyes moved over his form.
He was dressed in dark jeans, boots, and a blue button-down shirt the exact same color as his eyes; he’d rolled his shirtsleeves up, which showcased his strong forearms. His beard had been trimmed short—super short—so that the line of his strong jaw was easily discernible.
My goodness, but he was delectable.
My attention snagged on a frothy cloud of white and I saw he was holding a bunch of flowers. My eyes moved between him and the flowers, and I’m sure I looked entirely confounded.
“As I was saying,” Duane took a step toward me and I was struck by the sincerity in both his expression and tone, making me sway just a little at his ominous and heartfelt charm; he whispered, “you look beautiful, Jessica.”
I think I smiled like a smitten simpleton, my eyelashes fluttering of their own accord. “So do you, Duane.”
He smiled. It was small and magnetic. I took a mental snapshot; spending time with him confirmed my suspicion that Duane’s smiles were few and should be treasured.
I swayed toward him again. “Did you get me flowers?”
He shook his head, his voice still low. “No. These are for your momma.”
“My mom—”
“Don’t you leave yet!” Jackson’s voice thundered just as he appeared in the doorway, breaking our lovely moment. I couldn’t help myself, I huffed and rolled my eyes. I loved my big brother, but sometimes I wanted to cover him in honey and send him into a bear cave.
Duane stiffened a little, but he didn’t retreat. He turned from me, his eyes narrowing, and said, “Jack.”
I lifted an eyebrow at this. No one called my brother “Jack.” Everyone called him Jackson, or Officer James.
“Duane.” Jackson crossed his arms over his chest; his expression and voice were mean. “I don’t much like you thinking you can take my sister out.”
“Oh my God,” I said to no one and tugged on Duane’s hand again. “Just ignore him. Let’s go.”
But Duane didn’t move. Instead he used our connected fingers to draw me closer while he and Jackson gave each other the evil eye.
“This might come as a shock to you, Jack, but I’m not losing sleep over your good opinion. Now, are the Sheriff and Mrs. James at home?”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed further. “Why?”
“Because I’d like to pay my respects to the man and woman of the house before we step out.”
Jackson flinched, his eyes widening as they moved up and down Duane.
I took advantage of Jackson’s momentary speechlessness to answer Duane’s question. “No. Momma is still in Texas taking care of my aunt Louisa, and Daddy is on duty.”
Duane glanced at me while I explained, and I thought I saw something like disappointment pass over his handsome features. His disappointment made me feel both guilty as well as warm all over with pleasure.
He’d wanted to talk to my parents before we stepped out. Goodness.
“Oh. Well then…” He frowned as he studied me, then turned back to my brother and pushed the bouquet of flowers into Jackson’s hands. “Go put these in water before they die.”
Wordlessly, Jackson accepted the flowers, though he was still looking at Duane like he was something strange. I didn’t have a moment to dwell on any of this, because Duane pulled my hand into the crook of his elbow and escorted me down the front porch steps. We reached his car without another word between us and he opened the passenger side door. When he was satisfied I was settled, he shut the door and walked around the hood of his car.
My eyes trailed him. I watched him walk. I loved how he walked.
My heart didn’t know whether to sink or swim. All I could think about was that Claire had been right last Wednesday: Duane Winston was looking to court me—good and proper. And now that the evidence was unmistakable, I felt dichotomously dismayed and dazedly giddy by the prospect.
Duane fired up the engine and it was in this dismayed and dazedly giddy haze that I passed the first few moments of our drive. I was quite literally shaken out of my self-reflections when Duane navigated a series of switchbacks with imprudent speed. Even though I was wearing my seatbelt, I slid in my seat to one side then the other.
“Sorry,” he said, pressing gently on the brake to slow our velocity, then cleared his throat and offered by the way of an explanation, “I’m used to taking these roads fast. I didn’t mean to toss you around.”
I braced my arm again the passenger side door. “It’s fine. I just…” I shook my head. “I just wanted to apologize for Jackson, the way he acted. He was being unfair and unkind and we had words earlier. I’m sorry about that.”
Duane shrugged. “Well, he wouldn’t be much of a brother if he wasn’t overprotective. I feel the same way about my sister…” I got the impression he hadn’t quite ended his sentence and was proven right when he finally finished, “and my brothers.”
Duane’s gaze flickered to mine and he gave me a hint of a smile. I melted a bit at his rare smile, and I felt myself relax against the seat.
And that’s when I realized how comfortable the seat was.
And that’s when I finally took the three seconds required to actually look at this car in which I was riding.
It was old, a classic of some sort. The upholstery was teal leather and the seat was a bench style, the kind that allowed a passenger to snuggle up close to the driver.
“Duane Winston, what kind of car is this?”
He was in profile but I saw his smile grow. “It’s a ’68 Plymouth Road Runner.”
I studied the rest of the car, or what I could see of it. The two-door antique had a backseat, similar bench style to the front and everything was in pristine condition.
“It’s kind of small for the time, isn’t it? I mean, weren’t most Plymouths built at that time big old land cruisers?”
Duane’s hands tightened a bit on the steering wheel, his thumb caressing the inside of the circle. “It’s a muscle car, so it’s built for speed.”
I tried to remember what the outside of the car looked like, and could recall only basic lines and shiny black paint. “It doesn’t really look like a muscle car, not like the Mustang.”
“It’s got a 4-barrel carburetor engine, pushing out 335 horsepower—but, you’re right, the Road Runner doesn’t have any of that flashy chrome finish or plush doodads you see with other higher priced GTXs of the same era. It doesn’t need to be showy. Its beauty is in its simplicity. Simple, straightforward design…with hidden depths.” He paired this with an impressive engine growl, and accelerated lightning fast along a straight stretch of road. The car certainly was responsive.
I smiled at that, glancing around the interior once more and noting the lack of fussy trimmings. He was right, it was a stunning car. Its minimalism only contributed to its effortlessness beauty. But I could feel the untapped potential, its restless restrained power. It was sexy as hell.
“You’re right, it’s gorgeous.” Because I was obviously a horndog, talking about the hidden depths and restrained power of his muscle car was getting me hot and bothered. I decided to redirect the conversation toward hopefully benign territory. “Did you restore it yourself?”
“Yep.”
“Even the upholstery?”
“Yes. I restored her myself, even the upholstery.”
“Her?” I passed my hand over the bench, touching the leather with newfound respect and reverence now that I knew Duane was responsible for the flawless restoration. Based on this information, I presumed he’d also restored the Mustang I was borrowing.
I was happy to see his smile return as he halted and idled at a stop sign. Duane slid his pretty eyes to mine; I saw echoes of his hot look from the community center, though it appeared to be mostly restrained. “Yes, her. All cars are girls.”
My smile was huge as I was feeling delightfully unsteady under his perusal. “And why is that? Because they’re so pretty, useful, and hardworking?”
Duane’s eyes drifted down my body in an unhurried examination; the spark of heat and appreciation in his gaze made me suspicious of his true thoughts, which were only punctuated by his next words.
“Because when a guy sees a car he likes, all he can think about is getting under the hood or taking her for a ride.”
This time I threw my head back and laughed with gusto and shocked delight. This was the second time he’d done this, surprised me with his audacity. On Thursday, when he’d shown up at my work with the Mustang, I figured he was just trying to get a rise out of me, but now I saw this new banter for what it was. Duane Winston was funny. And a flirt.
In all the years I’d known him, and all the arguments and shouting matches we’d had, I never would have guessed that Duane was this funny. Or a flirt.
Sly? Yes.
Smart? Certainly.
Serious and stern? Undoubtedly.
Funny and flirty? No.
He was full of surprises.
As my laughter lessened and morphed into large grin, I turned in my seat and studied him openly. I had to shake myself a little. Before last Friday, never in my wildest—or strangest—dreams could I have imagined that Duane Winston would ever be interested in me, not because there was something wrong with me, but because he always left me with the impression that I irritated the bejeebus out of him.
Just like I never thought in a million years I’d be so completely drawn to him.
But here I was…
“What? What’s wrong?” He frowned at my examination, sparing me a quick glance as he turned right onto the Parkway.
“Oh, nothing.” I kept staring at him…but not him. I was looking for the Duane I remembered, the one who barely tolerated me, picked verbal sparring matches, and put lizards down my Sunday school dress. “I guess, it’s weird. Right? I mean, you and I grew up together. We used to run around these forests with the other Green Valley kids like a pack of wild animals.”
His subtle smile was back, but this time it looked nostalgic. “So?”
“So, here we are. We’re adults. And we’re out together.”
“We went for a drive on Thursday and you didn’t seem phased by it.”
“Yeah, but this is a date. See, I know you—I could tell anyone who asked that you’re a terrible swimmer, or how you drive too fast, or how you got that scar on your right arm, or that you’re better at baseball than any of your brothers—but I don’t know you. It’s like being on a date with two different people, the boy I knew and the…the,” I stuttered, then paused, stopping myself just in time. A slight rush of embarrassment made my tongue lame because I was about to say, and the sweet, gorgeous man you’ve become.
And that would have been a bizarre thing to say at the beginning of a first date. Honest, but bizarre.
“And the what?” he prompted, sliding his eyes to mine as he came to another straight stretch on the mountain road.
I cleared my throat, my chest a sudden and odd combination of achy and fluttery. “The kid I knew, and the man you’ve become. I don’t know this new you very well. It’s a bit disconcerting to feel confident that I know all about you, but have no idea who you really are.” I glanced down and frowned at my purple nail polish, certain I was making a mess of my thoughts. “I’m not explaining this very well.”
Duane reached over and grabbed one of my hands, sending a warm jolt up my arm and to my ribs.
“You’re explaining things just fine.” He squeezed my fingers and gave me a quick, reassuring smile. “When we were at the lake last week and I told you we’re different now, both of us have changed, that’s what I meant.”
“But don’t you think it’ll be weird?”
“So what? So it’s weird. Weird can be good.”
“We grew up together. I mean, when we were kids I saw you naked like…,” I counted in my head, “three times. Maybe more.”
“Is this your way of telling me that you don’t want to see me naked for a fourth time?”
I answered emphatically and without thinking, “Oh, hell no, you should be naked all the time.”
Duane’s grin was immediate; but his laughter was stifled, like he was trying to contain it. I rolled my eyes at myself once I realized what I’d just said and let myself feel appropriately embarrassed. My head fell back on the seat and I closed my eyes.
“See now, here’s the problem. I would never say anything like that on a first date, or even a tenth date.”
“I still don’t see a problem.”
“I’m too comfortable speaking my mind around you. Speaking my mind to Duane Winston is not just my default, it’s a moral imperative.” I announced this to the windshield as I opened my eyes and stared at the fall foliage lining the narrow road. Brilliant streaks of red, dark purple, orange, and yellow—a beauty I’d taken for granted as a kid—blurred together as we sped by
“That’s just because you’re used to arguing with me.”
“Yes. Exactly. First dates are like a job interview. It’s about putting your best foot forward, not arguing and speaking your mind.”
“Well, I’ve never interviewed for a job, but I can’t think of anything better than Jessica James speaking her mind.”
I shook my head at him, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
“You’re saying all the right things. Whereas I’m being completely honest.”
He challenged lightly, “What makes you think these right things I’m saying isn’t me being completely honest?”
I blinked, then stared at him, at his profile. My heart sped at his last words and my breath seemed to catch. Pinpricks of awareness covered my skin accompanied by a nervous uncertainty. I averted my eyes back to the windshield and stared unseeingly forward.
Did I want to kiss the hell out of him? Yes, I did.
Did I want to wrap his banana and let him have his way with my coconuts? Yes. I wanted that to happen.
Did I want him to say all the right things, with sincerity, revealing his hidden depths (as well as a few of mine)?
…
…
…
I honestly had no idea.
On one hand, yes. Yes. YES! This Duane was sweet and sincere, generous and wonderful, funny and sexy. I’d known him forever, we had history. I’d thought the history would hinder a relationship between us, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Our history only added to this growing connection, provided gravity of feeling and understanding. What more could I want? What more could I ask for?
On the other hand, no. No. NO! Duane had roots. Subterranean, cavernous roots. He was a local business owner, he had a big family. I couldn’t imagine him ever leaving Tennessee. This was his home, and home was a physical place for him.
But Green Valley wasn’t where I belonged. I’d known I would never stay my whole life.
Regardless, I was moving deeper without meaning to, wading out of my shallow pool. And this was only our first date, a date that hadn’t even technically started yet.
At some point I was going to have to tell him I had plans and those plans meant I would be leaving. Eventually. Definitely.
I needed to be honest…but not yet.
***
Cooper Road Trail was definitely an off-the-beaten-path kind of park. Duane’s was the only car in the lot when we pulled in. I knew of this locale mostly because my momma loved to hike the trail in June, when the orange and yellow daylilies bloomed along the path. The summer air smelled sweet and warm, and was alive with buzzing bees and rushing water from nearby waterfalls.
It was a first come, first served kind of place, no camping reservations accepted. It was also exceedingly difficult to find if you weren’t a longtime citizen of the Valley. The campsite was small, verging on cramped, and had roughly ten or so spots; five of those spots were on a shallow and relatively wide clear-water stream, typical for the area.
When we arrived and Duane pulled a mountaineering backpack from his trunk, along with a big basket hamper, I abruptly remembered I’d left the beer in the refrigerator at home.
“Oh, shoot!” I grimaced, rubbing my forehead.
“What’s wrong?”
“I was in such a rush to escape my brother I forgot our drinks at the house.”
Duane shrugged. “No problem. I have water in the bag.”
I stepped forward and moved to take the basket from his hands. “Do you have anything other than water?”
“No. Just water.”
“Oh. Okay.” My heart sank a little. It was the one thing I was supposed to bring and I’d forgotten. Even though he appeared to shrug it off, I felt like I’d let him down.
As we walked together past the campsites and to the hiking trail, making small talk about the park, I tried to similarly shrug off my forgetfulness. I didn’t like taking advantage and I didn’t like letting him down. And, though it was irrational, I hated looking like a flake.
I didn’t mind if people thought I was silly-slash-weirdo, cross-dressing sexy Gandalf, but I couldn’t abide anyone thinking I was unreliable. Because I wasn’t, I was trustworthy and took my responsibilities very seriously.
While I was still chastising myself, Duane led me off the path when we were about a quarter mile down the trail. I was thankful I’d worn my hiking boots because we had to splash through some wet areas and slippery rocks. Duane was careful to take my hand and plot out the driest course each time. His chivalry, care, and attention contributed to my mounting appreciation, and left me feeling tongue-tied and flushed.
I finally let go of kicking myself for being forgetful when I noticed Duane’s chivalry was increasingly tempered with reluctant and distracted moments of ogling.
Three times I caught him checking out my ass. Afterward he’d clench his jaw and frown severely at the ground, or the sky, or the trees lining the path. I found these little cracks in his control delightful.
“We’re almost there.” He glanced down at me, having just helped me hop over a few wet stones and not releasing my hand even after clearing the rough patch. “Is the basket too heavy? I don’t mind carrying it.”
“No. It’s fine. You’ve got the backpack.”
His eyes took a detour to the unbuttoned V of my top, and the cleavage I’d purposefully (and artfully) highlighted with a push-up bra. “Are you cold?”
I shook my head, hiding my pleased smile. “No. I’m great.”
He frowned at the exposed swell of my breasts, seemed to redirect his eyes away with effort. He pulled his attention back to the narrow path. I indulged my urge to smirk. Tight jeans, strategically unbuttoned top, push-up bra…this was fun.
I’d be lying if I said his intense interest in my body wasn’t a huge turn on—for both my brain and my…other brain. It was. I liked that he looked at me and had difficulty hiding his appreciation and desire. If anything I felt less flustered each time I spied him clenching his jaw or balling his hands into fists. I liked him so much. It was nice to see tangible evidence that he meant it when he’d said kissing me was something he’d wanted for a long time.
Still feeling cheered, I was surprised when we reached our destination so quickly. He hadn’t been fibbing; no more than ten feet later I was faced with a picturesque clearing at the edge of a wide, still stream and I sucked in a small breath. I didn’t know this place existed. If I’d known this place existed then I would have become one of those nature people who forage the woods for sustenance and bathe in moonlit pools.
The trees overhead and their autumn brilliance reflected in the water—vivid strokes of color. We were surrounded on all sides by nature’s majesty, its swan song celebration before winter. The setting was almost painfully romantic.
“Will this do?” His voice was low, just a rumble, but it held equal parts sweetness and amusement.
I moved my wide eyes to his and nodded once. His mouth tugged to the side, like he was pleased by my inability to speak, but didn’t want to commit to a smile. Duane took the basket from my grip and placed it on the ground, dropping his big backpack next to it.
“There’s a felled tree just there.” He pointed to the embankment. I spotted a large, old eastern hemlock log about as high as my knee, half on land, half in the water. “It’s a good place to sit while I get all this ready.”
“You don’t need any help?”
“No—you go sit, relax.” He appeared to be determined and was already digging into the pack, revealing a large quilted tarp and spreading it on the ground.
I studied him as he moved, pulling items out of his bag of tricks. Since I felt useless just standing there as he worked, I decided to take his suggestion…sort of. Instead of sitting on the log, I climbed it. Then I used it as a balance beam and walked the length of the old tree where it jutted out into the stream.
The early November air was crisp, just chilly enough to bite. Soon all the leaves would fall, leaving this spot bare and brown. I felt like I was looking at the pinnacle of a particularly dazzling firework as it filled the night sky, just before it lost its shape and faded into darkness. It was a fleeting moment. And I stood in the center of it.
“I hope you’re not expecting me to rescue you.”
I glanced over my shoulder, found Duane at the edge of the stream, his hands on his hips, his square jaw angled in a stubborn tilt.
“Rescue me? From a log?”
“No. From the water. Should you fall in.”
I grinned. “More likely I’d rescue you. Are you afraid I’ll steal your pants?”
I nearly lost my balance when he answered my grin with one of his own, but he quickly hid it by redirecting his attention to the ground at his feet. When he lifted his face again, a residual smile remained, but he mostly looked serious…and focused…on me.
He cleared his throat and his voice sounded different, deep and commanding—maybe a little impatient—as he said, “Come back here.”
I turned carefully and picked my way back, scanning the spread he’d placed on an old large picnicking quilt. I figured the tarp was hidden underneath, meant to protect our backsides from the damp earth. I also spotted a few cushy pillows, a throw blanket presumably just in case we got cold, and an array of covered dishes to one side.
Duane Winston had come prepared.
He intercepted me where the felled tree met the land and placed his big hands on my waist. With one smooth movement, he lifted me from the log and set me on the ground.
He hesitated.
We stood still for a moment—him staring down, me staring up—our bodies separated by less than a foot.
With each passing second my heart thumped more meaningfully against my ribs. The cool November air suddenly felt warm, thick. I tilted my chin, parted my lips to say something, but words caught in my throat. Meanwhile, he stood as though frozen, his expression almost grim, but his eyes were hot.
Duane Winston was giving me a hot look.
“Duane?” I whispered, surprised when his name sounded like a plea.
He gritted his teeth, his eyelids lowering to half-mast. “We should eat.” Even as he said the words his gaze dipped to the undone buttons of my shirt, then to my mouth, and his fingers tightened on my torso.
In that moment he reminded me of his Road Runner: all hidden depths and barely restrained power. Oh yes, I liked his responsiveness. I liked it very, very much.
“Or…” I slid my hands up his arms and around his neck, annihilating the distance separating us with just a half step, and pressed my body to his. He didn’t shrink back, rather he surged forward, his strong arms winding around my waist, holding me to him. My legs hit the log behind me and I felt the heat of his hard chest and stomach beneath the starched button-down of his shirt and the snuggly cotton of mine. Still holding his eyes—which had grown to firestorm levels of conflicted—I lifted to my tiptoes and licked his lips.
It was just a soft, subtle taste using only the tip of my tongue. But it seemed to shatter some wall he’d built, because Duane immediately covered my mouth, a tortured sounding groan rumbling in the back of his throat as his lips moved against mine.
My belly twisted, feeling delightfully heavy. A shock of desire radiated from my chest to my fingertips. I’d like to say all my focus was on the slick, massaging sweep of his tongue as it expertly invaded my mouth, making me feel needy and lightheaded, but it wasn’t. My mind was scattered in a hundred different directions, all of them propelled by a sudden urgency.
I needed to get his shirt off because I’d die if I didn’t feel the smooth, taut skin of his shoulders, chest, and stomach.
I needed to remove my boots so I could free myself of these accursed pants.
I needed his hands on my nipples. Or his mouth. Or both. Yes! Definitely both.
Without my brain explicitly telling my fingers to do so, I’d untucked his shirt, managed to unlock the first few buttons, and was working on his belt buckle. I had the leather strap free in a surprisingly short period of time, with minimal fumbling, then reached for my jeans only to find Duane’s hands already there.
Therefore, I leaned away for a fraction of a second and whipped off my shirt, tossing it somewhere…anywhere…didn’t care where.
Our mouths met and mated again as I clawed at the remaining buttons of his shirt while he unzipped my pants. The sounds of our rough movements, heavy breathing, and frantic kisses filled my ears. It was a symphony of euphoric anticipation.
We were moving, he was moving us. At some point we’d turned and he was steering me backward toward the blanket, Duane’s large hands in my pants, beneath my underwear, cupping and massaging and squeezing. I tripped a little and then I was being half pushed, half guided into a horizontal position on the soft, quilted blanket. Duane covered me, nothing clumsy about his lissome movements, his shirt now open revealing a blasted white undershirt.
I growled my displeasure and tugged at the cotton, hiking it upward at his sides so I could touch his skin as he settled his muscular thigh against my center.
“Take these off,” I demanded, gripping and pulling both shirts with frustrated movements.
Duane sat up on his knees and tore off his button-down, roughly pulled off his undershirt, his gaze moving over my body.
But then, horror of horrors, he stalled his forward progress and blinked, a spark of sobriety igniting behind his eyes as he caught sight of my black lacy bra, mussed hair, and unzipped jeans.
He frowned like he was confused, shook his head, and said on an unsteady exhale, “Shit.”
I lifted my hands to reach for him and he shook his head again, his face twisted with what looked like frustration and anguish. He stood suddenly and walked away, leaving me on the blanket staring after him as he paced to the felled log, followed it to the stream, then stopped.
I inclined my torso and rested my weight on my elbows, watching his back, my chest rising and falling as I tried to catch my breath. My body was still…ready. Actually, ripe was a better word for it. And he’d looked quite ripe as well. But, despite the ripeness of my coconuts and his banana, he’d put an abrupt halt to satiating our hunger.
As I stared at his back, a song floated through my consciousness: (Can’t Get No) Satisfaction, by The Rolling Stones. Why was it difficult for him to take what he so obviously wanted? What we both wanted?
When I realized staring at Duane Winston’s muscled back and fine ass wasn’t helping matters, I stood, zipped my jeans, heaved a confused sigh, and crossed to where I suspected my shirt lay discarded.
He wanted me just as much as I wanted him, that much was clear. It was also clear we’d entered into a pattern of behavior. His withdrawal here, and in the supply closet of the garage, and at the edge of the lake, and backstage at the community center all pointed to the fact that Duane Winston wanted me—badly—but was trying to be noble. Or, something akin to nobility.
I tugged on my shirt and heaved another sigh, marinating in the oddness of the situation. When my previous boyfriends were intent on pushing me further than I was willing to go I broke things off. But with Duane, I felt like maybe I was pushing him. I didn’t want to push him. In fact, the thought of pushing him made me feel wretched. I wanted us to move together.
“You’re a siren who doesn’t need to sing.”
I turned my head at the sound of his words, cutting through the soundtrack in my head. Duane was facing me now, his muscled arms crossed over his delicious bare chest. His expression told me he was exasperated—with himself, me, or the situation in general—I had no idea where his ire was directed.
I gave him a smile I hoped communicated my regret for being pushy, but also communicated my hope that the date wasn’t over yet. “Is this your way of telling me I’m too sexy for this picnic?”
Some of his exasperation melted away and he huffed a short laugh, but then he sobered almost immediately. His focused gaze grew earnest. “Jess, doing this right, it’s important to me.”
I nodded once, faced him, and mimicked his stance. “I surmised as much when you brought flowers for my momma.”
I saw his chest rise and fall before he continued, taking a few cautious steps toward me. “I think we’re suited.”
“So you’ve said.” Something like panic tugged at my heart, and I was afraid of where this conversation was heading.
“But like you said in the car, we don’t know each other anymore, not really.”
“I get it,” I said on a rush, because I did get it. I did.
And yet...
But then he admitted quietly, “I want to know you.”
… I want to know you.
I blinked at him; stared dumbly, really.
Those words penetrated some wall—around my head and heart—I didn’t know existed. He came to a stop directly in front of me, his arms still crossed over his chest as his eyes roamed over my face, and they held reverence, hope. His expression and tone were distracted when he added, “And I want to be known.”
That’s what did it, his quiet admission. I realized I was being self-centered. And, more than that, I felt torn. Now he was forcing the issue, crossing self-preservation boundaries I’d drawn without meaning to, I was going to have to be completely honest as well…and damn it all, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want our time together to end before it even started.
I had a plan: save money, gain teaching experience, leave Green Valley. Duane’s clear-as-day intentions and my unpredictable, growing feelings were not part of the plan. His desire to court me was not part of that plan. Marriage and picket fences were not part of that plan.
I think I must’ve flinched or winced, because Duane straightened, and even though he didn’t move, I felt him draw away. I knew at once he was misinterpreting my reaction, so I unthinkingly reached for his arm and stepped into his personal space, beseeching him with my gaze.
“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head at my blind selfishness, realizing I should have been upfront on Wednesday, when he’d asked me out originally. “I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re so right, and I’m…I don’t know how to say this without being completely honest so, here goes: I moved home with a plan. I’m back with my parents and teaching at the school, but that’s all temporary. I’m here, in Green Valley, for less than two years, tops. Just long enough to pay off my loans and save enough money to move on. I’m not ready to settle down, I don’t think I ever will be. I want to see and experience things. I have wanderlust and it consumes me. If I had the money, I’d leave tomorrow. I thought…I guess I didn’t really think. I just like you so much and I…” I couldn’t finish my thought because my voice caught.
As I spoke Duane’s eyes widened, then narrowed; their usual internal brilliance seemed to dim, fade, as it was replaced with a severe disappointment that completely pierced my heart. Then his expression hardened into understanding; and finally bitter, guarded withdrawal.
For the first time ever I wished I wasn’t this girl. I wished I wanted to live in Green Valley and be content as a small-town teacher, a wife, a mother, a member of the community. But that wasn’t what I wanted, that wasn’t who I was.
I had no illusions my dreams were bigger. My dreams weren’t bigger, they were just different. I’d chosen my profession because it meant I could move anywhere; no matter the city, science and math teachers were needed. And I wanted freedom from possessions—owning them and being owned by them—I wanted to experience the world, not just one tiny corner of it.
Duane nodded, slowly at first. His eyes fell away before he turned and sauntered back to the blanket to retrieve his shirts. He pulled on the white undershirt, but didn’t bother with the button-down; instead he stuffed it into the backpack. I didn’t know what to do, couldn’t read what he was thinking, so I stood by the log and waited for some sign.
Some selfish part of me wished I hadn’t told him the truth. After all, I had two or three years left in the Valley. No one understood my desire to travel the world, why would I expect him to be any different? I’d always been the odd one in my family, feeling like I didn’t quite belong. I’d learned to hide this side of myself, and almost all of my other crazy instincts, from my parents years ago.
Duane and I could have dated, had fun together—me knowing it was temporary, him thinking it was leading to something permanent. I could have kept my dreams to myself, planned my trips in secret.
Then, when the money was saved and the time came, I could’ve just broken things off. Hell, we might not have even lasted that long. Maybe we weren’t suited. Maybe it would have only been a few weeks or months.
… No.
I heard the word in my head as though it had been spoken out loud. I knew with a rare certainty that Duane was right. We were suited. Withholding the truth of my dreams would be withholding myself, and that was exceedingly unfair to him. It was one thing to pretend with my folks, because they could handle me being zany from time to time, and assume my wanderlust was a phase.
It was quite another matter to keep my true self from Duane. He didn’t deserve that.
At length, he lifted his gaze to mine and I was saddened—but not surprised—to see it was completely shuttered.
“Are you hungry?” His tone was flat as he indicated to the cups and covered bowls with a tilt of his chin. “Because I’m hungry.”
I tried to apologize with just my eyes and my chin wobbled; I managed to answer, “Yeah, I’m hungry.”
He nodded again then turned, dropped to his knees, and gestured me over with a wave of his hand. “Then let’s eat.”