“You okay?” Duane asked, his thoughtful frown still in place.

I nodded and bent down to retrieve a blue rock from beneath the water and straightened. I held the stone up to the sun and studied the veins of white running through it.

Then, apropos of nothing, I said, “When I was ten, my daddy bought me a three-year subscription to National Geographic magazine for my birthday.”

I glanced at Duane, found his thoughtful frown had been replaced by a thoughtful almost smile. “Is that so?”

I nodded, releasing his hand so I could walk a bit farther into the stream. “Yes. According to him, I’d wanted the magazine since I was four and a half. I first saw it at the library and asked Santa Claus for it every year. And it wasn’t the kid version either. I didn’t want the kid version. I wanted the real thing.”

“Why did you want it so much?”

“I loved seeing pictures and reading stories about the world, especially the places I didn’t know existed. I spent hours getting lost in the pages, imagining myself scuba diving in Fiji, hand-harvesting saffron in Greece, or working with Jane Goodall’s chimpanzees in Africa.” I glanced at him over my shoulder, wanting to see his reaction.

“Chimpanzees?” His smile grew.

“Yes. In Africa.”

The brightness in Duane’s eyes grew radiant, and felt almost overwhelming. He appeared to be pleased—more than pleased—yet I was surprised he didn’t look at all amused. Just interested and happy. Had I ever seen that look directed at me before?

“Do you still have a subscription?”

I shook my head. “No. My momma was cleaning my room about a year later and she saw the magazine had what she considered dirty pictures. Specifically, naked photographs of men and women, members of isolated tribes in South America.”

“Oh no!” Now he looked amused in addition to interested and happy. “What happened?”

“At first she was livid and made me go talk to Reverend Seymour about what I’d seen.”

Duane grimaced, like he was bracing for the worst. I waved his concern away as I turned to face him.

“It was fine. He’d listened patiently while I’d burned scarlet red, describing all the various body parts I’d been exposed to and my feelings on the subject of modesty.”

He laughed, really a chuckle, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. I liked the way his laugh sounded against the symphony of whispering water, rustling leaves, and bird song. I also liked the way he looked, ankle deep in a pure mountain stream, the blue sky and tall trees behind him.

Again, I found myself settling into the moment, taking a mental snapshot of his happy and handsome face. An inadvertent sigh escaped my lips, because I was happy, too. Duane Winston was a good listener.

I think I was staring, lost in the vision of him and a daydream, because when he spoke next the sound startled me a bit.

“Did Reverend Seymour take the magazines?”

I shook my head, mostly to clear it, and glanced at my toes. My feet were cold, but the cold felt good. “No. Eventually, he handed the magazine back to my mother and told her there wasn’t anything wrong with me learning about the world, but there might be if I formed my own conclusions without guidance. He suggested she use the magazines as an opportunity to discuss the world with me, that we should go through the articles together, and she should answer any questions I might have.”

“Well…that’s good, right?”

I met his gaze again, gave him a rueful half smile. “When the magazines came after that, my momma kept them locked in her closet until she could find time to go through them with me. For the first few months we’d sit down together after dinner and she’d explain things from her perspective even when I didn’t ask. I liked the one-on-one time with Momma, but it wasn’t the same, you know? The magazines lost their magic. I couldn’t become lost in pages and pictures and possible adventures when each article was dissected for faults and ungodliness.”

Duane’s thoughtful frown was back. I had all his focus and holding his weighty gaze was difficult. He was searching mine and something about his persistent interest made me feel vulnerable. Regardless, I held his stare with a half smile and eventually shrugged, blowing out a deep breath.

“I think my momma sensed my growing dissatisfaction, because after a time the magazines just piled up in her closet. They didn’t renew the subscription.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounded sorry.

My half smile grew and I shook my head. “Don’t be. It didn’t matter much because, by then, I was making monthly trips to the library and reading National Geographic along with Condé Nast Traveler and Wanderlust magazines.” The library was also where I discovered Internet travel blogs and first became a fan of Intrepid Inger.

“I remember seeing you there, always the first Saturday of the month.”

“That’s right. That’s when the magazines came in.” I studied him for a beat, more than a little surprised by the excellence of his memory. At length I decided to add, “I remember seeing you there, too. One time you switched out my travel magazines with urology journals, do you remember that?”

He nodded, one of his eyebrows lifted while he bit his lip as though to keep from laughing. “I remember.”

I squinted at him, unable to help my smile. “You were always there, helping your momma shelve books. You and Roscoe, sometimes Cletus.”

His eyes lost some of their focus, like he was recalling the memory. A foggy kind of smile passed behind his features, but it was abruptly replaced with a dark melancholy, like the memory caused him pain. As well he looked tired, bone-deep tired, almost like he hadn’t slept in days. I don’t know how I’d missed it before.

Impulsively, I crossed back to him and wrapped my arms around his waist, laying my cheek on his shoulder and squeezing. “I’m so sorry about your momma, Duane. She was a sweet lady and everyone misses her. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

He returned my embrace without hesitation, bringing me flush against him. I snuggled closer to his warmth, wanting to share some of my own, hoping I was giving him comfort.

“Thank you, Jessica,” he whispered into my hair, squeezing me, and repeating, “Thank you.”

We stood like that for a while, I don’t precisely know how long. But it was long enough for my mind to wander and for my thoughts to turn forward, to the future, to how nice it would be to have access to Duane-hugs daily. How dichotomously comfortable and thrilling it was to touch him, be touched by him.

And how perfectly we fit together.

CHAPTER 9

“All my days I have longed equally to travel the right road and to take my own errant path.”

? Sigrid Undset, Kristin Lavransdatter

~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.