His eyes narrowed more, but his mouth twisted to the side like he was fighting a smile. “You’re just trying to get thirteen and a half months instead of twelve.”
I shrugged. “You caught me. So what if I am? What’s six more weeks in the scheme of things?”
The humor waned from his expression and was replaced with a contemplative frown. He was considering it, I could tell. He just needed a little push.
I scootched my chair closer so my legs were between his, placed my hands on his knees, and leaned forward. “Two Thanksgivings. Two Christmases. Two New Year’s Eves. Think of it, this year I won’t even know what to get you for Christmas. But next year…” I hoped I was giving him a winning grin.
He sighed, his almost smile returned, and I nearly jumped out of my seat to do the moonwalk when he conceded, “Fine. A year from January first.”
I didn’t do the moonwalk. Instead I squealed, jumped into his lap, threw my arms around his neck, and kissed him. I made it fast, just a quick couple presses of my lips to his, then leaned away so I could see his eyes.
He was smiling at me now—full on, white teeth, happy face smile—and his arms had come around my waist, his hands on my hips. My stomach and heart were trying to out flutter each other as I grinned down at him.
This was good. This was a good compromise. Sure, I might’ve been in denial. Sure, I might’ve been setting myself up for heartache in the long term. But…whatever. I could deal with all that later. Much later. Like, over a year from now later.
Right now I was sitting on Duane’s lap, and had just been given a free pass to kiss him as much as I liked for the next thirteen and a half months.
CHAPTER 13
“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”
? Marcel Proust
~Jessica~
Yesterday we’d sealed our deal with a kiss at the community center, and this morning he’d texted me:
Duane: I’m taking you out tonight.
Me: Where?
Duane: Someplace where we can go fast.
Me: What time?
Duane: 5
Me: Sounds good. ?
I was ready to go at 4:30 p.m. even though I’d changed outfits ten times. I might have been a tad excited. Just a tad.
I decided on a white sweater dress with a built-in slip, long sleeves, and a short, flared skirt. Because of how fitted the slip was over my ribs and chest, the dress was a pain to put on or take off. Not helping matters were about thirty little buttons running down the back, but I loved how it looked on me. I paired it with my tan boots and wore my hair down and wavy.
Duane was ten minutes early, and this time my daddy was home. Thankfully Jackson was not. Daddy invited Duane in, offered him a beer (which Duane refused in favor of sweet tea, because he saw the offer for the trap it was) and they discussed sports, local politics, and cars for about twenty minutes. Then Daddy waved us off, giving me a small smile, and Duane a firm handshake and squinty eyes.
Once again, Duane was driving his Road Runner. This time I was able to ogle the car as we approached, appreciate its simple, elegant lines before he opened the passenger door for me.
Even though this was our second date, everything felt different. Better. The weight of my dishonesty had been lifted. I was all in. Everything was out in the open and we had a deal. Therefore it felt more like a true date. Like I could relax and just enjoy his company, because I knew we had thirteen and a half months together.
Once we were settled inside we grinned at each other.
Feeling downright giddy, I asked, “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” he answered mysteriously, his eyes sliding over my body with blatant appreciation.
That got me warm. Yes, it did.
I really, really liked how Duane Winston looked at me. He employed every ounce of his attention and focus, like he was making plans.
Then his gaze snagged on my bare knee. “Are you going to be warm enough in that dress?”
I shrugged. “I hope so. But since you won’t tell me where we’re going, I guess we’ll see.”
Duane gave me another once-over as he brought the engine to life and we were off.
At first—for the first two minutes or so—neither of us said a word. I’d wondered about this, worried that our agreement might make things strained. Not willing to sit in silence any longer, I resolved to speak.
“So—” I said.
“So—” he said at the same time.
We both laughed, and I offered, “You go first.”
Duane cleared his throat, his expression suddenly somber, and began again, “So, about that syphilis diagnosis…”
I threw my head back and laughed, was pleased when I heard his answering rumbly laughter join mine, and felt him place his hand on my knee and squeeze. I was happy when he left it there.
When I was finished with my giggles, I hit him on the shoulder and tsked, “I can’t believe no one thought that joke was funny last night. That joke was way funnier than they gave it credit for. STD humor is just lost on some people.”
“It was funny, but I think maybe—given the fact that Kip Sylvester is your boss and his daughter was present—it wasn’t surprising he didn’t laugh. And don’t mind Billy. He can’t laugh at anything in public. I bet he was dying laughing on the inside.”
I turned my attention back to Duane. “What? Why? Why can’t Billy laugh at anything in public?”
“’Cause everyone knows him, who he is. Heck, half of the guys at the jam session work for him. And I think he’s considering a run for county commissioner in two years.”
“Oh, goodness. That sounds awful. I can’t imagine being a public servant, all those people and their opinions.”
“I know, right? People are the worst.”
His comment made me laugh again and I studied him for a beat, wondering what other hidden layers he might reveal.
To this end, I said, “So, Duane Winston, tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell me…tell me something I don’t know. What’s your favorite movie?”
“Anything with a good car chase.”
I smiled at the predictability of his response, but it didn’t feel quite right. “Why do I doubt your answer?”
Duane’s gaze slid to mine and he gave me a half smile. “You don’t like a good car chase?”
“I didn’t say that. I just meant, why do I feel like there’s more to you than your stereotypical guy answer?”
His hand gripped then relaxed on the steering wheel. “There’s a reason we eat popcorn during a movie. If I want to zone out, be brainless and entertained, then I watch TV, go to a movie. If I want a good story, then I read a book.”
“Ah ha!” I poked his shoulder gently. “There it is. You’re a book person. That’s probably because your mother was a librarian.”
“Yeah, she likely had an influence…” Duane squirmed a little in his seat, his eyebrows tugging low over his eyes like he was deep in thought. “I reckon most people look at us Winston boys and see a bunch of hillbillies, sons of Darrell Winston, con man and criminal. In some ways, I guess we are. We like our cars, barbeque, and banjo music. But our momma wanted more for us. She demanded it. Momma basically put each of us through a kind of finishing school.”
“How’d she manage that?”
“Books. Lots of books. At least one a week to expand our vocabulary and our minds. The classics were required reading. Plus table manners—all manners—were taken very seriously. Words like ain’t, which isn’t a word, weren’t allowed in the house, though we’ve all grown lazy with proper grammar as we’ve grown older. She also taught us how to dance.”
“Dance? She taught you to dance?”
“Yep.”
“Like, what? Like the waltz?”
He nodded faintly, clearly lost in a memory of his mother. I didn’t interrupt. Instead I admired his profile, feeling the depths to which I’d missed him. I’d missed him so much. For the first time in a week I felt like I could draw a complete breath. I knew I was falling hard and fast, but I didn’t care. We had just over a year and I planned to abandon myself to it, to him. I was completely and totally all in.
At length Duane shook his head like he was coming out of a trance and added, “But really, I think I’d prefer to be out there myself. Living, doing, seeing for myself.”
I was nodding before he finished his thought. “Yes, exactly. That’s exactly how I feel. I actually get frustrated sometimes when I read travel blogs or magazines. It’s like, I want to be the one out there doing it, not reading about someone else’s experience.”
Duane nodded at my words like he truly understood my perspective; but then he surprised me by asking, “So then, what have you done?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how have you lived? What have you done? And that crazy stuff you did while we were kids doesn’t count.”
Now I squirmed a bit in my seat. Duane shifted like he was about to remove his hand, so I covered it with mine, pressed it to my knee.
Eventually I admitted the sad truth. “I’ve done a lot of planning, getting ready. But honestly, nothing exciting so far.” I added with a sad sigh, “No big trips or adventures.”