Truth or Beard

by Penny Reid

  And then I really did lose my breath because, if I wasn’t mistaken, Duane was giving me a hot look.

  His gaze moved from mine to his brother’s, then to Jennifer and Principal Sylvester’s as he handed out customary greetings to the small circle.

  I hadn’t at all recovered by the time his attention swung back to me. “Jessica, do you have a spare moment?” he asked in a low voice.

  I nodded.

  “Please excuse us,” he muttered.

  Without sparing a goodbye glance for our companions, Duane wrapped his long fingers around my upper arm and tugged me toward the open door.

  We were surrounded on all sides by crowds of people, music floating down the painted cinderblock and linoleum paved hallway. It was loud. But I was only aware of Duane. Halfway to the donations table, he slipped his hand into mine. We held hands for the remainder of our short walk to the cafeteria, causing my heart to take up residence in my throat. I was half expecting and hoping he’d drag me backstage again, but he didn’t.

  He steered us to one of the long lunch-room style tables in the corner of the cafeteria where no one else was sitting. We were still in a room full of people, but the conversations elsewhere meant whatever words we exchanged would be indecipherable from the surrounding chatter.

  Duane pulled a chair out for me and claimed the seat adjacent as I sat. Or, I tried to sit. I didn’t know quite how to sit. Sitting suddenly felt weird. I was super-conscious of my limbs.

  Thankfully, Duane spoke before I could become too obsessed with the mechanics of sitting.

  “I’ve been thinking.” He leaned his forearm along the table to his left, (my right) and trapped me with his focused gaze.

  “What have you been thinking?” I missed the feel of his hand and wondered if it would be weird for me to reach out and take hold of his fingers.

  “You’re leaving, just as soon as you can. And you estimate that at being, what? Two years?”

  I felt a bit dismayed by his subject choice. I was hoping he’d want to talk about Saturday, give me an opening to apologize and explain in greater detail. I tried to figure out how to steer the conversation in that direction. I tried and failed.

  Instead, I answered the question he’d asked with honesty. “More like either one and a half, or two and a half at this point, depending on how much money I can save.”

  His eyes narrowed and he nodded, his hand coming to his chin as he stroked his beard thoughtfully. We sat that way—him studying me while stroking his beard, me watching him study me while he stroked his beard—for several seconds.

  Abruptly he asked, “What would you say if I suggested we date for the next twelve months, but only for twelve months?”

  Who? What? …Date?

  It took me a bit to work through his words. I liked the date part, but the only twelve months part sounded fishy.

  “I…um…why twelve months?”

  My question seemed to relax him and his eyes appeared to lighten a bit. “Because that way we’ll be split up well before the time you need to go. It’s a good stretch of time, long enough to have a bit of fun, get to know each other, but not so long that you have to be concerned about a lasting attachment.”

  My heart was doing strange things in my chest, but not anything I might have predicted. It sank, like a stone. If I caught his meaning, and I was fairly certain I did, he wanted me to be his fuckbuddy for the next year. I’d gone from the girl he wanted to court to the girl he wanted to see on the side, one he likely no longer respected.

  I shifted in my seat, not because my body was uncomfortable but because my brain was uncomfortable.

  And my discomfort didn’t make sense because this is what I’d wanted…right?

  No. This isn’t what you wanted, a voice answered in my head, clear as a bell.

  Sometimes I truly didn’t understand myself.

  “So…we’d…” I licked my lips to stall answering. When I found my voice it was croaky and I felt the beginning of frustrated tears sting my eyes. “We’d what? Hook up a few times a month?”

  He shook his head, leaned a bit closer, and I was struck by how severe his expression seemed, almost like he was angry, but not quite.

  “No. That’s not what I want. You would have to go all in. We would go out to dinner, see movies, call each other, text. I’d work on your car—you know, the Mustang you left at my house earlier this week—install gadgets you don’t need ’cause you’re my girl. You might come to the Winston place and hang out with us boys. This would be both of us, all in for all twelve months—or less if we find we don’t suit.”

  My heart reversed positions halfway through his clarification of my misassumption and hurdled itself skyward. In fact, my entire body felt lighter, almost like I was floating.

  “So, you still want to court me?”

  “Yes.” He nodded.

  “For twelve months?”

  “Yep.”

  I didn’t try to hide my smile. “And we’d be a couple, a real couple?”

  A touch of softness entered his expression and his eyes drifted over my face, as though cataloging it. “Yeah, with presents on birthdays, and celebrating Valentine’s Day, and watching chick flicks, and all that other crap.”

  I gathered a deep breath, my lungs filling with both air and excitement. But then a thought occurred to me. “Wait, what if, after the twelve months, one or both of us wanted to continue? Does this thing, this agreement have an option for an extension?”

  At once the softness vanished, and again the lines of his face turned severe. He leaned away, just a few inches, but the distance felt much greater. I perceived a cold kind of resolve behind his eyes.

  “No. Absolutely not. The term is for a year. After that year is up, and as long as you’re in Green Valley, our relationship would be over.”

  “But, what if I’m in town for two and a half years? What if—”

  “No. Twelve months. That’s it. Take it or leave it.” His tone was unyielding. As though to drive home the fact that he wasn’t willing to bend on this point, he set his jaw and glowered at me. His glower reminded me of the Duane Winston I used to know, the kid who used to pick apart my arguments and challenge me to think about perspectives other than my own. That Duane had been irritating. That Duane had also been right nine times out of ten.

  I felt a spasm of some sort in my chest, like a spike or surge of panic, making breathing a bit more difficult. Absentmindedly, I pressed a palm to the center of my ribcage as I studied him and his stony features.

  I opened my mouth, determined to try one more time, because his granite resolve on the issue didn’t make much sense, but he cut me off before I could speak.

  “And, if we do this, you’re not to bring up the possibility of an extension again. You don’t even ask about it. It’s just understood. One year from today we’d be over and done and that’s it.”

  I studied him for a long stretch, saw he was completely serious, and seeing this made me feel out of sorts.

  Therefore I asked the first question my panicked heart wanted to know. “Would I still see you?”

  He shrugged. “You’d see me around I guess. This isn’t a big town.”

  “Would we still be friends?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would you talk to me? If you saw me after? Or would you ignore me?”

  “I’d be polite.”

  “But not more than polite?”

  “I don’t rightly know, Jess,” he whispered, and his whisper sounded a bit sad.

  Meanwhile, my voice lifted as I challenged, “Well, you need to know, Duane. Because I don’t think I could just date you for a year and then turn my feelings off.”

  “But you could leave me for Timbuktu and that would be no problem?”

  I huffed, my defensive hackles rising. “I don’t like being made to feel guilty for having dreams and goals. I already get enough sass about this from my family.”

  I saw his chest rise and fall with an impressivel
y large and silent breath. His eyes moved between mine for a few seconds before he glanced to his right, shaking his head.

  “This. Right here. This is the reason for the twelve-month limit.” When he brought his gaze back to mine it was clear and sober, determined. “If we limit things to the twelve months, then we both know what’s up. We avoid having this conversation ever again—because you leaving doesn’t make any difference. We’ll already be done. You can go and not feel like you’ve left anything behind.”

  I considered him, his words, for nearly a full minute, seeing the sincerity painted all over his features.

  “You’ve given this some thought.” This came out sounding like an accusation and I didn’t know why.

  “Yeah, I have.”

  I felt…irritable. But then I realized his proposed plan meant he’d been thinking about me over the last week. He’d been thinking about us and what to do. And that realization made me feel gooey and sentimental.

  Therefore, inspired and touched by his consideration of the matter, I blurted before thinking about what I was going to say, “What if we—” then stopped when I realized I was about to say, What if we just do this for real, no time constraints, and I put my travel plans on hold indefinitely?

  And that was the moment I realized how much I liked—really liked—Duane Winston. I mean, I knew I liked him before. But my reflexive panic at the thought of a time limit with him, one set in stone, made me feel trapped by my dreams of world travel.

  Oh, my dear friend, Irony. How I have not missed you…

  I licked my lips then chewed on the bottom one, again as a way to stall speaking my thoughts. My daddy liked to say You can’t have fried pie and not get fat. It was a distorted and much cruder version of the popular You can’t have your cake and eat it too, but the sentiment was the same.

  “What if we…?” he prompted when I took a bit too long to continue.

  Looking at him, knowing he was serious about this time limit business, I decided to take a different approach: negotiation.

  “What if we did a trial period first? Before the twelve months started?”

  His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why would we do that?”

  I had no choice but to wing it, make stuff up. “Because…because it would…be weird and…depressing to pick a year from today, November fourteenth, as the day things end. Right before Thanksgiving and Christmas? No. We should do a six-week trial period and start the twelve month countdown on January first.”

  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 ev
eryone 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.”