And it was all my fault.
Before Halloween, the majority of my fantasies centered on world heritage sites. Now I caught myself daydreaming with alarming frequency about the time we’d shared. Also the reluctant curve of his smile, the shape of his torso, the cadence of his voice, the texture of his beard, and the radiance and intensity of his sapphire eyes.
Not to mention that incorrigible circumcised penis.
Accursed penis!
Making matters worse, I was second-guessing myself. Yes, I still had the insatiable wanderlust, I still desperately needed to see and know the world, but maybe there was more than one way to kill a rooster. Maybe I could save my money and go on really long vacations.
Teachers typically had the option of taking summers off; I could live the year in Green Valley and use the summer to backpack around the world. But this idea felt like settling, like giving up, and it gave me heartburn.
My point, I argued with myself, is that it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. If you really like Duane and you do—don’t try to deny it!—then you should try to find a way to make something between the two of you work…
But with these thoughts also came fear, fear that I would be tied down, unable to travel, unable to leave. Fear that, if my intense like for him eventually turned to love, I would lose my freedom. It would be akin to having those National Geographic magazines read to me instead of losing myself in their pages. My dreams would be diluted and I would be stuck.
It was the fear that held me hostage, trapped in indecision purgatory.
I didn’t call him after our disastrous date, and it had been a disaster. We’d consumed our food in silence; it had stuck in my throat, settled like a lump in my stomach. Duane had packed up, and this time he’d accepted my help. Our walk back had also been silent. Though he was just as solicitous and polite as he had been on the trek out, he hadn’t looked at me. When we arrived to the car he’d opened my door.
Then he’d taken me home and again opened my door when we’d arrived. He’d walked me to the steps of my parents’ house, not touching me, and that’s where I was left.
He gave me a short impersonal nod, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and said politely, “I’ll see you around, Jess.”
Between the hot ache in my chest, the ballooning lump in my throat, and the stinging tears in my eyes, I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I just stood there and watched him leave, drive away, feeling sick and sad and stupid.
And now, as I pulled my bike into the parking lot of Daisy’s Nut House to meet my cousin Tina for dinner, I was still deep in my funk.
Tina had called me the Monday after my disastrous Friday picnic with Duane. In fact, she’d called just as Claire and I were dropping off Duane’s Mustang to the Winston house. We did it right after work, when I was fairly sure he’d still be at the auto shop, locking the car and slipping the keys into the mail slot of the house.
He hadn’t asked me to return it, and I knew he never would. But there was no way I could keep the car. First of all, every time I looked at the thing I felt like crying. Secondly, like Duane, it wasn’t mine to keep. It never had been.
As we pulled away from the house, Tina called my cell and said she wanted to get together. I was…surprised. I’d chalked her overtures the week before up to odd politeness. But now she was calling me, inviting me out.
At first she’d suggested beer and pool at the Dragon Biker Bar. I’d told her she was crazy.
In fact I’d said, “You’re crazy.”
She’d laughed. “What? Haven’t you ever been curious about going? Meeting some of the guys? They’re hot and they’d show us a real good time.”
I’d shaken my head, which she couldn’t see, and had repeated, “You’re crazy.”
I was curious about the Dragon Biker Bar and the Iron Order guys like I was curious about going to jail for life.
So…not.
As the Sheriff’s daughter, I heard all sorts of cautionary tales about the local biker club. And, granted, if these cautionary tales hadn’t included allegations of drug trafficking, prostitution, arson, and bouts of random violence, then I might have been a tad more curious.
Regardless, knowing what I did, the Iron Order bikers didn’t do a thing for me, except make me want to lock my doors, use the buddy system, take self-defense classes, and buy a German Shepherd.
When I wouldn’t budge and refused to indulge her initial idea, she relented and agreed to my alternate suggestion of dinner at Daisy’s Nut House. This suited me since I didn’t have a car and the diner was within walking distance of my parents’ house.
Instead of walking, I opted to pedal my mom’s old Swinger Stingray bicycle and arrived a full ten minutes earlier than the agreed upon 6:30 p.m. I locked my bike up outside and meandered into the diner, happy and surprised to see Daisy behind the counter.