Really, it was too much handsome. It felt like an assault.
The last time I’d seen so many male Winstons together all at once was when I was thirteen and all six of them were at a church picnic. Roscoe, Beau, and Duane had been in braces at the time. They were cute-handsome then. But now they were all grown up. I imagined it would be difficult for any red-blooded female to keep focus on the worship with an entire pew of Winston men in attendance.
As soon as my wits recovered from the Winston-handsome-assault, I thought about calling out or making some sign to Duane, but I felt my daddy’s narrowed eyes on me and therefore opted to remain quiet.
Furthermore, I felt conflicted about how our date had ended the night before. I’d assumed things were going splendidly. Well, it had gone splendidly until the very end when I’d tried to reciprocate his wonderful ministrations, and—instead of enthusiastically taking me up on the offer—he’d gently pushed away my advances. He drove me to my parents’ house, mumbling something about having me home by a respectable time. Once there, I received a kiss on the cheek, and he left without making any new plans.
Service started and I couldn’t concentrate. For me, the difficulty was having Duane within such close proximity. It’s problematic for your soul when your body is recalling fleshy pursuits from the night before, and the week before that, and the week before that. I felt a twinge of embarrassment at how I’d behaved, how I’d been behaving since weeks ago at the community center, how I’d basically thrown myself at him multiple times, and how he’d gently rejected me each time.
Maybe he didn’t want my enthusiasm.
Maybe he wanted to take things slow.
Or maybe my fervor—for his touch and kisses and embrace—was a turn off.
This last theory didn’t sit right. He seemed to like it, liked making me feel good, watching me lose my control. Maybe he just didn’t want to lose his control…
As well, this behavior was not typical for me, and my thoughts turned inward as I tried to determine why I’d been acting so out of character.
Yes, I liked to kiss and be kissed, flirt and have fun. However, anything beyond kissing hadn’t ever felt quite natural with anyone else. Putting on the brakes in the past had been effortless, and I’d mindfully explored at my own pace, even the guy (a.k.a. the Shetland pony) I’d lost my virginity with. In college, if I felt pressured by a boy to round the bases, I’d move on. Walking away had been easy.
Yet, with Duane…well, I realized I didn’t feel in control. I felt needy. I felt urgency. I felt desperate. I wanted to be with him or close to him all the time. When we weren’t together I was thinking about him, specifically conversations we’d had as kids and adolescents, and viewing them through a new lens. He was becoming dear to me with alarming speed because I was allowing our history to tangle with our present.
And, truthfully, part of the problem was I just liked him so much.
I wasn’t going to play games, games were dishonest, but I made a solemn promise to be more circumspect and careful about flinging my heart and panties at him in the future. He’d caught me unawares with his backstage trickery, then his vulnerable honesty at the lake. I decided I was going to slow down, adopt a more mindful attitude. If he wanted to take things slow then I could take things slow, too.
When the service was over just thirty-five minutes after it had begun, I was surprised my father didn’t rush out of church; he even placed a staying hand on my arm when I moved to leave the pew.
“Just a sec, Jess.”
I glanced at him, allowing my confusion to show on my face.
My daddy gave me a small smile and lifted his chin toward the aisle where people were filtering out. “Your young man is here. Wouldn’t be right, leaving without a word to Duane.”
I squinted at my father, immediately suspicious of his intentions. At best my father was indifferent to all my previous boyfriends—the ones he’d met anyway—and at worst he’d been dismissive and rude.
“Daddy, is this your way of telling me you like Duane Winston?” I whispered.
“No. This is my way of telling you I like Duane Winston,” he cleared his throat and returned my squinty expression, “Jess, I like Duane Winston.”
I couldn’t help the surprised laugh that bubbled forth or the smile of wonder that claimed my features as I studied my daddy. “But you don’t like anybody.”
“That’s because ain’t nobody good enough for you.”
“And Duane is?”
“No. But his momma, rest her soul, was the best sort. Now, if I had my pick I’d have rathered Cletus or Billy, but you know how Jackson and I are worthless with cars. It would be nice to have a mechanic in the family.”