Truth or Beard(63)

I assumed Jackson knew all of this startling information because of his job. Notwithstanding the local strip club politics, I tried to wrap my mind around his words regarding my cousin and Duane.

But Jackson pulled me out of my thoughts before I was able to gather them. “Now, I know you don’t want me to tell you that you’re pretty, but you are.”

“Jackson…” I rolled my eyes.

I assumed, similar to most people, I studied myself in the mirror and saw imperfections, little things I wished I could change or wanted to target for change. But, at the risk of coming across as a complete nut, I totally thought I was pretty. I thought I had a pretty face. I thought I had a decent body. I woke up early four days a week so I could go swimming at the YMCA—because I loved swimming and I liked feeling strong. I ate fairly well (not counting my obsession with pie). I took reasonably good care of myself.

Relatively clean living paired with biological gifts meant I was on the right side of pleased with my reflection. Therefore, I didn’t need to hear my older brother tell me I was pretty. But I was no personification of every man’s sex fantasy.

Jackson cut me off and insisted, “You hush up and hear me out for a minute. You are a pretty girl. And pretty girls who don’t know how pretty they are sometimes feel overwhelmed by attention from the opposite sex.”

I rolled my eyes again, smirked at my brother’s impression of me, but didn’t interrupt. I was perversely curious to see where this was going.

Jackson’s voice deepened, and adopted a lecturing tone. “Duane Winston is…well, he’s a horse’s ass. I don’t like him. He drives too fast and doesn’t respect authority. But he’s not stupid. None of those Winston boys are. And after a few years of Tina, he’s got to be tired of conversations involving nothing but nail polish and gossip. It wouldn’t matter if Tina looked like Angelina Jolie and—pardon my candor and potential lack of sensitivity—loved giving blowjobs every ten minutes. No man with brains would be able to put up with her brand of boring and crazy indefinitely. Not even Duane Winston.”





CHAPTER 12


“No matter how far you travel, you can never get away from yourself.”

― Haruki Murakami, after the quake





~Jessica~


Claire and I didn’t discuss my dinner with Tina the next morning at work, mostly because I was dead tired. Plus, she’d been a witness to my Duane-funk all week after we’d dropped off his Mustang. Thankfully, she hadn’t commented on it so I hadn’t either. I didn’t want her to think I was both whiney and funky. However, I could tell she was having a hard time holding her tongue on my lingering laconic attitude.

And when we pulled into the Green Valley Community Center for jam night—she was driving—Claire turned to me after cutting her ignition and said, “You’re in a funk. You have been all week. And I’m pretty sure it’s why you gave Duane Winston back his pretty car.”

I sighed pathetically and glanced out my window at the gathering crowd. “I know.”

I could feel her eyeballs on me. “You know, he might be in there, in the community center.”

“Yes. I know.” My heart did a strange little stretch then constriction thing in my chest.

“What will you do?”

“I guess I’ll say hi, be polite, showcase my excellent manners.”

“Why don’t you drag him off someplace private and dark instead, and bend him to your will?”

I huffed a humorless laugh, turned to my friend, and answered honestly, “Because he wants more than I can give him.”

I said the words without much conviction because I was still wondering if I could have my pie and not get fat, i.e. figure out how to have a real relationship with Duane, not give up on my dreams, and not break anyone’s heart.

Claire set her jaw, her eyes narrowing on me. “You know, I’ve been really quiet so far, about you and your situation with Duane. I understand you have dreams of seeing the world, and dreams are important. But you know what I don’t understand? How is it that your dreams don’t leave room for companionship? For love?”

“Claire—”

“No, hear me out. I think about my time with Ben—as short as it was—and all I gave up to marry him, be with him, and—you know what? I wouldn’t trade a lifetime of things or experiences or accolades for a second of what we had when he was alive, when we were together.”

“Honey—”

“And you won’t even consider the possibility that your dreams might be made better, that life and the living of it can be enriched if you have someone to share it with. Why is that?”