I glanced at him and saw he was watching me openly. Duane’s frown had been replaced with not quite a smile, and his eyes held appreciation; however, it was the perceivable glimmer of understanding there that sent my pulse racing.
“I think I’m starting to get it. You’re more than curious about the world, and I see it calls to you.” His quiet voice was laced with empathy, and I saw he truly did get it.
I didn’t temper my heavy sigh of relief, or my immediate grin, or attempt to hide my pleasure. This pleasure was quickly followed by a sudden and deep sense of gratitude. I’d tried to explain this desire to my family and friends on more than one occasion. Invariably my parents would always ask, But what about a house and a nice car and nice clothes and a TV and a familiar bed?
They couldn’t fathom that I wanted to fill my life with experiences, not with things. I had their core values, but in so many ways we were completely different. They’d never understood my dramatic, wild side. Consequently, I’d spent my childhood trying to suppress or ignore it. But it was no use. I craved freedom, they craved structure. I didn’t know why my dreams and goals were so different from my family’s. They just were.
Until this moment, I hadn’t realized how lonely I’d been, having no one to share my dreams with, and no one to understand. It was Duane’s understanding that pushed me over the edge. I stared into his brilliant eyes and knew with absolute certainty, I was in love with Duane Winston.
And it didn’t feel like a burden or a weight, something holding me down. Loving him made me feel paradoxically phenomenal and reckless and safe and strong and capable—because Duane was all of those things.
My big smile was beginning to hurt, but I didn’t mind. I wanted to hold on to this moment for as long as possible, because it was the first time—and maybe the only time in my life—I felt truly seen, known, and understood. And I wanted to give him everything in return. I wanted him to know I saw him. I knew him, too.
Duane’s almost smile turned wry and his eyes narrowed. “You, looking at me like that, makes me feel ten feet tall.”
“Aren’t you?”
He laughed. I laughed. We laughed together.
Duane tugged me forward and captured my lips for a quick kiss, sending a thrill of warmth to my toes, then whispered against my mouth, “I guess I am, when I’m with you.”
“You say sweet things.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. Like when you said I was a siren who doesn’t need to sing.” I imagined my expression mimicked the dazed and floaty feeling of my heart. “That was a sweet thing to say, even though it implied I sought your destruction by tempting you with my body.”
He shook his head, leaning away, one of his reluctant smiles teasing over his lips. Duane released me and pushed his fingers into my hair, his strong hands moving against my scalp and down to my neck. “That’s not what I meant when I said it.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“Have you read the Odyssey?”
“No. Have you?”
“Yes. It was required reading in my house. Remember, we didn’t have a TV growing up. All we had were books and our imagination.”
“Lord help us all, the Winston boys left to their collective imaginations,” I teased lightly, enjoying my view because Duane was my view.
“How much do you know about the story?” His eyes studied me and he cocked his head to the side. “Do you know the basics?”
“Of the Odyssey? It was about Odysseus’s travels. His journey home.”
“What about the sirens in the Odyssey?”
“I know a bit. I know the sirens are beautiful. Their beauty and their song inspire lust in Odysseus’s men and tempt the sailors to crash their ship against the rocks, more or less.”
“Nope. That’s not what happens. It’s not lust they inspire that drives sailors toward their own destruction.”
I squinted at him. “Then what do the sailors feel?”
“The sirens are beautiful, yes. But their song and their beauty call to the soul, not to the body. The sirens don’t inspire lust. They inspire longing. A deep, wrenching longing. Bone deep, so the sailors would rather die than live without the siren.”
I stared at him as he stared at me. I could tell he was waiting for me to catch on to his meaning, it didn’t take me very long because he voluntarily filled in the blanks.
“Your wanderlust, or farfigneugan or whatever—that’s your siren’s song.” He tilted his head to one side then the other, as though studying me from different angles before adding, “I get that.”
Again my heart bloomed, and I wanted to give him a similar gift. So I asked, “And yours is going fast? Is speed your siren’s call?”