Jackson paused, allowing me a moment to let his perspective sink in, before he continued. “Not all the girls at the Pink Pony are that way. Hannah Townsen dances up there, has for the last year.”
“Hannah? Really?” This was surprising news. Hannah was two years behind me in school and I remembered her as being extremely shy.
“Yeah. Dancing makes good money, she uses the money to help her momma keep the homestead, and The Pony isn’t like the G-Spot—you know that strip club down near the Dragon Biker Bar? Where all the girls are strung out? The Pink Pony isn’t like that. Hank—you know Hank Weller? He owns The Pink Pony. Well, anyway, Hank does a good job of keeping things clean and tidy at his place, he treat his girls well, and hires good guys, bouncers to keep out the bad element. But Tina is always stirring shit up. One of these days I’m pretty sure he’ll get tired of her dramas.”
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?”
“I—”
“I’m not saying Duane Winston is your Ben. I’m not saying that. But watching you shut down and withhold yourself from the possibility of love and being loved, that makes me sad. That makes me sad for you. I know you want adventure, I know you want to see the world. But love is the greatest adventure, where you risk the most for the greatest reward. What good will all this exceptional living do if you’re doing it only for yourself?”
“I don’t know! Okay?” I bellowed, chaotically throwing my hands around. “You’re right, I don’t know what I’m missing. I don’t know what might have been between us, if I’d gotten out of my own way, and just let things be. But I do know that I will suffocate here. I know I cannot stay. And I know that being dishonest with Duane, or being dishonest with anyone—even if it’s a lie of omission—isn’t right. It isn’t fair, not to him. He wanted to court me. He brought my mother flowers. His sights were set on the long term, and I…” I sighed pitifully and shook my head, glancing at my fingers.
“And you what? Is the problem that you can’t see yourself with Duane Winston in the long term?”
“No. The problem is that I can see myself with Duane Winston in the long term. I can see a house with a garage where he fixes up old cars. I can see a home office where I grade papers and tutor kids. I see a kitchen where I bake Sunday meatloaf or roast chicken, and a deck where he grills ribs and steaks. I can see a garden in the backyard and white picket fences.”
“And that terrifies you.”
“And that terrifies me. Because as pretty as the picture is, I would hate it. I would hate owning stuff that owns me. I would hate knowing the whole world was out there and I’d locked myself in a cage—even if the cage was gold, and pretty, with an herb garden and a flowerbed…”
She didn’t respond, not for a long time. We both stared out the windshield in strained silence and watched as groups of locals passed by the front of her car on their way to jam night. Judging by the amount of people, the place was going to be packed. This was a good and a bad thing.
Likely, by the time I made it to the food line, all the coleslaw would be gone. The coleslaw was my favorite of the salads.
However, on the plus side, if the place was packed and Duane was in attendance, it would make avoiding him a lot easier.