“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.

Eventually she broke our stalemate. “What if the house had a hot tub?”

I slid my eyes to the side, saw her giving me a conciliatory smile, one of surrender and apology.

I returned her smile and hoped mine also conveyed similar sentiments of reconciliation. “Well, now that changes everything. I’d give up the world for a hot tub, but only if it was also a time machine.”

She laughed, shook her head at me as she unbuckled her seatbelt. “Why is that movie so funny? It’s so stupid, and yet it makes me laugh every time I watch it. I don’t understand myself sometimes.”

“Beats me.” I shrugged, opening my door and straightening out of the car, preparing my resolve to face whatever labyrinth of funky-feelings lie ahead.

***

I’d braced myself for seeing Duane. I’d expected to see him around every corner or the sound of his conversation to greet me through every door.

But he didn’t. He wasn’t there. At least I didn’t see him.

My heart seized a bit when I spotted Cletus strumming his banjo in one of the rooms, providing accompaniment for his brother Billy on vocals. I decided to torture myself by staying in the room and listening to Billy Winston sing. The man could sing. Yet this was an exercise in torture because there was something about the way he moved that reminded me of Duane.

Nevertheless, no music played that only I could hear when Billy walked by my chair during a break, stopped, and gave me a faint smile of acknowledgement. I felt nothing beyond friendly curiosity when he crossed to me, his hands in his pockets, and leveled me with his startling stare.

As I stood, I decided if Beau’s eyes were the summer sky, and Duane’s volleyed between glittering sapphires and a swirling tempest, Billy Winston’s eyes were the color of glaciers. Even his warm smile couldn’t quite warm his gaze.

“How are you this evening, Jessica?” It had been a while since I’d spoken to Billy, so I’d forgotten he’d lost quite a bit of his eastern Tennessee drawl. He almost sounded like a generic person from the United States, what most would consider lacking in discernible accent. Well, generic except his voice held a soothing, melodic quality when he spoke.

“Just fine. And how are you, Billy?”

“I’m well.” His gaze drifted to the empty seat next to mine. “Is Claire here with you tonight?”

“Yes. We came together. But I think she’s up at the front with her father-in-law, helping with the donations.”

He nodded, his gaze growing sharper in a way I couldn’t help but notice. I thought it was remarkably odd, almost like he was frustrated.

But then whatever it was promptly vanished and was replaced with an unaffected air of controlled politeness. “How are things at the high school?”

“Fine…real good, actually. We now have a system worked out for all the kids bussed in for calculus.”

“All thanks to this little lady.”

I turned my head just as Kip Sylvester, the principal of the high school and therefore my boss, shouldered his way through the shuffling crowd. Next to him was his daughter Jennifer, who I would forever think of as Queen of the Banana Cakes.

This was not an uncharitable thought on my part. She’d literally won Best Banana Cake at the county fair for the last six years and worked for her momma’s bakery making the renowned cakes. Add to this her pale complexion, pale yellow hair, and bright yellow dress with brown polka dots, she might as well have been a banana herself.

“Thanks to Miss James, we’re seeing lots of progress in our STEM numbers already.” Kip Sylvester gave me an approving nudge.

It was somewhat strange, thinking of Kip Sylvester as my boss. I’d known him since I was two. He’d been the principal when I was in high school, too. I gave Jennifer a small smile of greeting, which she returned with sunny brilliance. But then I watched as she turned her gaze to Billy; it grew noticeably bemused and dreamy.

“That’s good news,” Billy offered benignly, pairing his statement with a head nod in my direction.

“Are you singing tonight, Mr. Winston?” Jennifer asked prettily, in a soft, sweet voice. Sweet as banana cake.

“I am. Or, I guess I was.” Billy turned and glanced over his shoulder. “It depends on whether Cletus is staying for the next set. We drove together.”

“Oh, I hope we’re not too late to hear you sing. I think I’d die if I missed it.”

Billy’s expression grew a bit perplexed, maybe even a little rigid.

My boss tried to cover his grimace with an indulgent smile—which only served to highlight his grimace. “What a silly thing to say, Jennifer,” he admonished his daughter, chuckling lightly and looking at Billy as though to apologize.

I felt a pang of empathy as Jennifer’s face fell and her cheeks tinged pink. “I’m sorry, I’m always saying silly things I guess. I must’ve overdone it today in the bakery.”

“See now, that’s a great excuse. I usually blame all the silly things I say on syphilis.” I started to laugh at my own joke before even finishing it. However, after seven seconds of dismayed stares and silence, I realized that maybe STD humor was lost on this crowd.

I reminded myself what I thought was hilarious, like my ironic sexy Gandalf costume, was often the cause of censure and elicited abject horror from others. I was always going to be a circle peg in a world of squares.

But then I heard someone laugh, or more precisely try not to laugh. I twisted at the waist and nearly lost my breath because directly behind me was Duane Winston. He was most definitely trying his best to contain errant laughter. His sapphire eyes were glittering down at me.

And then I really did lose my breath because, if I wasn’t mistaken, Duane was giving me a hot look.

His gaze moved from mine to his brother’s, then to Jennifer and Principal Sylvester’s as he handed out customary greetings to the small circle.

I hadn’t at all recovered by the time his attention swung back to me. “Jessica, do you have a spare moment?” he asked in a low voice.

I nodded.

“Please excuse us,” he muttered.

Without sparing a goodbye glance for our companions, Duane wrapped his long fingers around my upper arm and tugged me toward the open door.

We were surrounded on all sides by crowds of people, music floating down the painted cinderblock and linoleum paved hallway. It was loud. But I was only aware of Duane. Halfway to the donations table, he slipped his hand into mine. We held hands for the remainder of our short walk to the cafeteria, causing my heart to take up residence in my throat. I was half expecting and hoping he’d drag me backstage again, but he didn’t.