Chaos and Control

by Season Vining

  His voice is so deep and scratchy; it seems to vibrate through me. It’s what wet dreams and bad-boy fantasies are made of. I have a vague recollection of our conversation in the store earlier, but this feels like the first time I am truly hearing him. I want more.

  “Do you need help with that?” I ask, stepping closer. I can see now that he’s dirty and covered in what looks like sawdust. I inhale and find the scent of sweat and wood completely appealing. “Sometimes you have to shake the knob and lift up at the same time.”

  Preston freezes when I stand next to him. He keeps his head down, his shoulders tense.

  “I’ve got it,” he says.

  He pulls the key out and pushes it back, jiggles it twice, and repeats this process three more times. I stare at his profile unashamedly. He’s so handsome and manly looking, a definite fittest-of-the-fit in the gene pool.

  “Let’s go, Wren,” Bennie says. “Good night, Preston.”

  The muscles of his forearms tighten as his hand grips the doorframe. He nods as Bennie pulls me away. Once we’re on the street, walking toward the edge of town, I turn to Bennie.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “What?” she asks, feigning ignorance.

  “He’s so weird—fucking gorgeous, but weird. Why does he have an aversion to me? Did you tell him something?”

  She stops walking and props her hands on her hips. “And what would I tell him? I haven’t seen you in three years. I didn’t know you were coming back, and I doubt I even know you anymore.”

  I frown, hating the doubt in her voice.

  “I’m still me. Same old Wren. I’m the girl who stole gum out of your purse all the time. The one who busted you making out with that creepy mustache guy in Daddy’s shed. And the one who tripped in church, landing in the aisle with my skirt up around my waist.”

  She grins and shakes her head. Grabbing one of her hands from her hip and pulling, I get her to start walking again. Bennie lets out a huge yawn.

  “Are you sure you want to go? You seem tired.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Did you get my postcards? I tried to send one from every place I went.” Bennie nods and crosses her arms. I don’t like how nonchalant she is about my only effort at communication while away. “Good,” I say, because I have nothing else, and now things feel awkward between us.

  We reach The Haystack and step inside. In a town this small, everyone knows you and your entire family, so I was never able to sneak in while underage. My first look at the place is not surprising. The air is a bit smoky, creating a haze where large lights shine over pool tables. Country music plays from an old jukebox near the back of the room.

  “Let’s sit at the bar,” Bennie says, parking herself on a stool there.

  I hop up next to her as she waves the bartender over.

  “Hey, Bennie. Who’s this?”

  The man looks at me like I’m on display at the zoo. His face is familiar, but I can’t pin down how I know him.

  “Wren, you remember Coach Johnson, right?”

  He was the football coach at my high school. I didn’t exactly attend games back then. While the rest of the town was ravenous for team sports, I was more drawn to one-on-one activities.

  “Wren Hart? Well, I’ll be. Didn’t recognize you,” he said, waving nervously at my appearance. “Are you old enough to be in here?”

  “I turned twenty-one last month.”

  “Well, all right! First drink’s on me. What’ll you have?”

  “Two shots of tequila. And not that cheap stuff that’s been on the shelf since the nineties.”

  “The usual for me, Coach,” Bennie chimes in.

  “You got it.”

  I face Bennie and stare at her profile. “The usual? How often do you come here? I thought you like to drink alone?”

  “Things change, Wren. After you left, alone was too alone.”

  I cringe, guilt tugging at my heart. “I was alone, too, you know. Most of the time.”

  “Yes,” Bennie says. “But that was your choice.”

  I frown and drop my eyes to the two shot glasses and beer dropped off in front of us. I slide one over to Bennie and hold up the other. She gives me a half-hearted smile and lifts her shot.

  “To homecomings and never being alone,” I say. We clink our glasses together and throw back the shot. The alcohol burns my empty stomach and warms my skin immediately.

  “So this is the big nightlife in Crowley, huh?”

  “This is it,” Bennie answers. “Sometimes a fight breaks out when the boys get too drunk, but other than that, it’s pretty tame.”

  “How’s business, B? I was kind of surprised to find the store still open. Figured you’d be abandoned in the digital age.”

  “Business is good, actually. The college kids in Franklin keep me open. Apparently, records are making a comeback. Plus, Preston is really good with marketing ideas. He says the hipsters will keep us afloat for a while.”

  “Sweet. It’s about time people appreciate the pure perfection of The Smiths on vinyl.”

  “Who said anything about The Smiths?” she asks, taking a sip of her beer. “They’re buying old Johnny Cash and Rage Against the Machine.”

  “Well, I’m not mad at that.”

  A loud chorus of greetings rings out near the jukebox, and I turn to see what’s causing the commotion. A group of guys, complete with graphic tees and ripped jeans, are huddled together over a table. The storyteller of the group has their undivided attention. His arms wave around, gesturing wildly while everyone laughs. I watch as he slaps one of them on the back and turns toward the bar. My pulse spikes, and my breath gets caught in my throat. Suddenly I’m very thirsty.

  “Coach, another shot,” I yell.

  He nods and goes to fetch the bottle. Meanwhile, Sawyer spots me. When our eyes meet, his jaw drops open and his lips silently form my name. He finally closes his mouth, swallows, and gives me a brilliant smile. It’s that charming smile that knocked my panties off at sixteen, and I’m sure it still reels in the ladies.

  “Wren,” he says, sliding down the bar so that we’re a couple of feet apart.

  “Sawyer,” I answer.

  “Wow. You look…”

  “Yeah, different. I know.”

  He takes a seat on a barstool and leans toward me. “I was going to say beautiful.”

  “Oh,” I answer, surprised. “Well, thanks. Looking good yourself.”

  And he does. He is the epitome of an all-American yearbook photo. My tequila appears in front of me. I grab the glass and throw it back, not even bothering with the salt and lime. Sawyer’s gaze never leaves me. He’s staring, and it’s unnerving.

  “Do I have something on my face?” I ask, my fingers swiping at my cheeks.

  “No,” he says, chuckling, finally looking away. “I just never thought I’d see you again.”

  “Well, here I am.”

  “Yes, you certainly are,” he muses, grabbing the beer Coach places in front of him. “You go see your folks yet?” I shake my head and look away. “Well, let me know if you want me to tag along. I know you hate going alone.”

  “Yeah, sure.” His worried look is authentic. Before we were anything else, we were friends, and his concern reminds me of that.

  “How’s Mr. Cuddles doing?”

  Sawyer blanches, his eyes shooting to Bennie and then returning to me.

  “Come on, Wren. I’m a grown man. I don’t need a stuffed bear around anymore.”

  “So he’s good?” I tease.

  “Yeah,” he answers. “Safe and sound.” We both laugh as Sawyer shrugs in resignation. “Never could hide anything from you.”

  “Like your Ghostbusters memorabilia or your comic books?”

  He rolls he eyes and drops his head. “Yes, like that stuff. Which, before you ask, is also just fine.”

  “Good to hear. Hey, at least I kept your secrets safe.”

  “That you did. You sticking around for a while?” Sa
wyer asks before taking a long pull from his beer. I watch his lips and throat and everything else that moves as he swallows.

  “Not sure yet,” I confess. I feel Bennie stiffen next to me. “The plan is to make no plans.”

  “For what it’s worth, I hope you do.” He tips his baseball cap at me and winks. “Good to see you, too, Bennie.”

  She raises her beer in his direction as he rejoins the group of guys. Now that I look closer, I recognize most of them from high school. The same old people in the same old town, still treating Logan Sawyer like he’s a god. It’s no wonder he never left.

  “Thinking of revisiting some old ghosts?” Bennie asks, bumping my shoulder with her own.

  I watch Sawyer and his friends start a game of pool. Every few minutes his eyes connect with mine. He smiles just for me.

  “I think that ship has sailed,” I say. “But he looks good, right?”

  “Even Mayor Tuttle’s wife flirts with him.”

  We both laugh and fall into an easy silence. Bennie finishes another beer, and I have two more shots before we decide to call it a night. The night air is cooler now, and it feels good against my flushed cheeks.

  When we get back to Bennie’s, we each retreat toward our rooms.

  “Catch you on the flip side, kid.”

  “Good night, Ben.”

  I crawl in between clean, soft sheets for the first time in weeks. The mattress sinks and holds me as I stare up at the shadows on my ceiling. As I drift off to sleep, the sweet sound of Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young” plays from the apartment next door, and I fall into dreamland with a smile on my face.

  I wage a war

  Not against others, against myself

  A battle fought with both enemies

  Defending the same turf

  Obsessive is not always a disorder

  Compulsion feels satisfying on the tongue

  In the mayhem that is my mind, a single light shines

  Not a low burning bulb casting shadows

  An instant sun to chase them away

  Her name is Wren

  A stranger, a strange girl, just strange

  No filter for her mouth

  Unapologetic words spill out, such truths

  Encroaching my space uninvited

  With no thought to why I want her there

  In a world of microbial infections

  She is 99.9% pure

  A healing elixir sold from the pockets of a miracle man

  Such beauty quiets my loudest demons

  A free spirit wrapped inside a papier-mâché girl

  Spouting instructions like shake the knob and lift

  She holds the keys to my sanctuary

  Coming in through my thoughts

  Because the door is locked

  - Preston

  Chapter Three

  Rumours

  Tequila is one of those things you always regret, like dropping out of school or eating that third doughnut. My head is throbbing, my pulse a heavy rhythm in my ears. I know I need a shower and some greasy food to feel better, but I can’t seem to make myself get out of bed. A bright rectangle of light glows behind lace curtains, and I know I’ve slept in late.

  After my shower and some ibuprofen, I get dressed. Lacing up my boots, I swipe at the scuff marks and dirt on them, knowing I’ll need them to face lunch in this town on a Saturday. Of course I realize they are only shoes, but they make me feel like a bad ass. Some girls have power panties. I’ve got boots.

  I pass Preston’s door in the hall and stare, hoping it will reveal something about this guy. It doesn’t say anything but 2B. At the bottom of the stairs, I walk through the storage closet and push past the swinging door. There are three customers in the store flipping through records.

  Bennie sits behind the front counter, while her favorite Fleetwood Mac album plays over the speakers. She sees me and waves.

  “Morning, kid. How’s that tequila treating you?”

  “Like shit,” I say. “I’m heading to the diner for greasy food and subpar coffee. Want anything?”

  She laughs and hands me a twenty. “Bring me back a lemon square. Lunch is on me.”

  I take the money, slip my shades down over my eyes, and exit the store. The walk to Millie’s is short, but the sun seems to draw out the alcohol through my pores. I smell the place before I can see it. French fries and apple pie float on the breeze. It smells like home.

  I push through the doors and take a seat at the counter. A redhead in the traditional waitress uniform with apron walks over and lays out a napkin and silverware. She leaves, retrieves a glass of water, and sets it down with a menu.

  My eyes scan the breakfast food, searching out bacon and hash browns.

  “I heard you were back,” the waitress says.

  I look up and read her name tag. Angela Louise. I wrack my brain for an Angela and come up empty.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember you.”

  She smiles, but it’s forced. “No, you wouldn’t. We only went to school together our entire lives. It’s okay. I imagine I’m fairly forgettable.”

  I stare at her and smile. I know it must seem rude, but I like this girl. She’s got a kind of honesty that’s refreshing.

  “I’m really sorry. I’ve done a lot of things and met a lot of people in the past three years. There’s only so much room up here,” I say, tapping my temple. “I guess some stuff gets deleted to make room for new memories.” She gives me a doubting look, not amused by my theory. “Actually, you do look familiar. Didn’t you go by Angie in school?”

  “Yep. That was me.”

  “Well, I like Angela Louise. Has a nice down-home feel to it. Now that we’re reacquainted, can I get some coffee?”

  “Sure thing.”

  She fetches a mug and coffee pot, pouring me a cup. As she’s handing it over, another waitress—an older lady with jet-black hair and a permanent grin—leans into her ear and rolls her eyes.

  “He is so strange. I can’t get him to try anything new.”

  Angela looks across the room, and I follow her gaze to find Preston seated in a booth alone. “I don’t know why you keep trying,” she responds.

  I return my attention to the menu and quickly decide. “I’d like the bacon cheeseburger with fries. Thanks.”

  Angela nods and strolls away to put my order in. I pour a ton of sugar into my coffee and stir before picking up the mug and carefully making my way across the diner. When I reach Preston’s table, I notice it is clear of all condiments. He is leaned over a moleskin notebook, writing in an extremely neat cursive.

  “Hi,” I say when he doesn’t look up.

  “Hello,” Preston answers, his pencil pausing momentarily before finishing the word he’s writing.

  “Mind if I join you for lunch?” I ask while sliding into the booth opposite him. Preston sits up, his back stiff and shoulders high. He stares, unblinking, at my cup of coffee. “Or not?” I say, but make no move to get up.

  “I don’t really. I mean, I’m not used to…” He stops. His gaze drops to the notebook and then comes back to my face. He takes a deep breath and blinks slowly, while his hands lay awkwardly folded on the table. His next words are spoken very carefully. “Sure. You can join me for lunch.”

  “Great,” I say, setting my coffee down. “So, what are you writing?” Preston folds the notebook closed and slides it from the table. “Okay. We’ll start with something easier. Where are you from?”

  His posture relaxes a tiny bit as he laces his fingers together on top of the table between us.

  “Pittsburgh.” His answer is clipped, but I press on.

  “Whoa, Preston-who-writes-in-notebooks is a big-city guy. I went through there about a year ago. I liked it a lot. That cheesesteak sandwich at Primanti’s? Wow.”

  Preston gives a weak smile and nods.

  “So why’d you move here? I mean, people leave all the time, but I question the sanity of those to come to Crowley willingly.”

 
; “I went to college in Franklin. I liked it here, so I stayed,” he says, shifting in his seat. His fingers twitch, and my eyes are drawn to those large hands, white-knuckled from gripping each other so tightly.

  I shake my head, not understanding. It’s like everyone in this town was brought into this world with the predisposition to love it and want to stay. I was born without that part, like a defect. Preston and people like him baffle me.

  “I don’t get it. But who am I to judge?”

  The older waitress comes to the table with three plates of food. She stops when she sees me sitting there, her eyes practically falling out of her head and rolling onto the table. Preston waits patiently as she sets one plate down. There’s a hamburger steak on an otherwise empty plate. The second plate holds only mashed potatoes, no gravy. And the third has onion rings. I watch, fascinated as he lines the three plates up so that they are equal space apart and perfectly aligned.

  “Thank you, Audrey,” he says as the waitress disappears.

  Before I can comment, Angela Louise appears with my bacon cheeseburger and fries crowded together on one plate and sets it down in front of me. She looks back and forth between the two of us. “Did you want something else to drink?” she asks.

  “No, thanks.”

  She hands over a few napkins and heads back toward the kitchen, but not before glancing over her shoulder at us.

  “What the hell are they gawking at?” I ask while grabbing ketchup off the next table and squeezing some over my fries.

  Preston stares at my plate, a tiny line appearing between his heavy brows.

  “I’ve never eaten here with anyone else,” he says.

  I stop, a glob of ketchup balanced on a french fry suspended halfway between my plate and my mouth.

  “Never?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Huh. No big deal,” I say. Though somehow I know that it is a very big deal. I glance at the counter and find both waitresses blatantly staring. Preston notices them, too, and drops his eyes to his plate, seeming embarrassed by their gawking. “Take a picture or something,” I shout. The two women scramble away.

  I grab my cheeseburger and take a huge bite. A long and low, almost pornographic moan escapes my lips. I’m sure there is a mess on my face, but I don’t care. This tastes amazing and just what I need to feel human again. When I glance up, Preston is staring.