Chaos and Control

by Season Vining

  “What?”

  His posture is still rigid, and his eyes leave my face only to snap back a second later. His lips part, and I wait for words, but nothing ever comes. I wipe my mouth with a napkin and continue eating while Preston does the same.

  “You don’t talk very much,” I point out.

  He eats all his mashed potatoes first, cleaning the plate with his spoon. Next, he eats the onion rings one by one with a fork and knife. There seems to be a rhythm to his lunch, and I find myself getting caught up in the number of times he chews.

  “Why did you come back?” he asks between bites.

  I put down my burger and sip my coffee. I’m running from a huge mistake named Dylan. I was scared. I wanted to be with people who care about me. I needed something familiar. All these confessions race through my head, but they don’t make it out of my mouth. I don’t want to lie to him, so I stick with what’s simple.

  “It was just time.”

  I watch as he cuts the onion ring with the knife and spears the bite with his fork. His lips close around the prongs, and he pulls the fork from his mouth. Preston chews twelve times.

  “What happened?”

  “Why do you think something happened?” I respond defensively. Of course something happened. I throw a couple of fries into my mouth in an effort to buy some time, before licking the ketchup off my fingers. Preston stares at me again. His eyes follow each and every movement. “Maybe I was just tired of traveling and wanted to sit tight for a while.”

  “Maybe.”

  He takes another bite. I count. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, swallow. There are thirty seconds of silence in which we chew, we stare, and silently challenge each other.

  “So, do you have a girlfriend? A wife? A lady friend? Please tell me you’re not gay. All the pretty ones are gay.”

  “Why do you insist on calling me pretty?” he asks without meeting my eyes.

  “Because you are. There are other words I could call you, but you’d be equally offended by all of them.”

  “It’s just not the most accurate word,” he says, laying his fork down on top of the paper napkin.

  “Are you critiquing my choice of adjective?”

  “I am.”

  “Fine. What should I call you, Preston-who-avoided-the-girlfriend-question?”

  “Ruggedly handsome.”

  I tap my chin and look at the ceiling before snapping my gaze back to him. “No. I think I’ll stick with pretty.”

  Preston narrows his storm-cloud eyes and frowns. If he’s trying to be intimidating, it’s completely ineffective. Instead, it stirs a deeper, more primal feeling inside me.

  “How do you like working with Bennie?” I ask.

  “Gave me a job, a place to stay. She’s good in my book. Bennie is pretty much my only friend here.”

  He frowns again, eyes darting from the diner window to my face and back. There is so much behind his guarded expression, so much swimming in those eyes that he won’t share. Preston presents a challenge, and there’s nothing I like more.

  “Bennie’s the best. She’s the only thing I missed from this place.”

  “What about your family?”

  I frown at him and drop my eyes to my plate. “What about yours?” I ask.

  “Okay.” Preston shakes his head. “No talk of family.”

  “What are you hiding?”

  “What are you hiding?” he repeats. He slides his fork back and forth in the same spot four times before abandoning it.

  “Nothing. Bennie’s my sister. I’m sure you knew that. She’s the only family I claim.”

  He saws at the last onion ring with his knife. It is cut into eight equal size bites. I’m fascinated as he lines them up in stacks of two before proceeding to eat. When he notices me watching, he sets down his fork.

  “Do I make you nervous, Preston-who-lives-in-my-apartment?”

  “No, Wren.” The way he says my name, the sound of that one syllable wrapped up in his baritone voice forces a sigh from my lips. Preston doesn’t seem to notice. “And if we’re being honest, it’s my apartment now.”

  “I hope we are,” I say.

  “Are what?”

  “Being honest. Always. Honesty is at the top of my list.”

  Preston smirks. “What list is that?”

  “You know,” I answer, popping a fry in my mouth and chewing. “The list of absolute most-important qualities in a fellow human being.”

  “Ah. That list,” he says. “What else makes the list?”

  I look up at the yellowed ceiling of the diner, thinking. “Kindness, compassion, and a great ass.”

  Preston unleashes a full-on smile at me. It is perfect white teeth and a spark in his bottomless gray eyes.

  “A great ass?” he asks.

  I return his smile. “That might be more of a subsection of the list, but it’s still important.”

  “What’s the age difference between you and Bennie?” he asks, changing the subject.

  “Twenty-one years. I was an oops baby. My mom was forty-three when she had me.”

  His brows rise high on his forehead as he chews the last bite of onion rings. Preston swaps the plates out, so that the burger sits before him now.

  “It was a miracle from God,” I say, imitating my mother’s monotone voice and the sentiment I’ve heard a thousand times.

  With half my food gone, I finally start to feel better. My head is clearer. I watch Preston, wondering what’s going on in that constantly toiling mind of his.

  “You’re not working today?” I ask.

  He nods. “I’m on lunch break. Bennie leaves for the day when I get back.”

  “Man, you get lunch breaks? I never got lunch breaks. Where’s she going?”

  Preston slides a bite into his mouth. He squirms in his seat, shoulders tense. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, swallow.

  “I don’t know.”

  I nod and make a mental note to ask her about it later. When I’m full, I thank Preston for the company and order a lemon square for Bennie. I take the shortcut back to the store, weaving through Tiny’s used car lot. I see Tiny through the dirty window into his office. He’s six-foot-six and easily three hundred and fifty pounds. The name is ironic in a way that these folks think is funny. He used to scare me when I was a kid, but looking at him now, after seeing all the things I’ve seen, he’s not scary at all. He’s just a man selling cars—or, how I see it, tickets out of this place. And I’m a girl who’s going to need one of those.

  I like tick-tock routines, symmetry in patterns

  Clockwork and familiarity are my wardens

  Alone with my thoughts, no condiments to converse, until

  She sits across my universe of barren laminated tabletops

  Holding her coffee with two hands, like a baby bird

  Though interruption is my enemy, a thorn in my frontal lobe

  I don’t mind her and that sly smile that tilts me on my axis

  Mind now racing, fingers gripping the best of my restraint

  She pours like sand through my cracks, heavy in her intentions

  Subjects broached, others avoided by leaps and bounds

  We play conversational hopscotch over food and paper napkins

  Flavors intense, plates licked cleaned by attention to detail

  She doesn’t bat an eye at my choreography of lunch

  This girl sees me, all the faults and discolors in my veneer

  With ketchup on her lip, she still insists I’m pretty

  - Preston

  Chapter Four

  Neon Bible

  Sundays in Crowley are reserved for church and football. Though Bennie and I have never been ones to conform to town rules. I’m surprised when I step into the kitchen in search of coffee and find her slipping into her fancy shoes. This is her description, not mine. She thinks just because they have a tiny heel, they are fancy. I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth.

  “Where are you off to?” I ask, pouring a c
up of coffee into my favorite mug. There’s something so refreshing about abandoning a simple item like this only to find it waiting for you three years later.

  She’s quiet for a beat too long, and I know she doesn’t want to say.

  “Church,” Bennie answers.

  “You know how I feel about lying, Bennie.”

  Bennie grabs her purse and exhales toward the ceiling. I feel her frustration in having to answer to me. “I’m really going to church, Wren. It’s not too late if you’d like to join me.”

  “As far as church goes, it is too late for me. There’s no saving me now. Tell the reverend and wife hello.”

  She gives me a wave and walks through the door, closing it behind her. I stare at the back of that door for a while. I’m unable to process all the tiny changes I see in Bennie: her appearance, her drinking, and now church. My first instinct is to go snoop in her room while she’s out, but that is what teenage Wren would do. Not me. Now, more than ever, I know when to respect someone’s space. I was recently taught that lesson the hard way.

  I finally finish unpacking my bag. I find a couple of T-shirts, some socks, a few condoms, candy bar wrappers, two bottles of water, and my iPod. It’s an ancient piece of shit that I found somewhere in New Jersey. Luckily, it was loaded with decent music.

  I turn the bag over and shake it, just to make sure it’s empty. I can hear something rattling, but nothing falls out. I lay it flat and pat down the exterior. Near the bottom, I feel a small rectangular block. Flipping the bag inside out, I find a small pocket that I didn’t even know existed. I unzip the pocket and pull out a navy and silver box. There are a couple of symbols on it and a grey button that says SOS. The logo at the bottom says Brickhouse.

  Turning it over a few times, I can’t figure out what it is or where it came from. I take the device to the kitchen table and set it next to Bennie’s computer. Lucky for me, she doesn’t keep it password protected. I open a browser window and type in the name on the box. I scroll down the page and recognize the picture of the same device I have. When I click the photo, I read the name of the product again and again, forcing my brain to process the words on the screen. GPS tracker. “Our Best Portable Tracker - Now Faster, More Accurate and Longer Lasting. Top-rated GPS tracking device provides instant speed and location information sent right to your phone.”

  “Dylan,” I whisper.

  My stomach lurches, but it’s empty so I end up dry heaving over the kitchen sink. My knees are weak as I hold on to the counter to stay upright. I try to catch my breath, which seems to only choke me more.

  “No. No. No. No,” I repeat over and over, until it matches the pace of my racing heart.

  I turn the faucet on and splash cold water on my face, burying myself in the darkness behind my hands. I stand there for a few minutes, until realization snaps me back to the present.

  I stomp across the kitchen and grab the GPS tracker from the table. Back at the sink, I flip the garbage disposal on and toss the thing down the drain. I know it’s dramatic, but I just need it destroyed. There’s an awful crunching and grinding sound as the old metal blades hack at the thing. When I’m satisfied, I turn the switch off and pull what’s left out of the drain.

  What was once a sleek blue box is now a mangled piece of garbage. I toss it in the trash, shut down Bennie’s computer, and head for the shower.

  As the steam surrounds me, I tell myself the thing probably ran out of power before I got here. I try not to think about Dylan knowing where I am. I try not to think about him coming here.

  I try, but I’m not successful.

  The rest of the morning is spent going through boxes of old stuff in my closet. There are tons of clothes in there, and I make fun of the stuff I wore in high school. I stand in front of the mirror and hold a floral patterned dress in front of me. I can almost see the girl who used to wear this. She had long blond hair and year-round tan lines. She was a sheep, following and doing what others told her to. She was Logan Sawyer’s girlfriend. She was a virgin, and then one night, she wasn’t. She believed that all of life’s answers lived outside of Crowley.

  I throw most of the clothes in a bag for donation, keep a few basic pieces, and move on to the last box. As I rip the tape and pull back the cardboard flap, I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia. My favorite books and records are stacked inside, along with yearbooks and a few knickknacks. When I find the Arcade Fire album, I jump up and put it on in the main room. I crank the volume and go back to my box of valuables.

  When Bennie comes home, I’m in the middle of my rendition of “No Cars Go.” She rolls her eyes and disappears into her room. A few minutes later, she reemerges, looking more like herself. She makes lunch and helps me wash all the boxed clothes I’m keeping, plus the stuff from my bag. Later we park ourselves in front of the television and watch reruns of Bewitched. There is a buzzing and banging noise coming from somewhere, and it’s driving me nuts. I mute the television and listen again but hear nothing. I want to ask Bennie, but she is asleep after two episodes. Instead of waking her, I cover her and leave her on the couch.

  …

  The shop is closed on Mondays, so when I crawl out of bed at ten o’clock, Bennie is still in her kitchen drinking coffee. She sits with her laptop open, typing furiously.

  “Morning,” I grumble before pouring myself a cup.

  “Good morning,” she says, glancing at me over the top of her screen.

  I take a seat and sip my drink. “I need to go shopping, get some necessities. Can you give me a ride to Franklin?”

  Bennie keeps her eyes on her screen. “I can’t today. I’ve got plans.”

  I wait for her to say she’s kidding, but she doesn’t. “Okay.”

  I look out the window, at the street below. An old man walks a tiny yipping dog, both of them strutting down that sidewalk like they own it. A couple of kids race each other on bikes and then turn around to try again. There are a few cars parked across the street, but other than that, it’s pretty quiet.

  “I think Preston goes to Franklin on Mondays. You should ask him for a ride,” Bennie says.

  My filthy mind immediately pictures Preston giving me a ride, and I grin into my coffee.

  “I just might do that,” I say.

  Bennie closes her computer and pushes away from the table. “Well, I’m going to get dressed. I’ll be gone most of the day.”

  “Where are you off to?” I ask.

  She grabs her laptop and gives me a sad smile. “Spending the day with Laney.”

  “You guys are still besties?”

  “Oh, yeah. Super besties. BFFs forever. Totally dude. OMG.”

  I sigh and stick my tongue out at her. “If you’re trying to make fun of my generation, you’re way off with the ‘totally dude.’ No one says that anymore. Anyway, how’s Laney doing?”

  “She’s got a toddler and is going through a divorce right now, so we’re going to do some girl bonding and man bashing.”

  I nod and watch as she slips into her bedroom. Figuring now is as good a time as any, my coffee and I step out into the hall and knock on Preston’s door. I hear no sound from inside and knock again.

  The click of the deadbolt snaps, the sliding metal chain scrapes, then finally the door opens. Preston holds the door in one hand while the other arm props him up against the doorframe. He’s wearing gym shorts and a black beater. The muscles I’ve only imagined before now are on display, and it is a glorious sight. Sweat covers his skin; tiny beads roll over dips and curves of flesh. His shirt is soaked. Preston’s chest rises and falls quickly as he fights to catch his breath. I am blatantly staring and am not afraid to do so. When I finally meet his eyes, I find him staring, too.

  I glance down and realize I’m still in my sleep clothes—a tiny pair of shorts and tank top, no shoes. There’s nothing I can do about it now. Not that I would want to with the way his eyes linger on my good parts.

  “Sorry to interrupt…whatever you’re doing,” I say.

 
; He shakes his head and meets my eyes. “I just finished.” A bead of sweat slides down his neck, rolls over his chest, and soaks into his shirt. I’m staring again as the silence stretches between us.

  “Wren?” he asks.

  “Oh, uh, yeah. Bennie mentioned that you might be going to Franklin today. I really need to do some shopping. The clothes I’ve been traveling with are slim pickings. And, well, I have some old clothes, but who wants to wear their high school underwear, you know? So is there any way I can get a ride with you?”

  Preston looks at the floor between us. “I’ll only be there for a couple of hours. Not long at all.”

  “That’s great. Perfect, actually.” I sip my coffee and wait for his answer. My eyes follow the round curve of his shoulder, up the defined muscles of his raised arm, and focus on his fingers gripping the doorframe. The beds of his meticulously clean nails are turning white from the way he’s holding on to that wood.

  “I leave at twelve fifteen.”

  I smile, victorious. Preston’s wide eyes and the way his chin drops to his chest make me think that he can’t believe he just said that. I act quickly, not giving him the opportunity to change his mind.

  “I’ll be ready whenever you need me, Preston.”

  He nods and slowly closes the door between us. I’m a little put off that he seems indifferent to my shameless flirting. Preston is such a mystery. I don’t know if he’s not interested or if he’s being overly cautious. Usually, I just go for what I want. But with Preston, it seems that approach might backfire. There’s a sinking feeling in my gut, one of possible rejection, and I don’t like it.

  By the time I shower and get dressed, Bennie is already gone. I slide my flats on, throw my bag over my shoulder, and meet Preston in the hall. He looks like a different person now, dressed in a plain black T-shirt, jeans, and Chucks. I want to climb him, like the beautiful man mountain he is, and plant my flag.

  “I’m parked out back,” he says.

  I follow Preston down the stairs and through the back door. There’s a dumpster in the alley, some flattened boxes, and a couple of crates. Under Bennie’s covered parking spot is a stunning dark-blue vintage truck. I follow the curves of this beast, sliding over shiny chrome and round fenders. It’s fantastic. The pair of us reflected in the bumper makes me smile.