Chaos and Control

by Season Vining

  “Well, there sure aren’t any other bars fighting for my patronage.” Angela takes a sip of her beer and swivels around to eye the other side of the bar. “Same people, different day. I bet you could take a photograph and in ten years, nothing will have changed.”

  “I won’t be here,” I say proudly.

  She faces me again and tips her beer in my direction. “Now, that, I believe.”

  “I found you in our senior yearbook.”

  Angela drops her face into her hand. “Oh, God. The frizzy hair, the braces, the band uniform—what a horror show.”

  I chuckle and tap the bar to get her attention. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Wren, my best friend in high school was Mr. Simmons, the janitor.”

  “The janitor?” I ask. “No way.”

  “Way,” Angela confirms before taking a long sip of beer.

  “Well, look at it this way. I’d say you’re most improved.”

  She gives me a bright grin and nods her head. “Yeah. Most improved. I’ll take it.”

  The rest of my evening is uneventful. Sawyer keeps his distance all night, but it doesn’t stop him from looking. Twice I catch him doing that “staring at me while talking to someone else” thing. The look reminds me of younger days and steamy windows in Sawyer’s truck.

  “Looks like you’re back on Logan Sawyer’s radar,” Angela points out when I deliver her third beer.

  “I won’t be reliving my youth.”

  “On to bigger fish, right?” She pauses, takes a sip and looks back at me. “Preston?”

  I don’t answer her.

  “Well, that’s a shame,” she says. “Every girl in this town, from eight to eighty, wants to land Sawyer.”

  “Even you?” I ask.

  “Only since third grade.” She picks at the label on her beer bottle while avoiding my gaze. My eyes widen and shift between her blushing face and Sawyer’s confident one.

  “What is it about him that makes every woman go crazy?” I ask.

  Angela turns and watches him as Sawyer leans over a pool table to take his shot.

  “He’s sexy in that effortless way,” she says. “He’s nice to everyone, charming, and always sincere. He’s loyal to his friends.” Angela pauses and looks at me. “I also think he’s a bit of a secret nerd, which is so hot. He likes to have fun, but he works hard, too. Did I mention that body, and how good it looks in uniform?”

  I watch her face go from confident to embarrassed, like she’s revealed too much. I’m impressed with her assessment of Sawyer. She’s right about absolutely everything.

  “Wow. All that, huh?” I ask, grinning.

  “I’d only kick him out of the bed to do it on the floor.”

  I laugh. “Been there. Done that. Stole the John Deere T-shirt.”

  Angela chuckles and raises her beer bottle in salute. “Ha. I didn’t know you were so funny, Wren Hart. I guess time away from this place has done you some good.”

  I couldn’t agree with her more. Before I realize it, it’s midnight and my shift is over. Coach kicks the last few stragglers out and shows me how to clean up, pull the register till, and lock it in the office. I leave with thirty-two dollars in tips, not bad for a slow night.

  “Don’t worry, kid. We’re busier on Fridays and Saturdays.”

  “No complaints from me,” I answer. “Tonight was great.”

  “Good, good. Well, I think you did just fine. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Six o’clock.”

  “See you then,” I say, tucking the cash into my jeans pocket.

  I push through the front door and point myself toward Bennie’s. Preston is leaning against the building, scribbling in his notebook beneath the parking lot lights. I let out a little yelp and slap my hand to my chest.

  “Preston, you scared me. What are you doing here?”

  Coach pokes his head out the door. He looks between Preston and me.

  “Everything all right, Wren?” He scrutinizes Preston and waits for an answer.

  “Yeah, Coach. It’s fine. My friend just scared me, that’s all. Do you know Preston?”

  “Seen you around town,” he says to Preston. He steps outside and extends one hand. “Nice to meet you. Call me Coach.”

  Preston stares at Coach’s hand and tucks his notebook into his back pocket. My eyes dart from Coach’s expectant expression to Preston’s panicked one. His hand lingers in his back pocket long enough for me to step in and squash this awkward moment.

  “Well, we’ve got to get going. It’s late,” I say. I step between the two men and summon Preston with a wave. “Come on. You’re walking me home.”

  He nods and follows me out of the parking lot onto the road. We walk, side by side, a couple of feet between us. I sneak glances at him and wait for an explanation. He gives me nothing.

  Walking Crowley’s streets after midnight feels different from any other city. The click of my shoes on the road is the only sound besides cricket songs. There is no danger here, no clutching my bag with a white-knuckled grip, no looking over my shoulder. Still, though it doesn’t compare to the big city streets I’ve walked in the last three years, it holds the same notion. I’m just a girl, heading home, fading in and out of the overhead streetlights.

  “Okay, Preston-who-lurks-on-street-corners. I’ll ask again. What are you doing here? Do you normally hang outside of bars in Crowley around midnight?”

  “No. Not usually.”

  “Then what?”

  Preston pushes his hands farther into his pockets. “I just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

  I tuck my chin to my chest to hide my smile and sling my bag over my shoulder.

  “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me, Preston. Thanks. But I’ve been running around these streets after dark ever since I learned how to sneak out of my parents’ house at thirteen. I’ll be okay.”

  “I’d rather make sure myself.”

  I spin and walk backwards while we keep moving. “Is that a control thing?”

  He shakes his head and looks off into the darkness ahead. “No. It’s a Wren thing.”

  My feet stop moving. Preston stops, too, so that he doesn’t run into me. We’re standing under a street lamp, and the glow surrounds him, shadows paint his face. He looks like my own guardian angel.

  “I want to kiss you right now, but we don’t have any liquor,” I say with a smile.

  His chest rises and falls as he stares down into my eyes with a resolve I don’t recognize. I’m waiting for his denial, for his apology. What he gives me is much better.

  Preston wraps his large hand around the back of my neck and pulls me to him. His lips are on mine before I can even gasp in surprise. There’s no slow tenderness to this kiss, no buildup. It starts out rough and heated. I feel claimed and possessed by him. Preston’s tongue slides across my bottom lip before he gently bites down. I sigh into his mouth. My hands go to his chest, needing something solid to keep me grounded. The muscle there is tense and hard beneath my fingers, his breaths coming fast.

  The feel of his stubble scraping against my chin is pleasured pain, and the way his fingers curl around the back of my neck gives me chills. I am acutely aware of every place our bodies connect and every reaction burning inside me. He smells woodsy and tastes like mint.

  When his grip on me loosens, his kiss changes from penetrating to light pecks along my mouth. His body seems to relax and melt into mine, tension gone. Over and over his lips connect with mine and pull away. I don’t mind, but I wonder what his motivation is. He answers my unasked question without prompt.

  “I’m sorry.” Kiss. Kiss. “I have to stop.” Kiss. Kiss. “On an even number.” Kiss. “But, I can’t stop.” Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

  He straightens and looks down on me as we try to catch our breaths. There is something new between us. I feel like Preston has finally waved his white flag and given in to what he wants, what we both want. I am speechless.

  “Let’s get you home,” he say
s, moving past me.

  I fall in step beside him, and for the first time, enjoy the silence and scenery of Crowley. Though this place feels different with Preston here, the gravity feels stronger, like it’s still trying to tie me down. Even with amazing kisses beneath streetlights, I can’t see that happening.

  Back at the apartment, I slide open the bottom drawer of my dresser. Digging beneath the clothes and reaching all the way to the back, I pull out a large brown envelope. The name DYLAN scrawled onto the front in heavy permanent marker sends a wave of nausea through my body. I open it, add most of my cash tips from the night and seal it back up. I replace the envelope and throw unfolded clothes back on top.

  As I climb into bed for the night, I mentally tally up all the cash—new and old—in that envelope. Three thousand, seven hundred and twenty-two dollars. I won’t feel guilty for taking it. I did what I had to do to survive. And now, it’ll be vital to me getting out of Crowley. I don’t know when that will be, but I know it’s inevitable.

  Alphabetical and chronological

  Are erotic word games

  She wants to know my process

  And I can’t explain

  Because there is a process to my process

  Conversational foreplay and then

  A slip of lavender jars me from my platform

  My need to fix it undercut by my need to see it

  This girl shatters all my rules

  Midnight strolls and questions of control

  Between Midwest street lamps

  Sweet gestures through her eyes

  Are obsessive curiosities

  I overcomplicate her life

  Still she wants to kiss me

  Charging in at first

  Losing my white-knuckled grip on control

  We are rooted to asphalt

  With mutual abandon

  Until 2, 4, 6, 8

  And I can breathe again

  - Preston

  Chapter Nine

  Lungs

  “Tell me something about young Preston,” I say. I stand across from the front counter while Preston leans against the register. Bennie is out for lunch, so it’s just us in the store. These are my favorite times with him. He’s more relaxed and uninhibited.

  “I was a fat kid,” he says, giving me a smirk.

  My eyes rake over his body, and I find that statement hard to believe. “You were not!”

  Preston nods. “Yep. My mom would take me school shopping for pants, and I thought that ‘husky’ was an actual name brand. It took me years to realize it was a size.”

  I laugh at this, not even trying to hide my amusement. “That is hilarious. Husky, Levi, and Calvin Klein—seems legit.”

  He chuckles and moves to stand in front of me. Only the counter separates us.

  “Your turn,” Preston says, his low voice strong and suggestive.

  “I moved out of my parents’ house when I was sixteen. Lived in the apartment next to Bennie. Where you live now.” I lean over the counter, resting on my elbows. My hands lay flat out in front of me, as if reaching for him.

  “Why?”

  “My parents aren’t very good at being parents,” I confess, folding one of the flyers in half over and over until it’s a small rectangle. I feel his expectant eyes on me in this silence, and the need to share with Preston makes me continue. “They’d rather raise a flock of followers than children. I was a heathen sinner who refused to repent, and they were ashamed of me. And now that I’ve seen so much, I know that religion doesn’t have to be like that. I just think they have a better relationship with God than people, especially their own kids.”

  He considers this for a moment and shakes his head. “My mom is great at being a mom. But not so great at dealing with my OCD.” His hands rest on the counter, only inches from mine. Preston’s fingers each tap once starting with the thumb and moving out to the pinky. He repeats this action again and again, and I’m transfixed by it. “Once I had a legitimate diagnosis and medication, she just couldn’t understand why I didn’t get better. She couldn’t deal. Sent me to therapists and programs to fix me. Ultimately, it’s why I went away to college.”

  My hands cover his, and the tapping stops. We both stare down at the gesture, struggling to understand each other’s home life. He couldn’t comprehend my parents’ version of love, and I may never grasp the depth of his mother’s love for a boy she can’t “fix.”

  “Do you still talk to her?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Every couple of weeks. It’s better this way. I don’t blame her. We all have our burdens to bear.”

  “You’re not a burden, Preston.”

  “And you’re not a heathen, Wren.”

  We exchange smiles, and I squash down the urge to climb over this counter and wrap him in my arms. What started out as a physical conquest is turning into something else. There’s more than a desire to sleep with him now—something else unexpected. I can’t explain it, but I want him to crave me the way I crave him. I want him to fixate on me instead of the obsessions that trouble him. Sometimes the look he gives me makes me feel that way. The things we don’t know about each other outnumber the things we do, but I want to work at changing that.

  “I don’t even know your whole name,” I blurt.

  “Preston Ray Charles,” he says, grinning.

  There’s a long moment before my brain connects the dots.

  “Wait, Ray Charles? As in the genius singer-songwriter Ray Charles?” I let out a loud guffaw and cover my mouth to try and hide it. “You’re kidding, right?” I say from behind my fingers.

  Preston shakes his head. There’s a lightness in his eyes, a happy little glimmer that I’ve never seen before. And, of course, the sexy eye crinkles in each corner. He looks younger with this smile, carefree. It passes quickly and is replaced by his usual intensity.

  “I figured you’d enjoy that.”

  “Well, I got a woman, way over town that’s good to me,” I sing.

  I giggle like an idiot when I finish the verse, and Preston just shakes his head.

  “How do you even know that song? It came out before you were born.”

  “I worked in a record store and have a much older sister.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Plus, Kanye sampled it for his song ‘Gold Digger.’”

  The bell chimes, and two girls walk in. They’re all smiles and cleavage, giving Preston a wave before heading to the first aisle. I’m invisible. Something inside of me finds that completely unacceptable.

  “Friends of yours?” I ask him.

  “Regular customers. They come in every couple of weeks.”

  “To buy records or flirt with you?” I step around the counter and watch the girls glance over their shoulders at him.

  Preston whips his head toward me and back to the girls.

  “They’re buying records,” he says as if the thought of ulterior motives never occurred to him.

  I take a seat in Bennie’s usual chair as Preston watches over the store. He stacks and straightens three piles of flyers on the counter and then rearranges them. He does it again and again, until finally forcing himself to stop. His shoulders are tense, his hands balled into fists, as the girls approach the register.

  “Hi, Preston,” the blond girl says.

  “Hi,” he answers, his voice clipped. They place one record on the counter. Preston doesn’t touch it. He rings up the purchase and tells them their total. The girls smile and race each other trying to pay him. He takes the blonde’s money, makes change, and drops it into her outstretched hand.

  “There’s a new band playing at Mac’s in Franklin tonight. You coming?” the brunette asks. “We’re going to be there.”

  Preston shakes his head but doesn’t say a word. I see his fingers wrap around a bottle of hand sanitizer beneath the counter. He’s trying to wait until they leave. I jump up from my chair and place my hand on his forearm. His whole body jerks from the contact, but then relaxes. I grab a paper bag and sli
de the purchased record into it and drop the receipt inside.

  “We have plans tonight, ladies. But thanks for the invite,” I say, giving them a wave.

  The two take their bag and exit quickly, frowns firmly in place. As soon as the door closes behind them, I finish my sentence.

  “Whores.”

  Preston squeezes the sanitizer into his hands and rubs them together with vigor. He runs his fingers over his forearms up to his elbows and back down. Somehow this show has become erotic. I slide my finger along the collar of my shirt and get lost in the sight of his hand porn.

  “I thought you were working tonight,” he says without looking up at me.

  “I am.”

  “And why are they whores?” Amusement seeps into his tone, and I know I’ve been caught marking my territory.

  “Anyway,” I say, not wanting to admit anything. I cross my arms and search my brain for something else to say.

  “Stop doing that,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Playing with your collar. It drives me crazy.”

  I smirk. “Hmm. Noted.”

  “It’s like handing ammunition to the enemy,” Preston says, throwing up his hands.

  I step toward him, curl my fingers into his front jeans pocket, and tug. Preston sucks in a breath and holds it.

  “Am I the enemy, Preston-who-used-to-be-husky?”

  He opens his mouth to speak just as the door chimes again. We pull apart and find Bennie looking back at us.

  “Interrupting something?” she asks, pushing past and taking a seat in her chair.

  I hop up onto the counter and cross my legs. My boots tap out a tune against the cabinet. “Not really. We were just talking.”

  “I don’t normally stand so close to people when talking,” Bennie says.

  “Yes, well, I wanted to make sure Preston could hear me.”

  Preston’s head shifts back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match.

  “I think he hears you loud and clear, Wren.”

  “Uh, I’ll just get back to work,” Preston says before escaping to the far corner of the store.

  We both watch him go, though I guarantee our thoughts on his departure are extremely different.