Chaos and Control Read online

  “A bartender? That seems right up my alley.”

  “Unless you drink all the profits. What about bar tending is right up your alley?”

  “I did it a few times over the years while traveling.”

  “Who would let an underage girl tend bar?” Bennie asks, seeming offended.

  “You’d be surprised,” I answer. “I mean, I wasn’t employed at the fanciest places. It’s a great way to meet new people, and you get paid in cash every night. What’s not to love?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Coming home smelling like skunky beer and cigarettes?” Bennie says, throwing a crumpled up paper at my head.

  I hop off the counter and pick it up, smoothing out the wrinkles. “What is this?”

  “Coffee Call started doing an open mic night for poets and musicians. I don’t think it’s very popular.”

  I laugh and study the paper. “Mrs. Lovett still own the place?”

  “Yep.”

  “Can you imagine the old bag reciting poetry? Roses are red, violets are blue…”

  “I fart in church and stink up the pew,” Bennie finishes.

  I burst into a fit of giggles and fold myself over, hands on my knees.

  “Is that true? Please, tell me that’s true,” I ask when I get my breath back.

  Bennie mimes locking her lips and throwing away the key.

  “What’s so funny?”

  I spin to find Preston standing on the other side of the counter. He looks from Bennie to me and back to her.

  “Old ladies passing gas in church,” I say.

  He looks horrified and turns away. “Sorry I asked.”

  I follow him down the aisle and fall in step beside him. “I’m going to cook dinner for us tonight. Come over.”

  Preston stops and turns away. “It’s Wednesday,” he says with his back to me.

  “Do you not eat dinner on Wednesday?” I put my hand on his shoulder, but his muscles stiffen. I retreat, tucking both hands into my pockets.

  “I eat.”

  “So what’s the problem?” I wait patiently as he blows out a breath and turns to face me. His slate eyes seem to glow in the sunlight that filters through the front windows. Preston’s gaze drifts to my mouth and stays there. It makes me a bit paranoid that I’ve got something on my face. I lift my fingers to my lips and swipe at them.

  He clears his throat. “I eat breakfast for dinner on Wednesdays.”

  “So, I’ll cook pancakes. I love breakfast for dinner. We’ll have bacon, well probably turkey bacon, and fruit, and lots and lots of syrup.”

  “I can’t make it. Sorry.” His words are cold and forced.

  “What? Why? Are you mad at me?”

  He squeezes his eyes shut. “Of course not.”

  I know Preston lives by routine, but I want to urge him out of his comfort zone just enough to let him see that he can be flexible.

  “Can’t you change your schedule just for one night?”

  Preston turns and starts flipping through the M section. He stops when he gets to Metallica.

  “It’s not that easy, Wren.”

  “I don’t understand,” I admit. “It’s just dinner.”

  Preston walks away without a word, and I stare at his retreating form until he heads into the storage closet.

  “You’re pushing too hard,” Bennie says, appearing next to me.

  “Maybe he needs to be pushed.”

  “Not like this. Give him space. This isn’t someone to be conquered and left behind in the wake of Tornado Wren.”

  My eyes become slits as I level her with my stare. As much as I love her, I hate when she tries to dissect my life. I don’t want to be looked at that closely.

  “Is that what you think I am? A tornado destroying everything in its path?”

  “Wren, that’s not what I—”

  “Screw you, Bennie.”

  I stomp my way to the front of the store and push through the doors. The warm air hits me like a blow to the chest, and I push against that, too. I walk over to Main Street just to put some distance between me and Bennie. It’s always been this way between us. We know how to push each other’s buttons. We’ll blow off some steam and then be fine tomorrow. It’s the Wren and Bennie way.

  I walk through town and make my way over to The Haystack. It’s not open yet, but I find Coach out back receiving a beer delivery.

  “Hey, Coach,” I say, giving him a wave.

  He signs a paper and hands it to the delivery guy. “Hey there, Wren. We don’t open until four, sweetheart.”

  Coach grabs the top box and disappears through the back door. I shrug, grab the next box, and haul it inside after him. He’s surprised by my gesture and gives me a grin.

  “I’m not here for a drink. I’m here for a job.”

  “Oh, really? You got any experience?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the cooler door.

  “I’ve worked a few places in New Orleans, Austin, and up in Chicago. I think I can handle this crowd.”

  Coach chuckles and pushes off the wall. “I don’t doubt that. Man, you really have been everywhere, haven’t you?”

  “Not everywhere, but lots of places.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for out there?”

  I think about his question and shake my head. “I’m not sure what I was looking for, but I found a lot of good stuff and some bad. I found backroads and superhighways, rednecks and drag queens. It was the best and worst experience of my short life.”

  Coach’s eyebrows lift high on his tan forehead, reaching for his salt-and-pepper cropped hair. “I’m not sure about hiring Reverend Hart’s baby girl to work in this kind of dump.”

  He steps outside and lifts another box. I follow quickly.

  “Well, Bennie mentioned you needed help,” I say.

  He drops the box on a stack in the storage room and turns. “Bennie? Well, if Bennie sent you, I guess you’ll do.”

  I smile and make a note to ask Bennie about her connection to Coach. It definitely seems like there’s something more than a small-town friendship going on.

  “Great. When do I start?”

  “Come back Thursday night. Six o’clock.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  “See you Thursday, Wren. Tell Bennie I said hello.”

  “Will do.”

  I spend the rest of the afternoon meandering through town, visiting old haunts. When I reach the cemetery, I know I’ve gone too far. Even in the light of day, that place creeps me out. I make an about-face and cut through the park to get back to the store.

  When I catch sight of the old water tower, a smile lights up my face. Sawyer and I used to dare each other to climb to the top when we were kids. Once I worked up the courage to go the first time, it became a regular spot. I would climb the shaky ladder and sit along the edge of the railing, looking out over Crowley. It was my thinking spot, the place to be alone with my dreams of escaping this town. Every hope I had for adventure and every ounce of courage were summoned at the top of that tower.

  I step beneath the ladder and stare up at it. It looks different somehow, higher and more dangerous. I know the tower hasn’t changed, so I chalk my new outlook up to life experience, being older and wiser. I grab the rail above my head and climb onto the first step. The metal shakes from my movement, and I seriously rethink what I’m about to do. Instead of chickening out, I force myself onto the next step and the next. Halfway up, my arms begin to shake from the effort, but I push forward, never looking down.

  At the top of the tower, I duck under the rusty railing and hop onto the platform. My chest heaves from the climb, but the air up here feels cooler and less suffocating than on the ground. The sun is just setting, and the picturesque town of Crowley is painted in a golden glow. It’s all Norman Rockwell and apple pie. The light over Bennie’s place is still lit, and I can barely make out a figure in the front window.

  From here, I can see the railroad tracks on one side of town an
d nothing but farmland on the other. As the sun disappears altogether, the street lamps pop on, eventually lighting Main Street like an Americana runway. Flags on every storefront and welcome mats encourage visitors to come in and stay a while.

  I glance at the metal tank behind me and notice that the word Crowley has almost disappeared. The fading letters, once black against the metal, are nothing but peeling and flaking paint. I grin at that.

  The climb down the ladder is much scarier than the climb up. On the way up all you see is blue sky, while on the way down, the ground looks too far away. Once my feet hit the dirt, I dust off my hands and give my old water-tower friend a wave. I have a feeling I’ll be back.

  By the time I return to Vinyl, the shop is closed. The windows in Bennie’s apartment are illuminated. I hate where I left things between us and need to make amends. I was never good at being mad at her.

  “Bennie, I’m back.”

  I close the door behind me and immediately recognize the sound of Etta James singing “A Sunday Kind of Love.” The soulful smooth voice floats through the apartment and floods my head with memories of slow dancing in this kitchen with my big sister.

  There’s a note on the fridge pinned beneath a dinosaur magnet. I pull it down and smile at Bennie’s familiar handwriting.

  Wren, let’s not fight anymore. I’ve missed you too much. There’s Fruity Pebbles in the pantry. Catch you on the flip side. Bennie.

  I find Bennie asleep on her sofa. She looks so small curled up into a ball at one end. Taking the crocheted throw from the back of the couch, I cover her and leave her to sleep. It must suck getting old and being tired all the time. Instead of the dinner I planned to cook, I fix myself a bowl of cereal and take a seat at the kitchen table. It’s still breakfast for dinner.

  A new sunrise

  And a new slow-motion

  Replay of breathy words

  And covetous kisses

  On a vintage couch

  Anger is born when I discover

  There is no room for those thoughts

  Today it is butter knives and mold spores

  A speck on one knife

  They all go for a steamy swim

  Scrubbed until pruned fingertips

  Are numb with satisfaction

  Dried and replaced in their cubby

  A dark drawer where they wait

  To stalk and stab me with defiance

  A tiny spot of green

  Sprouts on a cardboard corner

  May as well be an atomic bomb

  Contaminated, contaminated

  This is what will kill me today

  Destroyed, and burned

  Not worthy of recycle

  I almost feel victorious

  Hours pass and I still see

  Green flecks growing on my skin

  Popping up like seeds of sickness

  A grassy ink stain spreading

  Contaminated, contaminated

  Until bleach-soaked hands

  Are washed and dried

  - Preston

  Chapter Seven

  Company’s Comin’

  “I thought you only ate lunch here on Saturdays,” I say, sliding into the booth opposite Preston. The scents of diner food and coffee combine into a familiar smell that makes my stomach grumble.

  He tucks his pencil inside, closes his notebook, and slides it to the edge of the table before looking up at me. Gray eyes meet my brown ones, and it’s unsettling how with just a look he seems to pry me open around the edges. His body is stiff, his posture rigid. I try not to take offense to his reaction to my presence.

  “Thursdays and Saturdays,” he admits.

  I wave the waitress over and order a Coke and a salad. Preston watches me line up my utensils sitting atop a paper napkin.

  “I think you’re wearing off on me.” I give him a smile, and he stares blankly. He closes his eyes for a second. His long, dark lashes flutter, and when they reopen, his gaze is intense. He touches his fork, then his knife. Then, repeats the process three more times. I don’t say anything, but I see his unnecessary shame.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “Don’t be sorry. I could benefit from some order in my life, you know?”

  “I know.” Preston looks shocked that those words left his lips, but he doesn’t offer an apology. The fingers of his right hand twitch, and I can’t help but wonder what he wants to do with them.

  “So, Preston-who-eats-here-twice-a-week, are you ever going to tell me what you’re writing in that notebook?”

  He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug and looks past me to the sidewalk outside. There is a method to conversations with Preston. It is new and foreign to me, but I’m learning to navigate my way through. I want to ask him about the notebook again, but I find the restraint to sit and wait for my answer.

  “Thoughts,” he finally says. “A therapy of sorts.”

  “So, like a diary?”

  His forehead wrinkles, and his lips pull down on each side. “No. It’s poetry. I write poetry.”

  This confession takes me by surprise and has my imagination running wild. I want to hear his words, in his voice, spoken only to me. When the waitress appears with our food, I realize I’ve been caught in my own head for a while, never responding.

  “There’s an open mic night for poets on Sunday nights at Coffee Call on Madison Street. Have you always written?” I ask.

  He lines his three plates up, spacing them out evenly. Today it is green beans with bacon, cornbread, and grilled chicken. When he’s satisfied with their placement, he meets my eyes again. This time there is a question there. He’s searching for my reaction. I offer a smile.

  “I started when I was a kid. I used to write short stories. Poetry is more of a challenge.”

  I nod and dig into my salad. Silence seems to hold us together in a bubble away from the rest of the bustling diner. It’s not uncomfortable. We both focus on our meals and each other. During my glances, I take inventory of Preston. Still twelve chews, his perfect jaw moving in a hypnotizing rhythm. There’s a stippling of black facial hair along his cheeks and jaw, not long enough to be called a beard. The V of his shirt collar draws my eyes down to his wide chest and shoulders. I’m obsessed with the way the sleeves tighten around his biceps. There’s the ever-present watch on one wrist. His nails are short and clean.

  “What about Coffee Call? Would you ever share your work?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I get that. Will you let me read it someday?”

  “No,” he answers, shaking his head.

  He gives me no excuse. It stings a little. Just when I think I’ve gotten through that wall he’s built around himself, I’m reminded that Preston only allows me to see pieces of him. I don’t know if he’s scared of being too open or if it’s just a defense mechanism to keep him safe. Either way, I wish he’d let me in.

  “So, I got a job at The Haystack,” I say as Preston switches out his plates. “I start tonight.”

  “That’s good. Maybe you’ll stop hanging out at Vinyl so much.”

  I slap my hand over my heart and mouth “ouch” while he gives me that lopsided smirk.

  “I don’t think you mind me hanging out there at all,” I say, calling his bluff. I lick my lips and celebrate internally when his eyes flick down to them.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re so forward, so blunt,” he says in awe, as if he’s offended.

  “It’s easy for me. Like breathing. I don’t know any other way to be.”

  “It drives me crazy,” Preston says. I open my mouth to respond, but he stops me by holding up one finger. “But I also find it so damn sexy.”

  I try to process what he’s said and form a reply, but nothing comes. He watches me, something new in his eyes that drives me wild. I focus on my salad and stab at cherry tomatoes with a little too much force.

  “Very interesting, Wren.” The sound of my name sends me into a tailspin, and I hesitantly meet his
gaze over a table, salad bowl, and two empty plates.

  “What?”

  “Looks like you can’t handle a taste of your own medicine.”

  I put down my fork and wipe my mouth with a napkin. With both hands on the table’s edge, I lean closer to him. He stays pressed against the back of the booth.

  “That may be true. But I think you’d love to find out how good my medicine can be.”

  Preston drops his fork. It clatters to the table, flips over the edge, hits the seat, and finally falls to the floor. Without looking away, I motion for the waitress to bring him a new one. He sits quietly as I dig some cash from my pocket and leave it on the table.

  “Lunch is on me. See you later, Preston-who-thinks-I’m-so-damn-sexy.”

  …

  I pace in the front of the store, checking out all the items in the display window. A young couple walks by in a heated argument. Their voices are so loud, I can hear them through the glass. He grips her arm tightly—too tight. Images of Dylan’s hands on me, leaving marks, punishing me, flash through my head. I suck in a deep breath and turn away, pushing down dark memories.

  Bennie sits in her usual spot beside the register, her face hidden behind a romance novel. There are stacks of flyers for Coffee Call’s poetry night and a couple of bands playing in Franklin. I read over them and memorize the times and places for lack of anything better to do. Leaning over the front counter, I hover with my lips just above the surface and blow my hot breath onto it. The glass fogs up in a tiny cloud of condensation and disappears just as quickly.

  “Just say what you want to say, Wren,” Bennie calls out from behind her book.

  “I’m not a tornado.”

  She folds the novel closed and shakes her head. “No. You’re not. I didn’t mean that you were destructive. I just meant that you are this swirling mass of energy and life and people get sucked in toward you whether they intend to or not. It’s your magnetic aura.”

  I laugh and lean on my elbows. “You are such a hippy.”

  “Whatevs. I’m totes down with the kids.”

  I roll my eyes, and they land on a tiny photo of our parents tacked up next to the register.

  “I’m thinking about going to see Mom and Dad.”