Chaos and Control Read online

  “What are you doing with him, Wren?”

  I look at my shoes and the floor beyond. “We’re just hanging out. I like him.”

  “I know he seems like a big, strong man, but he’s much deeper than that. You could ruin each other.”

  I jump down and glare at her. “We all have issues. He’s just a guy. And he likes me, too. We’re not doing anything wrong.” She frowns at me, and her eyes find Preston across the store. “Are you more worried about me or him?” I ask.

  “I’m just worried.”

  “We’re adults. We can handle it. I won’t ruin him if that’s what you’re really trying to say.”

  I march my way to the back of the store, past Preston, and up the stairs to the apartment. When I get inside, I swear I smell weed. Though that wouldn’t surprise me coming from Bennie. I flip through her personal record collection and find what I need. The intimate movements of sliding the vinyl from the cardboard sleeve, balancing it on the tips of my fingers, placing it on the turntable, lifting the arm and swinging it over, and finally lowering it down to find its groove, is a dance I know by heart. It’s the beginning of a relationship between the music and me. When the opening notes sound, my body sways. The lyrics wait on my tongue.

  “Happiness hit her, like a train on a traaaaaaack.”

  When the beat comes in, I clap my hands in time. Clap, clap. Clap. Clap, clap. Clap. The words flow from my lips as I dance around the coffee table.

  My voice is lost beneath Florence and the Machine, but I don’t care. I feel lighter and lifted above the heavy thoughts in my head. Shaking my hips and spinning around, I dance across the living room singing my heart out. I let the music take me, hopping over the back of the couch and wrapping myself in Bennie’s curtains. When the tempo changes again, I throw them off and spin in circles until I’m dizzy.

  “Wren.”

  Preston’s voice makes me freeze in place. He’s standing between the kitchen and me, his face dark. My chest heaves from dancing, and we have this sort of standoff amongst motley furniture. He says something else, but I don’t catch it. I hold a finger up, asking him to wait, and move to turn the volume down.

  “What?” I ask from across the room.

  “I told Bennie I’d check on you,” he says. He looks uncomfortable here, his eyes scanning the room but always coming back to me. I’m North on his compass.

  “I’m fine. Great, actually. Just blowing off some steam.”

  “I can see that.” Preston’s voice is strained, and so is his zipper. When he notices me noticing, he purses his lips and steps behind the tall armchair.

  “How much did you see?” I ask.

  “One minute, seventeen seconds.”

  I smile and make my way across the room. My face is burning, and I can’t believe this man can make me blush like a little girl.

  “Was it a good minute and seventeen seconds?”

  “The best.”

  “Maybe one day I’ll give you another private dance. But for now I’ve got to get ready for work.”

  Preston swallows and checks his watch. “I’ll just tell Bennie you’re fine. I mean hot—good. I mean you’re okay.” He walks through the kitchen and closes the door behind him.

  “I am now.”

  …

  Friday nights at The Haystack are busy. It seems like the whole town is here. Some order their drinks and leave, some want to make small talk. They come to see for themselves that Wren Hart has returned to Crowley. I’m on display tonight, but that’s fine with me. My tips are providing motivation to return their smiles and fake that enthusiasm.

  By closing time, I’m exhausted. Running around in these silver metallic wedges doesn’t hurt my tips, but they’re killing my feet. The only thing keeping them on is my fear of the filth on the barroom floor. I wipe down tables and flip over chairs while Coach counts the till. He splits our tips, and I throw the cash into my bag without counting it. It’ll be a nice addition to my growing stash.

  “Love having you here, Wren. I’m getting too old to wait on all these drunks.”

  “Glad to be here, Coach. It gives me money, keeps me occupied and out of trouble.”

  He smiles. It’s a fatherly smile, comforting and genuine. It’s more than my own father has ever given me.

  “All done. You can head out, kiddo.”

  “Thanks,” I say, giving him a wave. I grab my bag and hobble to the front door. “See you tomorrow.”

  This time when I turn toward the lot, I’m not surprised to find Preston here. Again, he’s scribbling in his notebook, the pencil making quick scratches across the page. I hate to interrupt.

  “Almost done,” he says without looking up.

  I nod even though he can’t see me. A minute later, he folds the notebook closed—pencil inside—and slides it into his back pocket. His tired eyes connect with mine. He looks defeated.

  I tiptoe over to him and raise my hand so that he knows my intentions. I run my fingers through his hair, down his neck, and rest them on his shoulder. Preston closes his eyes and lets out a heavy sigh.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Just had a rough day.” His eyes are still closed. Like it’s easier to confess things when he can’t see me. “My mom called. It’s the same questions every time. ‘How are you?’ ‘How’s the job?’ ‘Are you still taking your meds?’ I know she loves me, but every call feels robotic, like she’s trying to keep her distance.”

  “Maybe she thinks it’s what you need?”

  “Maybe,” he says. “And then, some days my anxiety gets the best of me. Some days I see fungus growing in my laundry basket. I worry that the locking mechanism on my deadbolt is faulty. I see myself tripping over a curb and tumbling into traffic.” He runs a hand through his hair and stretches his neck. “We don’t even have traffic here.”

  “What can I do?” I ask. My hand runs down his tense arm, and I squeeze his fingers.

  Preston opens his eyes and looks down. His silvery gaze drills through me, down to my center.

  “You’re already doing it.” Heat races to my cheeks and I smile. “Ready to go?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” I take a few steps and wince from the damn shoes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “These weren’t the best choice for footwear tonight.”

  Preston trails his gaze over my body, past my black shorts and down my legs, finally landing on my shoes.

  “I thought you looked taller tonight,” he says, giving me a light smile.

  “Yeah, well, I may be taller, but now I have to walk like a newborn giraffe.”

  He stares at me for a bit, until I start to fidget beneath his gaze. The muscles in his jaw twitch before he gives me a slight nod. Preston turns around and bends lower.

  “Hop on. I’ll give you a ride.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  I step out of my shoes and throw them in my bag. Then I place my hands on his strong shoulders and hop up, wrapping my legs around his waist. I hear him groan as he hooks his arms beneath my knees to hold me up.

  “What’s wrong? Am I too heavy?”

  “Not even close. It’s just having you pressed against me is…”

  He walks for a few minutes and never finishes his thought, though I’m sure I know where it was going. I love being wrapped around him. The feel of his hard muscles moving and flexing against me fills my mind with dirty thoughts. To distract myself, I point out houses of people he might know and order him through the park for a shortcut.

  “Oh! I know what will make you feel better. It always works for me,” I say. “Climb up the water tower with me.” Preston stops moving. I hug myself closer to his back and direct his attention upward. “That’s where I go to get away, to think.”

  “Uh, no thanks. I’m good on the ground.”

  “Oh, come on. Are you scared of heights?”

  “No, I’m scared of rusty metal screws, tetanus, a ladder that probably hasn’t been safety tested sin
ce the seventies, and falling to my death.”

  “Let me down.”

  Preston lets go of my legs, and I slide off. I walk to the ladder and climb about ten steps up before turning around. “See? It’s okay.”

  “That’s far enough. You don’t even have shoes on. Can you please come down?”

  Even from this height I can see his worried face.

  “Please come down,” he whispers. It’s a sound so faint, the words barely reach me. But when they do, the pleading in his voice almost knocks me from my perch.

  “Shit,” I mumble and hurry down the ladder. When I land in the grass, I dust off my hands on my shorts. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “You were already having a bad day, and I didn’t help things. I suck.”

  Preston shakes his head. “I wish I could go up there with you, Wren. I wish I could follow you anywhere.”

  When the cool night air makes my skin prickle, Preston notices.

  “Let’s get you home.”

  Preston continues my piggyback ride home, even carrying me up the stairs to our apartments. When we reach Bennie’s door, he sets me down gently. I’m anxious about leaving him alone for the night. I lift my hand, but don’t touch him. I want this to be on Preston’s terms.

  He leans in, his lips a few inches from mine. Both of our eyes are still open and locked on each other. I close the gap between us.

  This kiss is different. He’s running the show. He leads, and I follow. We are a mess of exploring hands and stuttered sighs between kisses. His tongue sweeps over mine, and I feel weakened by his taste. The hand that is on my waist shifts lower, sliding over my hip and around. He cups my ass and then curls his fingers around my thigh. Preston presses his body against me and lifts my leg around his body. I can feel how hard he is as we move and shift together in the dimly lit hallway.

  “Preston, please,” I say when his lips move to my neck.

  “What do you need, Wren?” he whispers. I run my hands over his flat stomach and up to the planes of his chest. His body is so firm beneath my touch. “What do you want?”

  “You,” I say. He shifts his hips against me again, and I moan at the feel of his erection pressing against me. “Fuck, Preston.”

  Suddenly, his hands are on the door behind me, and he straightens his arms. I am trapped between them as he looks down at me, hunger in his eyes.

  “I can’t,” he says. “I mean, I can. I haven’t…” Preston pushes off the door and puts some space between us. His eyes avoid mine as he fights for his breaths. One hand makes a fist, and the other curls around it, squeezing until I hear his knuckles pop.

  “You’ve never had sex?” My voice is high and too loud. I clear my throat. His head hangs low, his eyes on the floor between us. “Preston, are you a virgin?”

  “I’m not a virgin. I’ve had sex,” he says. “But I’m usually so intoxicated I barely remember it. It’s the only way to fight off the shit in my head. How pathetic is that?”

  “Hey,” I say, reaching for him. “It’s not pathetic. You’re sober now, and you’re fine, right?”

  He takes a step back. “I need to go.”

  “Preston, don’t run from me.”

  “Good night.”

  He turns, puts the key in the lock, and opens his apartment door. It closes with barely a sound.

  “Preston,” I whisper. He doesn’t answer. I lean my forehead against the wood and listen as he locks the deadbolt again and again. I count eight times before I give up and go inside.

  Long moments of lust

  Followed by furious shame

  My body screams in disappointment

  As my disorder shuts down this need

  I am a thundercloud

  Booming in my self-hate

  Wanting and needing and having

  Are only obsolete verbs

  When compared to

  Fearing and failing and loathing

  For one day, one hour, one minute

  I wish to reign over this kingdom

  Instead, I am shackled to phobias

  In the dungeon of what could be

  - Preston

  Chapter Ten

  Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me

  “I knew I’d find you here,” I say, sliding into the booth across from Preston.

  He closes his notebook and puts it away. “Already memorizing my schedule.”

  “I’ve already memorized your everything, Preston.”

  His left eyebrow raises slightly. He enjoys my flirting, and I love that he does. Angela approaches the table. After seeing her at the bar, it’s strange to have her back in this role.

  “Hey, Wren. What can I get you?”

  “I want a giant plate of mac ’n cheese and a lemonade.”

  “You got it.”

  She leaves to fetch my drink, and in the minute we’re alone there is nothing between us but silence. The clinking of forks to plates, cups to table, the static noise of conversations surround us. But here, in this booth, it is only Preston and me and enough sexual tension to choke us.

  “Here you go,” Angela says, sliding my lemonade onto the table and disappearing again.

  She has interrupted nothing and everything. I take a sip of my drink in an effort to cool my insides. Preston watches.

  “What are you thinking about?” I ask.

  “Last night,” he says. Images flash through my mind, and suddenly we are on the same page. “I thought about it all night, staring at that wall that separates us.”

  “Did you get any sleep?”

  He doesn’t answer me. “What are we doing, Wren?”

  I trace the rim of my glass with my index finger. “We’re having lunch.”

  Angela returns to the table with Preston’s three plates and my macaroni and cheese. She places a glass of water—no ice—in front of him and leaves us with a wink.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he says.

  “I know that’s not what you meant. The truth is I don’t know what we’re doing. At first, I’ll admit, I just wanted to sleep with you. I mean, look at you,” I say waving my hand across his body. “Have you seen you?”

  “And now?” he asks.

  “And now I don’t know. You intrigue me, Preston. But you seem happy here, and there’s no way I’m staying in Crowley forever. But why do we have to think beyond this moment? Right now I’m just a girl, sitting with a boy, having mediocre food.”

  The corner of his mouth lifts up, and he focuses on his meal. When all his plates are equal distance apart and lined up to the edge of the table, Preston finally eats. I dig in and am reminded how much I love this stuff.

  “Okay, the mac ’n cheese is not mediocre. I forgot how good it is,” I say with food in my mouth. “I rarely had good food out on the road. It was garbage. Sometimes, literally.”

  Preston stops chewing and looks up at me, a horrified expression painting his pretty face. His fork hovers above an empty plate.

  “Why did you leave Crowley?” he asks.

  “It was just something I had to do. I wanted to see the world. I wanted to know what was out there. I wanted to meet people who don’t look like me, or think like me. I just needed to discover something.”

  He switches out his plates now, lines them up, and takes a bite. “Well, did you? Discover something?”

  “Yes. I discovered religions that don’t weigh you down in guilt or shame. I discovered kids who have never known the comforts of a roof over their head. I discovered oceans at each coast and the Gulf of Mexico to the South. I discovered curry, alligator soup, tofu, and chilaquiles. Most recently, I discovered that it’s okay to come back home.”

  Preston lays down his fork and takes a sip of water. His eyes search mine from across the table. He is quiet for too long, and I start to squirm under his gaze.

  “You’re a complicated girl,” he finally says. “Complicated and confusing. And dangerously beautiful. You’re like a jigsaw puzzle that needs solving—sharp edges with twisting lines inside.”

&n
bsp; Such pretty words from a pretty man. They only make me want more of his poetic observations.

  “And what are you going to do about it, Preston-who-thinks-about-me-all-night?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  I finish my lemonade and leave money on the table before sliding out of the booth.

  “Well, let me know when you decide.”

  …

  Tonight, I wear blue-jean shorts, a Haystack T-shirt, and comfortable flats. I’m three hours into my shift when Sawyer shows up with his gang of followers. In worn jeans and a threadbare T-shirt that hugs his biceps, he is a stark contrast from uniformed Sawyer. He waves me over when they have a seat near the pool tables.

  “Hey, Wren. We need two buckets of Bud Light. And something for yourself.”

  I roll my eyes when he hands over his credit card without even looking at me. Returning to the bar, I load up two tin pails with ice and stick six bottles of beer in each. I file Sawyer’s credit card with the other open tabs and return to deliver their drinks.

  “Here you go, boys. Drink up.”

  I drop the buckets on the table. They land with a loud bang, ice spilling over the sides. Sawyer’s friends watch him, waiting like little lap dogs. He takes one bottle, pops the cap off, and tilts it back. Watching him show off like this reminds me of our days together. He used to sneak his daddy’s beers out of the house, and we would get drunk on the dirt road behind Miller’s barn.

  I turn to go, but suddenly feel a cold hand on my elbow. When I look back, I find Sawyer smiling up at me. He slides a ten-dollar bill into my hand and winks.

  “Thanks, Wren.”

  I pocket his tip and return to my spot behind the bar. Coach gives me a smile as he serves a couple of regulars. An hour later, Bennie comes in and parks herself at the same barstool she sat in last time. She orders from Coach and gives him a lingering look. One that makes me wonder again if there is something more between them than friendship.

  After I check on my tables, I slide up next to her.

  “Hey, Bennie. What’s up?”

  “Nothing much, kid. Just had a rough day,” she says, staring down into her beer.

  “Don’t you take half the day off on Saturdays? How bad could it be?” Bennie shakes her head. “Where do you go, anyway? Got a secret lover in Franklin? Is he married? Are you having his love child? Bennetta Hart, are you somebody’s dirty little secret?”