Chaos and Control by Season Vining
Dedicated to Jack
He gives freely, loves fiercely, and provides the best cuddle nook.
Chapter One
Tupelo Honey
I am Dorothy, yanked from that Technicolor land and dropped back in the middle of Kansas. Two highways intersect. With stop signs stolen and missing, it’s the most danger this county has to offer. The old pickup truck pulls over, the crunch of gravel announcing its leave of the road.
“This is as far as I can take you, sweetheart. I’m headed west.” The man whose face looks like worn leather gives me a smile. It’s the most genuine thing I’ve seen in days. “Only a few miles to town,” he finishes, crooked fingers pointing straight ahead.
“Thanks. I remember. And if anyone asks, you never saw me.”
“Darlin’, I’m at the age where no one asks me anything anymore.”
I grab my bag and slide from the bench seat. He offers a wave through the back glass, turns left, and disappears. I stretch my hands above my head before bending over and hooking my fingers under the toes of my boots. The pull and stretch of dormant muscles summons a tingling feeling to my numb ass.
A breeze flies past, bringing that familiar Midwest perfume: wheat and cattle. It carries memories and feelings I’m not yet willing to process. I step to the middle of the intersection and spread my arms like a bird about to take flight. The wind whips around me while the sun warms my shoulders. My yellow brick road is black asphalt, but it holds the same promise. Good or bad, there’s no place like home.
When I get to town, I find a bench in the shade and take a seat in front of Doorman’s Drugstore. It’s so annoying how every business in this town is named after its owner. I guess it’s supposed to be endearing. Doorman’s Drugstore, Boone’s Grocery, Millie’s Diner, Tiny’s Used Car Lot—they all conform to the Small Town, USA demands of sameness and predictability. Crowley never changes, stagnant like an old sitcom’s Main Street.
I pull a bottle of water from my bag and suck the thing dry. Heavy hitting bass and guitar riffs continue to race my pulse as I cool down. There aren’t many people out and about. It’s late afternoon, so the old ladies are home watching their soaps, the men are away at work, and the housewives are fighting toddlers for nap time.
A middle-aged woman passes by. She does a double take before clutching her purse closer. I want to laugh at her “stranger danger” assumption. I can pinpoint the exact moment she recognizes me: the grip on her purse loosens, and she stops on the sidewalk. I ignore her leering, throw away my empty water bottle, and get moving. Word spreads fast around this town, and I want to surprise Bennie before she knows I’m coming.
Three blocks later, on the corner of Apple and Minor Street, I see it. The large neon sign displays vinyl, luring me in like a homing beacon. Not much has changed aside from the front window display. Adele, Steve Miller Band, Dolly Parton, and Metallica are all pressed against the glass, their price tags hidden.
There’s no ringing bell when I push the door open, only an electric chime from somewhere in the back. That’s new. I scan the front counter and find no one. The scent of old paper and vinyl hits me, and in this uncertain homecoming, it’s welcoming. I inhale deeply and make my way down the second aisle toward the back when a Van Morrison album catches my attention. Tupelo Honey. It is pristine, perfect, still shrink-wrapped. This should be in the case up front, not filed here in the general population between Morrissey and Motley Crew.
“Can I help you?” a deep voice asks from behind me.
I spin, the album clutched to my chest, and find a boy—no, a man—waiting for a reply. He’s got jet-black hair shaved short on the sides, longer and swept back up top. His fair skin looks flawless, like he’s never stepped foot in sunlight. Gray eyes appraise me from beneath thick black lashes. A couple of days’ worth of black stubble speckles the bottom half of his face and frames what looks like an anxious grin. He is a lot of man—wide shoulders and muscled, so tall I feel tiny in his shadow. I can tell he cares about his appearance. His clothes fit impeccably—hugging that body in all the right places. A chunky watch sits on his left wrist, and for some reason, I find it sexy as hell. My gaze is drawn down to his Jack Daniels belt buckle, but I work my way up each pearl snap on his plaid shirt to get back to those eyes.
“Did you want to buy that?” he asks, pointing to the record I hold, before his thick arms cross over his chest.
“You’re pretty,” I say. He frowns at me.
“No, I’m Preston. And that’s Bennie.” His head tips to my left.
I turn and spot Bennie wearing a smile brighter than the sun. She has that knowing look in her gaze, something she’ll never share. Abandoning the album into Preston’s waiting hands, I hurry around the aisle. Her eyes are glassy, but she’s not a crier. Her hand lifts and sweeps my short bangs to the side before resting on my shoulder.
“Been a long time.”
“Yeah,” I answer.
“You cut all your hair off. And what is that color?”
“Lavender Blooms.”
“You look good, Wren.”
“Thanks. You look thinner. Are you doing that green tea cleanse diet again?”
“No,” Bennie answers, barely a sound.