Chaos and Control(15)

“What’s normal? Who’s normal?” I ask.

He places his large hands on either side of my legs, gripping the counter edge so tight I think the wood may splinter. Preston drops his head and speaks to the floor.

“You don’t understand.” His voice is angry now, but I know he’s not angry with me. “I count things. Everything. All the time. If I touch one thing, I have to touch them all. Like with your buttons. I like my space. I need neatness and organization. It’s about having control.”

When he finally looks up, I find shame and uncertainty there. I want to soothe him, to rub the creases out of his worried forehead. His eyes are intense, and they search mine for something.

“I hate this part of me. I hate this weakness.”

I lay both of my hands over both of his. He doesn’t seem bothered by my touch. “Hey, it’s not a weakness. It’s a medical condition, like bad kidneys or high blood pressure.”

“It rules my fucking life,” he says.

“Well, Preston-who-counts-things, if you won’t drink with me in the bar, how about here? Surely you have something in your apartment.”

“No one’s ever been in my apartment.” His shoulders go rigid, and he forces them back down before pulling his hands away.

“That’s okay. I don’t have to go in there. You get it, and we’ll hang out in the store. You’re comfortable here, right? For one night, we’ll rule your fucking life.”

A long moment of silence sits between us while Preston shifts from foot to foot. One hand rubs at the back of his neck as his eyes study the floor. I silently beg for him to fight through this and give me a chance.

Finally, he raises his gaze to mine and nods. “I’ll be right back.”

Preston disappears through the swinging door, and I jump down, checking my reflection in the front window. I adjust my boobs and tug on the deep V-neck of my shirt. When I’m satisfied with my appearance, I walk to the lounge in the back of the shop, grabbing a Bon Jovi album on my way. I put the record on and have a seat on one end of the vintage couch.

When Preston reappears, he’s carrying two glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniels. He glances at the couch and then the oversize chair adjacent. I pat the spot next to me, making sure he knows where I want him. I see his chest rise and fall before dropping onto the couch. I smile at the small victory.

Preston pours a generous amount of whiskey into each glass. I grab mine and raise it in the space between us. “What shall we toast to?”

He raises his glass and holds it next to mine, spinning it around in his large hand so that the logos on our glasses line up. “To homecomings and hair bands.”

We clink our drinks together and take a sip, holding each other’s gaze over the rim of our glasses. The alcohol coats my throat and brings an instant warmth to my empty stomach. A long silence sits between us. The only sound is Bon Jovi’s voice and guitar riffs. Preston looks at his watch and sips his whiskey.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” I ask. He shakes his head. “So, Preston-who-likes-his-space, how do you feel about girls?” He takes another sip and doesn’t answer. “Okay, how do you feel about guys?”

One side of Preston’s mouth lifts. “I like girls, Wren.”

“Oh, thank God!” He chuckles, and those lovely eye crinkles appear. “Have you had girlfriends?”

“One,” he says with a long sigh. “The relationship was difficult. No, I was difficult. In the end, she couldn’t deal with all my…issues. She said it was exhausting. I was exhausting.”

“You are not your disorder, Preston.”

He nods and takes another swallow of whiskey. Silence fills the space between us, and it’s as if I can almost see him shutting down. I can’t imagine what’s going on in that head of his.

“Want to tell me what you’re thinking about?”

Preston’s gaze flicks to my mouth and up to my eyes.

“Kissing.”

Hope ignites a fire inside me. “And how do you feel about kissing?”

I see his Adam’s apple bob, and he taps the side of his glass with his index finger.

“It’s easier when I’m drunk. The alcohol seems to take the edge off.”

I frown at the thought of this. Needing alcohol to dull your senses seems like such a waste. I try not to give him a sympathetic look. I know he doesn’t want my pity.

“That’s too bad,” I say, letting my palm rest on his knee. The song changes, and I grin at the familiar beat. “Kissing is one of my favorite things. I mean, sex is good, but kissing is much more intimate. Don’t you think?”

Preston shrugs at me, but I see that I have his undivided attention.

“First there’s the build up. Innocent touches,” I say, dragging my nails up his thigh, “and mutual flirting just to let the other party know you’re open to the idea. There’s that slow burn in your body. It builds every time you catch the other person staring.” Preston listens intently, finishing his whiskey. He licks those perfect lips, and my fingers tighten around my glass, holding on to the last of my control. “Every time you drink or take a bite of something, your full attention is brought to the mouth. You imagine what those lips will feel like. Will they be soft and submissive? Or hard and possessive?”