Chaos and Control(26)

“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.