Chaos and Control(4)

“Do you need help with that?” I ask, stepping closer. I can see now that he’s dirty and covered in what looks like sawdust. I inhale and find the scent of sweat and wood completely appealing. “Sometimes you have to shake the knob and lift up at the same time.”

Preston freezes when I stand next to him. He keeps his head down, his shoulders tense.

“I’ve got it,” he says.

He pulls the key out and pushes it back, jiggles it twice, and repeats this process three more times. I stare at his profile unashamedly. He’s so handsome and manly looking, a definite fittest-of-the-fit in the gene pool.

“Let’s go, Wren,” Bennie says. “Good night, Preston.”

The muscles of his forearms tighten as his hand grips the doorframe. He nods as Bennie pulls me away. Once we’re on the street, walking toward the edge of town, I turn to Bennie.

“What the hell was that?”

“What?” she asks, feigning ignorance.

“He’s so weird—fucking gorgeous, but weird. Why does he have an aversion to me? Did you tell him something?”

She stops walking and props her hands on her hips. “And what would I tell him? I haven’t seen you in three years. I didn’t know you were coming back, and I doubt I even know you anymore.”

I frown, hating the doubt in her voice.

“I’m still me. Same old Wren. I’m the girl who stole gum out of your purse all the time. The one who busted you making out with that creepy mustache guy in Daddy’s shed. And the one who tripped in church, landing in the aisle with my skirt up around my waist.”

She grins and shakes her head. Grabbing one of her hands from her hip and pulling, I get her to start walking again. Bennie lets out a huge yawn.

“Are you sure you want to go? You seem tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“Did you get my postcards? I tried to send one from every place I went.” Bennie nods and crosses her arms. I don’t like how nonchalant she is about my only effort at communication while away. “Good,” I say, because I have nothing else, and now things feel awkward between us.

We reach The Haystack and step inside. In a town this small, everyone knows you and your entire family, so I was never able to sneak in while underage. My first look at the place is not surprising. The air is a bit smoky, creating a haze where large lights shine over pool tables. Country music plays from an old jukebox near the back of the room.

“Let’s sit at the bar,” Bennie says, parking herself on a stool there.

I hop up next to her as she waves the bartender over.

“Hey, Bennie. Who’s this?”

The man looks at me like I’m on display at the zoo. His face is familiar, but I can’t pin down how I know him.

“Wren, you remember Coach Johnson, right?”

He was the football coach at my high school. I didn’t exactly attend games back then. While the rest of the town was ravenous for team sports, I was more drawn to one-on-one activities.

“Wren Hart? Well, I’ll be. Didn’t recognize you,” he said, waving nervously at my appearance. “Are you old enough to be in here?”

“I turned twenty-one last month.”

“Well, all right! First drink’s on me. What’ll you have?”

“Two shots of tequila. And not that cheap stuff that’s been on the shelf since the nineties.”

“The usual for me, Coach,” Bennie chimes in.

“You got it.”

I face Bennie and stare at her profile. “The usual? How often do you come here? I thought you like to drink alone?”

“Things change, Wren. After you left, alone was too alone.”

I cringe, guilt tugging at my heart. “I was alone, too, you know. Most of the time.”

“Yes,” Bennie says. “But that was your choice.”

I frown and drop my eyes to the two shot glasses and beer dropped off in front of us. I slide one over to Bennie and hold up the other. She gives me a half-hearted smile and lifts her shot.

“To homecomings and never being alone,” I say. We clink our glasses together and throw back the shot. The alcohol burns my empty stomach and warms my skin immediately.

“So this is the big nightlife in Crowley, huh?”

“This is it,” Bennie answers. “Sometimes a fight breaks out when the boys get too drunk, but other than that, it’s pretty tame.”

“How’s business, B? I was kind of surprised to find the store still open. Figured you’d be abandoned in the digital age.”

“Business is good, actually. The college kids in Franklin keep me open. Apparently, records are making a comeback. Plus, Preston is really good with marketing ideas. He says the hipsters will keep us afloat for a while.”

“Sweet. It’s about time people appreciate the pure perfection of The Smiths on vinyl.”

“Who said anything about The Smiths?” she asks, taking a sip of her beer. “They’re buying old Johnny Cash and Rage Against the Machine.”

“Well, I’m not mad at that.”

A loud chorus of greetings rings out near the jukebox, and I turn to see what’s causing the commotion. A group of guys, complete with graphic tees and ripped jeans, are huddled together over a table. The storyteller of the group has their undivided attention. His arms wave around, gesturing wildly while everyone laughs. I watch as he slaps one of them on the back and turns toward the bar. My pulse spikes, and my breath gets caught in my throat. Suddenly I’m very thirsty.