Chaos and Control(49)

He releases my hands and leans back in his chair. “She says you could be good for me. Opposites attract and all that.”

I grin. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe we’d be good for each other.”

Preston folds his arms across his chest, a challenge in his gaze.

“You mean until you leave again?”

I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip, hoping to distract him. “Seems we’re doomed before we even start, huh?” I say. “The girl who refuses to stay put and the boy who thinks he’s not relationship material.”

“Seems so.”

“So why even bother?” I ask. My defenses are up now. My chest aches as disappointment settles in. I cross my arms to mirror Preston.

“Because, maybe, for whatever time we do have, we could be great.” His mouth curls into a sexy smirk, and the air between us changes.

“How do you know?” I rest my hands on my knees and lean toward him.

“I just know.”

“Well, Preston-who-writes-poetry, Preston-who-sells-records, Preston-who-repairs-furniture, Preston-who-rebuilds-trucks, Preston-who-just-knows-things, is there anything you can’t do?”

He smiles now, his eyes on my lips. “I can’t look at that glob of ketchup on your face for another second.”

“What?” I swipe at my mouth but feel nothing.

“Just kidding,” he says. “I think your face is perfect.”

“Perfect, huh?” I dip my finger in the ketchup and swipe it on my chin. “Is it still perfect, Preston?”

He cracks a smile and turns away, focusing on his lunch. Without even looking in my direction, he grabs his napkin and waves it in front of me. I yank it out of his hand and wipe my chin clean.

We eat our lunch and talk more about the work he’s done up here. The passion in his voice when Preston speaks of refinishing makes me excited for him. I can see that it brings peace in the mess of his disorder. I can also picture him up here, working with those strong hands, covered in sawdust and sweat—though I’m sure it’s not quite that dirty.

“Can I come watch you work sometime?”

Preston stops, mid-chew. “Uh, I guess so. I won’t be much company, though. I kind of zone out when I’m up here.”

“That’s okay.”

He gives me a smile—eye crinkles included—and goes back to his lunch. All the heaviness from our earlier conversation seems gone, and I am thankful for it. When we’re finished, we throw away our plates and take turns washing our hands in the sink. I follow him down the stairs and enjoy the view.

“Thanks for sharing your space with me, Preston.”

He grabs my elbow and presses me against the front window of Vinyl.

“Thanks for not thinking I’m weird.”

“Oh, you’re weird. But you’re a bunch of other things, too,” I tease. I trail my fingers down the buttons on his shirt. “You’re pretty.” He groans. “You’re smart. You’re talented. You’re sweet. You’re pretty.”

“You said that already.”

Preston leans in, our lips connect, and all thoughts vanish from my head. I rest one hand on his shoulder, and the other slides up his chest and around his neck. My nails scrape through the short hair on the back of his head as I pull him against me. We are sweet kisses and satisfied sighs, nipping at each other as if we’re dessert.

“We’d better get in before Bennie kills us for making out in front of her store,” I say.

He chuckles and opens the door for me. Again, the cool air is a welcome reprieve.

“Where’s Bennie?” Preston asks.

I check her usual chair behind the register and find it empty. Then I scan the store. I don’t see her anywhere.

“Maybe she’s in the back?”

“I’ll go check,” he says. Preston takes off toward the back of the store as I step behind the front counter.

“Bennie!”

She’s sprawled on the floor in an unnatural position, legs twisted, a mark on her forehead. Her novel still rests in her hand. I drop to my knees and lean my ear to her mouth to see if she is still breathing. She is. Every thought in my head is replaced with panic. My hands search her body, checking for more injuries, but I find nothing.

“Preston! Preston!” I yell. “Bennie, wake up.” She doesn’t respond. I take her hand and squeeze hard, willing her to gain consciousness. Preston appears above me, and I can barely see him through my tears. “Call 911!”

I pull her head into my lap and brush her red hair from her face. “Bennie, please wake up. Please, Ben.”

Preston returns and kneels next to me. “They’ll be here soon.”

I nod and continue to cradle Bennie’s face in my trembling hands.

“What’s wrong with her, Preston?” My voice is barely a whisper. “Why won’t she wake up?”

“I don’t know,” he says. His words are as strained as mine.

“Bennie, please.” I beg her to open her eyes and tell me she’s okay, but nothing happens. “Where are they? What is taking so long?”

Time is a funny thing in moments of panic. For some people, it slows down. They are able see and hear everything around them; they are extremely perceptive. For me, in this instance, time slips away like storm clouds across the sky.