Chaos and Control(6)

After my shower and some ibuprofen, I get dressed. Lacing up my boots, I swipe at the scuff marks and dirt on them, knowing I’ll need them to face lunch in this town on a Saturday. Of course I realize they are only shoes, but they make me feel like a bad ass. Some girls have power panties. I’ve got boots.

I pass Preston’s door in the hall and stare, hoping it will reveal something about this guy. It doesn’t say anything but 2B. At the bottom of the stairs, I walk through the storage closet and push past the swinging door. There are three customers in the store flipping through records.

Bennie sits behind the front counter, while her favorite Fleetwood Mac album plays over the speakers. She sees me and waves.

“Morning, kid. How’s that tequila treating you?”

“Like shit,” I say. “I’m heading to the diner for greasy food and subpar coffee. Want anything?”

She laughs and hands me a twenty. “Bring me back a lemon square. Lunch is on me.”

I take the money, slip my shades down over my eyes, and exit the store. The walk to Millie’s is short, but the sun seems to draw out the alcohol through my pores. I smell the place before I can see it. French fries and apple pie float on the breeze. It smells like home.

I push through the doors and take a seat at the counter. A redhead in the traditional waitress uniform with apron walks over and lays out a napkin and silverware. She leaves, retrieves a glass of water, and sets it down with a menu.

My eyes scan the breakfast food, searching out bacon and hash browns.

“I heard you were back,” the waitress says.

I look up and read her name tag. Angela Louise. I wrack my brain for an Angela and come up empty.

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember you.”

She smiles, but it’s forced. “No, you wouldn’t. We only went to school together our entire lives. It’s okay. I imagine I’m fairly forgettable.”

I stare at her and smile. I know it must seem rude, but I like this girl. She’s got a kind of honesty that’s refreshing.

“I’m really sorry. I’ve done a lot of things and met a lot of people in the past three years. There’s only so much room up here,” I say, tapping my temple. “I guess some stuff gets deleted to make room for new memories.” She gives me a doubting look, not amused by my theory. “Actually, you do look familiar. Didn’t you go by Angie in school?”

“Yep. That was me.”

“Well, I like Angela Louise. Has a nice down-home feel to it. Now that we’re reacquainted, can I get some coffee?”

“Sure thing.”

She fetches a mug and coffee pot, pouring me a cup. As she’s handing it over, another waitress—an older lady with jet-black hair and a permanent grin—leans into her ear and rolls her eyes.

“He is so strange. I can’t get him to try anything new.”

Angela looks across the room, and I follow her gaze to find Preston seated in a booth alone. “I don’t know why you keep trying,” she responds.

I return my attention to the menu and quickly decide. “I’d like the bacon cheeseburger with fries. Thanks.”

Angela nods and strolls away to put my order in. I pour a ton of sugar into my coffee and stir before picking up the mug and carefully making my way across the diner. When I reach Preston’s table, I notice it is clear of all condiments. He is leaned over a moleskin notebook, writing in an extremely neat cursive.

“Hi,” I say when he doesn’t look up.

“Hello,” Preston answers, his pencil pausing momentarily before finishing the word he’s writing.

“Mind if I join you for lunch?” I ask while sliding into the booth opposite him. Preston sits up, his back stiff and shoulders high. He stares, unblinking, at my cup of coffee. “Or not?” I say, but make no move to get up.

“I don’t really. I mean, I’m not used to…” He stops. His gaze drops to the notebook and then comes back to my face. He takes a deep breath and blinks slowly, while his hands lay awkwardly folded on the table. His next words are spoken very carefully. “Sure. You can join me for lunch.”

“Great,” I say, setting my coffee down. “So, what are you writing?” Preston folds the notebook closed and slides it from the table. “Okay. We’ll start with something easier. Where are you from?”

His posture relaxes a tiny bit as he laces his fingers together on top of the table between us.

“Pittsburgh.” His answer is clipped, but I press on.

“Whoa, Preston-who-writes-in-notebooks is a big-city guy. I went through there about a year ago. I liked it a lot. That cheesesteak sandwich at Primanti’s? Wow.”

Preston gives a weak smile and nods.

“So why’d you move here? I mean, people leave all the time, but I question the sanity of those to come to Crowley willingly.”

“I went to college in Franklin. I liked it here, so I stayed,” he says, shifting in his seat. His fingers twitch, and my eyes are drawn to those large hands, white-knuckled from gripping each other so tightly.

I shake my head, not understanding. It’s like everyone in this town was brought into this world with the predisposition to love it and want to stay. I was born without that part, like a defect. Preston and people like him baffle me.

“I don’t get it. But who am I to judge?”