Chaos and Control(71)

“Everyone is looking,” I say. My voice is weak and surprises me. I don’t like it.

Preston shakes his head. “The only thing I care about is how you are looking at me.”

I tilt my head and can’t fight the lift to my lips. Then I remember his lie. It hits me with such force that it knocks the smile from my face. As much as I’m drawn to him, as much as I want to let him wrap his arms around me and protect me from this hurt, I can’t forgive him.

I pull away from the counter and hop up off my stool. Without a word to anyone, I push through the front door and practically run all the way back to Vinyl.

With each footstep, my pulse pounds in my ears, and it feels a little harder to breathe. It’s all so overwhelming. As soon as I enter the store, Morrissey serenades me into a calmer state. Until I see Bennie’s worried face.

“You got another one,” she says.

A pale-yellow envelope sits between us, my name and address scrawled on the front. There is no return address.

“I don’t want to open it,” I say.

“You have to.” I shake my head and take a step back. “Wren, this one is postmarked St. Louis. That’s only eight hours from here.” I shake my head again as panicked thoughts tumble through my brain, but I can’t voice them.

“I can’t,” I mumble. “I feel like my whole world is crumbling, Bennie. You, Preston, and this shit with Dylan. I can’t.”

“Wren,” Bennie pleads. Her brows are heavy over worried eyes, pink lips turned down in each corner.

I place my hand over hers and squeeze. “I’m not running away, Ben. I just need some space. Promise.”

I take off through the front door and turn left on the sidewalk. I need to clear my head and get a grip on reality. My feet lead me to the park long before my brain recognizes the path. At the bottom of the water tower, I start up the ladder. The midday sun beats down on my shoulders, and the metal is hot beneath my hands. By the time I get to the top, my arms are shaking and my muscles burn from the climb. When I take a seat on the platform, the wind whips around me, fluttering my shirt in the breeze.

I close my eyes and lift my face toward the sky. I feel free up here, lighter and hardly anchored to the town below. After a minute or so, I open my eyes and look out over Crowley, such a neat little package in the middle of farm country.

Up here there are no heartbreaking truths staring me in the face, there is no beautiful man stealing my resolve, there is no threatening mail. It is just me and graffiti confessions scraped into the paint by others who have occupied my refuge. Sawyer is the only other person I know that has been up here, but suddenly I feel a connection with them all, each person who has made this climb. Whether they still live in one of the houses below or they’ve moved on, they each left a little piece of themselves up here.

I call Coach, tell him I’ll be late, and stay up in the water tower for hours. When the sun dips closer to the horizon, I move around to the other side so I get an unobstructed view. The sky fades from its familiar blue down to an intense orange glow. With nothing but fields beyond Crowley, the crops—painted by the setting sun—look like flames. They sway and move beneath the wind, and it looks like the earth is on fire. I smile at the idea of watching it burn.

When I can’t take the growling of my empty stomach anymore, I throw my legs over the edge and climb down the ladder. As soon as my feet touch the ground, I feel heavier, weighed down with all the burdens that couldn’t reach me at the top. But they are my burdens. I square my shoulders and vow to deal with them all tomorrow.

The Haystack is busy for a Thursday night. There are plenty of locals and even a group of kids from Franklin. Sawyer and Angela come in together and join his gang of friends near the back of the bar. She gives me a wave before taking a seat at the group’s table. I return her wave and make my way over. The guys introduce themselves while the other ladies just give forced smiles.

“So, Angie, you and Sawyer bumpin’ uglies yet?” one guy asks from across the table.

“Excuse me?” she says, giving him a completely deserved crazy eye.

“You know. Hidin’ the sausage. The horizontal two-step. Bashing the beaver,” he replies, laughing.

“Are you special?” I blurt. “I don’t mean like gold-star special, I mean one-too-many football-concussions special.” The guy stares, unblinking. “Unless you are a third member of their relationship—which would never be an option until you learn to breathe with your mouth closed—what they are doing with their uglies, sausage, and beaver are none of your damn concern.”

Angela presses her lips together and drops her gaze to the floor. She looks shocked but amused by my outburst.

“Oh, snap!” Sawyer shouts, getting the group’s attention.

Angela laughs as Sawyer puts his hand on her knee. She answers with a nervous smile.

I take their order and deliver their drinks, accepting another generous tip. The rest of my night flies by, and I appreciate how work keeps my mind occupied. Though my problems don’t leave me completely.

As Sawyer tells his buddies good-bye, Angela takes a seat at the bar.

“Hey, are you all right?” she asks.

I spin to look at myself in the mirror behind the bar. “Why? Do I not look all right?”

Angela laughs. “No, Wren. You’re gorgeous, as always. You just seem distracted.”