Chaos and Control(78)
“Wow, Bennie. What a hottie!” I say, fanning myself with the photo.
“I’m still a hottie,” she says.
“Of course you are, Ben.”
Preston waits quietly. I hand him the photo and watch him inspect it. He studies it for a while before handing it back to Bennie.
“Here you go, hottie.” He gives her a wink, and she blushes. I think it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. “I’m heading upstairs. See you later.”
He disappears through the door, and the instant he’s gone, I want him back. I’m so tired of this internal fight. I’m so tired of denying what we both want, what I need. And I promised Bennie I would make this right.
“I’ll talk to him.”
Bennie looks up from the photo. Her face lights up, and I suddenly don’t remember why I’ve been avoiding this for so long. Just saying those words has released such a huge burden from my heart.
Nothing stings quite like
The denial of forgiveness
I am a puppet to this
My strings pulled in every
Direction
I return to routine, because
It is the only thing I know
The nagging in my brain
Seems to exponentially expand
With every minute apart
Time is to heal
All wounds
But time is a bitter, overworked ER nurse watching me bleed out On the linoleum floor
Life has been divided into
Before her and after her
Torture is knowing your
Soul’s counterpart lives on
The other side of a paper-thin wall And pressing your ear to hear nothing - Preston
Chapter Twenty-Four
Icky Thump
An hour later, we finally finish sorting everything into different price points. I line up the boxes along the far wall, so that Preston doesn’t twitch when he sees them.
“I’m going to head upstairs, Wren. Dinner. Bath. Bed.”
I chuckle and open the door to the stairs leading to the apartment for her.
“I’m going to see Preston,” I say.
“Grab a bottle of water from my mini-fridge up front. I bet it’s hot up there.”
I practically skip to the front counter, grabbing the water and heading out through the front door. On the side of the building, I take the stairs two at a time, eager to finally put this behind us. I knock, but there’s a loud buzzing sound inside and music playing. Knowing he won’t hear me, I open the door and let myself in. I’m not prepared for the sight before me.
Preston’s plaid shirt is hung over the back of a chair near the door. He is across the room in only a black beater and jeans. I feel my mouth go dry, and it’s not from the sawdust in the air. He leans over a large saw, turns it on, and slides a piece of wood through. I watch the well-defined muscles of his shoulders and arms bend and move as he repeats the process a few times. There are flakes of wood in his hair and stuck to his sweaty skin.
He turns the saw off, and the quiet is eerie, especially with the musical soundtrack playing and me lurking here in the dark.
“Preston?” I say.
His shoulders jump, and he spins to face me. Preston offers a cautious smile and dusts his hands off. The heat in the air suddenly feels suffocating. I remember the water, move toward him and hold it out—a peace offering.
“Thanks,” he says, taking the bottle.
He twists the top off and brings the bottle to his lips. I watch his throat move as he drinks down the whole thing, crushing the plastic bottle as he goes.
“Jesus, it’s hot in here,” I say, fanning myself.
“Yeah, it is. Did you need something, or are you just delivering refreshing beverages?”
“I was wondering if we could talk. If it’s a bad time, it can wait.”
One side of his mouth curls up, and there’s a new shine to his silver eyes. “Now is a great time. Just let me wash up?”
“Okay.”
Preston goes to the sink and rakes his fingers through his hair a few times. Sawdust falls around him like snow. He lathers his hands up to each elbow and dries them on a nearby towel. When he catches me watching, I turn toward his workbench and look over the tools. I recognize most things, but there’s a big electric-gun thing that I can’t identify. Grabbing the chair with his shirt on the back, he brings it over to where I am.
“What’s this?” I ask, pointing to the tool.
“A nail gun.”
“It shoots nails?” I almost shriek.
“Think of it as an electric hammer.”
“Oh.”
“So, The White Stripes are your work music?” I ask.
“Actually, it’s on random.”
I mock gasp and place my hand on my chest. “Electronic device for your music? What would your boss say?”
Preston grins and gestures to the chair. I take a seat. He sits across from me on a stool, and I can’t take my eyes off him. Here’s this big, muscled man all sweaty from hard work, and he sits looking at me like a kid waiting to see Santa. He moves one tool on the bench and then rearranges all of them so they are equally spaced out. I observe him with wonder and amusement.
“So, you wanted to talk?” he asks when he is finally satisfied with the tools.