Chapter Thirteen
Daydream Nation
As I lower the arm down and the needle finds its groove, Sonic Youth fills the apartment. A few seconds later, the sound of the phone ringing jars me to the core. I am frozen, staring at the yellow phone from across the room. The shrill ring cuts through the air again, and I race across the room, pick up the receiver, and slam it back down. My hand rests on my chest, trying to calm the furious pace of my heart.
I jump when it rings again. Without thinking, I rip the phone from the wall. The cord is unplugged, and the ringing stops. I set the phone down on the counter and wrap my arms around myself. I hate this feeling, this awful, weak feeling, this fear of a man I thought I’d escaped.
Glancing to the windows, I see that it’s getting dark outside. I check the apartment door to make sure it’s locked and park myself on the sofa, waiting for Bennie. The windows glow when the streetlights kick on. I grab a magazine from the table and pretend to read through it.
It’s odd how our roles have become reversed. Many nights, Bennie sat in this very spot, listening for the sound of me returning home after a night out. So much has changed since those years of drunken debauchery. Even then I knew I wanted out of this town, but I was never sure it would actually happen. Those years away changed me in a way that staying never would have. I like the girl I am now, but I wonder how long she’ll survive in the rural Midwest. How long until the crops just swallow her back up and she disappears into the soil?
I hear the door open and close. Bennie drops her purse and keys on the table. She enters the room, kicks off her shoes, and drops onto the sofa.
“Long day with Laney?” I ask.
Her head lolls back, face toward the ceiling, eyes closed. “So tired,” she answers.
Bennie’s lack of answer gives me hope that she’s going to come clean.
“How’s she doing?”
“Oh, you know. She’s okay. One day at a time and all that.”
“Bennie,” I say.
She rolls her head toward me and opens her eyes. They are red with dark circles beneath them. “Yeah?”
I’m so ready to call her out on the lie, but the look on her face stops me. She is half asleep and giving me a lazy smile. Most of my anger has been replaced with relief that she’s home, anyway.
“You look exhausted. You should take a bath and go to bed.”
“That’s the plan, kid. That’s the plan.”
I don’t know why I let her off the hook. I don’t know what I see in my sister that makes me put her lies on the back burner, but I do.
“Good night, Ben.”
“Night, Wren.”
I leave the record on and busy myself with searching for something to eat. I find the freezer full of junk food, and there is one more oddity to add to the list. Bennie never eats processed food. She’s more of a turkey, hummus, and sprouts on gluten-free bread type of lady. I look from the freezer to her closed bedroom door and back to the boxes of food. I pull out a frozen pizza, preheat the oven, and throw it in. After setting the kitchen timer for seventeen minutes, I take a seat at the front window and look out at Crowley.
There’s not much activity on the street below, not much activity anywhere. As much as I loathe this place, there’s still a quiet comfort that comes with being here. I don’t know how Bennie stayed all these years, living in the shadow of the great Reverend Hart. I don’t understand why she would do that to herself. The people of this town worship that man like he’s the one who turned water into wine. What he says is law. They admire my parents, because they don’t know any better. No one has ever taken the time to really look and see what kind of people they are. I suppose no one ever will.
My whole life, people needed to find a way to explain my rebellious behavior. I don’t have a dark and tortured past. I simply had parents who thought I was sin personified. There was a detachment there. But I always had Bennie to keep me sane and provide an escape from those lunatics. I wasn’t abused. Though they seemed cold and loveless, the Reverend and his wife never laid a hand on me. Sometimes, there is no explanation for one’s behavior. Sometimes you just need to feel like you’re leading a life worthy of your biggest dreams. And sometimes that means breaking all the rules.
…
Preston helps an old lady find the record she’s looking for. It’s a relic from the 1950s. I sit with Bennie. He walks toward the front counter and she is so tiny, I can’t even see her waddling behind him. Preston drops off the record, and Bennie stands to ring her up. I grab the hand sanitizer below the counter and wave it at him. He gives me a sly smile and holds out his hands.
Squeezing the bottle, I squirt some gel into his waiting palm and watch as he rubs his hands together. They smooth over every inch of skin up past his wrist and back down, and I’m completely entranced by it.
“Wren,” Preston says.
My eyes meet his, and he flicks his gaze to my mouth and back up. Preston reaches for me. Without thought, I lean toward him, wanting to connect that much sooner. His thumb presses to my bottom lip and pulls it free from my teeth.
“Ahem,” Bennie says, clearly wanting to ruin my life.
Preston drops his hand and heads toward the back of the store.
“What’s that saying? I hate to see him leave, but I love to watch him go.”
Bennie takes a seat and flips through a gossip magazine. “You two seem to be spending a lot of time together lately.”
I turn to face her and lean against the counter. “Yep.”
“If you leave again, he won’t go with you,” she says.
“You don’t know that,” I defend. Bennie shoots me an incredulous look over her magazine, and I shrug. “I don’t want to fight about Preston,” I say.
“What do you want to fight about?”
Accusatory and hurtful words are on the tip of my tongue. Laney! Lies! I swallow them down and shake my head. “I don’t want to fight at all.”
“Good.”
Looking around at the quiet store, I wonder how much longer Bennie can keep this dream alive. She opened it when she was just twenty-four years old. Our grandmother had left the building to her when she died. Bennie worked tirelessly to earn money to get Vinyl off the ground. I remember my parents’ anger and disappointment when she told them she was turning Grandmother’s Christian bookstore into a record store.
“How much longer do you think Vinyl can survive, Bennie?”
She sighs and folds the magazine closed on her lap. “Apparently, I just have to stay afloat between generations of hipsters. The vintage furniture and other items help bring in customers. These days, I feel like no one loves vinyl like me.”
“I do,” I say. “Because of you. And Preston does.”
“Great. Two people. If you two didn’t get a discount, I might actually make some money.” She laughs, but it’s void of humor. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll survive, Wren.”
There is a deep sadness in her voice, an inflection so solemn it guts me.
“Well, we’ll change and adapt to keep the doors open as long as possible.”
“Yeah,” she says, but there is no conviction behind it.
The front door chimes, and we both turn to see Sawyer approaching, starched uniform and shiny badge. Immediately, my thoughts go to Preston. I search the store and find him standing on aisle two, flipping through the R&B section a little too forcefully.
“Hey there, ladies. You’re both looking lovely today,” Sawyer says, tipping his hat. When he talks, the little hairs that curl up from under his hat flap like wings above his ears.
Bennie smiles and goes back to her magazine. “Hello, Logan,” she says from behind those glossy pages.
“Aren’t you on duty, officer?” I ask.
Sawyer leans on the front counter. He’s too comfortable and confident here in my space.
“I sure am. Turns out you have a little leeway when your dad is the boss.”
I roll my eyes and glance at Preston. He’s stopped going through the inventory and is full-on staring now.
“How did you know I would be here?” I ask, snapping my attention to the boy in front of me, the one who represents my past and my firsts.
“Who says I’m here for you? Huh? Maybe I came to see Bennie.”
“By all means,” I say, waving my hand in her direction. I step from behind the counter and take off down the aisle.
“Wren, come on now,” Sawyer says, following me. “Of course I’m here for you.” He grabs my elbow and spins me around. “I want to take you out.”
I’m sure the expression on my face is disturbingly unattractive, but I can’t seem to control my gaping mouth or bulging eyes. In all our time together, Logan Sawyer never took me out on an actual date. We went from classroom flirting to hooking up in his truck. There were wild nights of partying and private dances in my living room, but never an official date.
“It’s just dinner. You and me catching up,” he says.
What does he really want? Why now? Does he think there is hope of a reunion?
“We have plans.”
I turn to find Preston at my side. The deep possessive lilt to his voice stirs me from my numbness and lights a fire inside. In a casual way, he drapes his thick arm around my shoulders and pulls me in to his side. I grin when the scent of him, soap and something distinctly Preston, washes over me.
Sawyer’s eyes become slits. He stares daggers at Preston’s arm.
“I didn’t even say which day,” he grits out through tight lips.
“It’s all the same,” Preston answers. This new confidence is slaying me in the best way possible.
Sawyer finally meets my eyes, and I nod. “We’re busy. Sorry.”
He turns and makes his way toward the front door in a stunned and angry stupor. I give Preston a puzzled look and shrug out of his grip to catch up with Sawyer.
“Sawyer?”
He faces me now, trying to hide his defeat behind that endearing smile.
“It’s no big deal, Wren. Just wanted to hear about your travels. And catch you up on Crowley life since you’ve been gone. Oh, and did you hear about the Ghostbuster movie with all women? I’ve seen it twice and still don’t know how I feel about it.”
“I met Winston at a Comic Con last year,” I say. Knowing Sawyer’s fascination with everything Ghostbusters, he was all I could think about at the time.
“You met Ernie Hudson?” he almost shouts. Sawyer catches himself and looks around the store before continuing. “I mean, that’s cool. What was he like?”
“Super nice. Seemed like a great guy.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “The adventures of Wren Hart. Guess I’ll never know the rest since you’re so busy.” He shoots an irritated look over my shoulder to where Preston stands.
“You should ask out Angela Louise,” I blurt.
“Who?” A tiny vertical crease appears between Sawyer’s eyebrows.
“She’s a waitress at Millie’s. She went to school with us.”
He contemplates this and then shakes his head. “Oh. Angie Lavelle?”
“Yeah, her.”
“I don’t know. I mean, she seems cool, but her mom is so weird.”
“I’m not telling you to ask out her mom,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Besides ordering food, I think we’ve exchanged like ten words our entire lives. What makes you think…? Why?”
“She’s pretty, and a nice girl,” I say.
Sawyer’s smile widens. “They’re all nice girls. So were you, once upon a time.”
“Shut up,” I answer, flipping the bill of his hat up. He catches it and slides it back down before reaching out and messing up my hair. “Give her a shot. Besides, she’s got a great rack.” I hold my hands in front of my chest and raise my eyebrows.
He laughs and turns to go. “You’re a mess. Later, Wren.”
“Good-bye, Sawyer.” For once I feel closure and a finality in that statement.
When the door closes, I spin to find Preston a few feet behind me.
“What the hell was that?” I ask.
“What?” He feigns innocence. “I believe I owed you.” Preston slides in front of me, sweeps my bangs to the side—like they were before Sawyer’s visit—and takes off down the aisle. My gaze follows him until he disappears behind one of the clearance racks in the back. The grin on my face makes my cheeks ache.
When I look at Bennie, I find her watching us, but she quickly raises her magazine and hides behind it. I hop up on the counter, sighing contently.
“You guys are better than half of my romance novels,” Bennie says.
…
“Where are you taking me, Preston-who-has-staked-his-claim?”
I sit curled into his side as the big blue truck rumbles toward Franklin. After declaring to Sawyer that we had plans, Preston thought it only fair to follow through. He didn’t give me any details, only said to be ready to go by seven o’clock. When he showed up at Bennie’s door with a single wildflower, I practically melted. This man, all big and brawny and constantly fighting his demons, is slowly finding a way into my heart.
“There’s a place near campus that has the best Italian food.”
“Sounds great,” I say, hooking my arm through Preston’s and leaning on his shoulder. The material of his button-down shirt is soft against my cheek, while the hard muscle is unmoving.
“The lasagna is amazing. Better than my mom’s,” he finishes.
“Can’t wait. Oh! Can we get dessert? I love dessert.”
Preston looks down at me and back to the road. “I imagine I’d give you just about anything you wanted, Wren Hart.”
I grin and turn my face toward the opposite window, so he can’t see just how much he affects me. The rest of the drive is quiet. Preston helps me out of the truck, his gaze lingering on my legs longer than necessary. I tug the hem of my little black dress down to its rightful place and grab my clutch.
The restaurant is in an old building in downtown Franklin. Inside, the ambience is warm and inviting. Low lighting with candles on every table and high-back booths create an intimate setting for dinner. Preston holds my hand as we are led through the restaurant to a booth near the back of the room. He gestures for me to slide in first and then takes a seat next to me. The hostess shows us the wine list and says our server will be with us shortly. The entire time, she’s only speaking to me. She is all flirty smiles and twinkling eyes, like Preston doesn’t exist.
When she’s gone, I snap my menu open. “That was fucking rude.”
Preston turns to me. “What?”
“She was flirting with me right in front of you.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “I thought she was just being friendly. Guess I’m clueless.”
“It’s like she didn’t even see you there,” I say, folding the menu closed and glaring at the girl’s back. While in any other situation I might entertain her flirting, tonight I find it disrespectful.
“I know the feeling.” My eyes slide to Preston and are held in place by the intense look he’s giving me. “You’re all I see.”
Well, shit. I’m trying to be offended, and he says the most perfect thing. Preston gives me a smile, and it seems to make my anger break into tiny pieces and flutter away.
“You seem comfortable in this place,” I tell him, while resuming my perusal of the menu.
“I used to come here a lot.”
“Did you bring all your dates?”
Preston keeps his eyes on his menu and shakes his head. “No, Wren. I didn’t have dates. I ate alone.”
“No dates? Ever?” Preston shakes his head and drops his eyes to his menu. “How is that possible? You’re basically the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.”
He shrugs, never looking up. “I didn’t say there weren’t opportunities, just that I didn’t go on dates.” Finally, he meets my eyes. “I told you I was in exactly one relationship, and that ended up being a disaster. I’m just not boyfriend material.”
I put my menu down. “That doesn’t mean all relationships would be a disaster. You just have to find the right fit.”
“And are you the right fit?”
I think he’s joking, but it makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know what I want from Preston, and I’m not sure what we’re doing with each other. All I know is that in this moment, I want him. I’m not thinking about his disorder or me leaving Crowley one day. All I can think about is being with him.
“Hello, my name is Stephan, I will be your server tonight.” The waiter pauses, and once all eyes are on him, he continues. “The special tonight is a roasted duck breast with spring peas and a mint basil risotto. What can I get you to drink?”
“I’ll take a glass of the house cabernet,” I say.
“Just water for me, no ice.”
I frown at his choice. Without alcohol, our chances of getting physical tonight seem dismal.
“Great. May I suggest the fried spinach ravioli to start?”
“That sounds great, thanks,” Preston says. The waiter tells us he’ll be right back with our drinks and leaves. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask if you would like the ravioli.”
“No worries. It’s fine with me.”
Preston sighs and stares at the menu. “See? I’m not so great at dates.”
I set my menu down and place my hand on his thigh. “It’s just us, Preston. No rules. Relax and be your pretty self.”
He frowns. The shadows on his face make him look downright devilish—beautifully so. “Again with the pretty?”
“Always,” I answer. “So, since this is our official first date, does this mean we get to move past first base?” I slide my hand up his thigh, and his entire body stiffens.
Preston raises one eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?” The deep nature of his voice only encourages my behavior. I want to crawl into his lap and devour him.
“I figure we could at least hit a double and end up on third.”
The waiter returns with my wine and his water. “Have you made your selections for the evening?” he asks.
“Yes, I’ll take the carbonara,” I say.
“I want the lasagna,” Preston orders. “Just the lasagna on the plate. Side salad on a separate plate. Dressing on the side.”
“Of course, sir.” The waiter takes our menus and leaves us again.
I sip my wine and enjoy the warm feeling it creates in my belly. “Now what were we talking about?”
“Baseball,” Preston says with a sly smirk.
“Yes. Baseball,” I confirm. “It’s a thrilling sport. Don’t you think?”
“Eh. I think it’s kind of boring actually.” He is teasing me, the candlelight flickering in his eyes.
“You obviously haven’t had any decent teammates, then. I guarantee,” I say, curling my hand around his knee, “I can change your mind.”
Preston lifts his water glass and drains half of it. I do the same with my wine. A few moments later, our appetizer is delivered. We both dive in, which results in my hand leaving his body. While I use my fingers to grab the fried ravioli and dip it in the sauce, Preston uses his fork and knife to cut it into four equal size pieces. He spoons sauce onto each piece and eats them. I love watching his process, but I don’t stare. I don’t want to give him a complex about the little things that I adore.
He suddenly shifts, sitting taller and staring off into the distance. I can tell he’s not looking at anything in particular, just lost in his head. I begin to worry when he hasn’t moved for almost a minute.
“Preston?”
“I think I left my coffee pot on,” he says. “It could cause a fire if it’s empty. And I know it’s empty, because I washed it this morning.”
I chew and swallow my food, unsure how to respond. Everything I’ve read says to let him vent his worries and gently reassure him.
“So, if you haven’t made coffee since this morning, then you would have noticed it when you went home after work, right?”
Preston sighs and cocks his head. “You’re right.”
“I’m sure everything is fine.”
“How are you liking The Haystack?” he asks. His eyes connect with mine, but I can tell he’s still distracted.
“It’s fine. Just what I expected. Drunks and good ol’ boys.” I wipe my hands on my napkin and turn to him. “So, what’s normally on your schedule on Tuesday nights?” Preston looks away as if he’s ashamed. “Hey, I genuinely want to know.” I keep my voice soft and reassuring.
“I usually watch a movie,” he says.
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen a movie, a couple of years.”
“Really? What did you spend your time doing on the road?”
I finish off my wine and think about three years living life on the go. “Mostly traveling or trying to earn money for food. I left Crowley with a nice chunk of change, but it didn’t last long. I did whatever I could to survive. It wasn’t seedy or anything. Most of the time, I’d find a job earning cash for a week or two before moving on.”
“Wow. That’s really brave, Wren.” The admiration in his statement makes me smile.
“I don’t look at it that way. It was my life, and I was happy in it. Until I wasn’t.”
“Is that what brought you home?”
I slide my finger along the neckline of my dress and look down at my empty glass. “Sort of.”
The waiter delivers our food, and the smells of tomato and garlic capture my full attention.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asks.
Preston looks to me.
“Another glass of wine,” I say.
We abandon conversation, and I’m thankful for it. I was uncomfortable with where that topic was going. I eat my pasta and watch as Preston eats his salad. He picks out all the cherry tomatoes, eating those first. Then he eats the croutons. Last is the lettuce and cheese with just a touch of dressing. When that is finished, he slides the lasagna in front of him. I realize that I’ve abandoned my own food to watch him. It’s crazy how I find his habits endearing, how I love to watch him count boxes, organize records, and sanitize his hands.
“Are you going to watch me eat my entire meal?” he asks, lifting one eyebrow.
“No, sorry.”
I drop my eyes to my own plate and resume eating. The waiter brings my new glass of wine and refills Preston’s water. We barely pay attention to the food, so focused on each other and the palpable excitement between us. A touch here, a glance there, and I can barely contain myself.
“So, Preston-who’s-only-drinking-water, what’s your big plan?”
He swallows the bite he’s been chewing and sets his fork down on the edge of his plate. It’s then I notice that the white linen tablecloth in front of me is dotted with drops of wine and sauce while Preston’s area is pristine.
“My big plan?” he asks.
“Yes. For life. What do you want to do? Where do you want to go?”
He shrugs and meets my eyes.
“I’d like to travel. It’s difficult for me. But someday…” he says, letting his eyes fall to his lap.
“And?”
“And I want to do what I’m doing now. I want to continue to build things and give old objects new life. As strange as it may seem, I enjoy using my hands.”
With this, Preston raises his head, and his intense gaze is haunting in the low candlelight. One suggestive eyebrow is raised, and I’m reading him loud and clear.
“I enjoy you using your hands, too.”
Our matching grins lift the heaviness, and it’s all I can do not to climb in his lap and kiss him silly.
By the time our plates are cleared and my dessert delivered, I am a combustible mass of sexual tension. My insides hum and flutter at every glance, and when he rests his hand on my bare knee, I want to burst.
Instead, I use my fork to cut into my tiramisu and take a bite.
“Mmm. This is amazing.” This time Preston watches me eat. I cut another piece and hold my fork out to him. “You should taste it.”
A look of panic washes over his features before he takes a deep breath and blows it out. The fork and dessert hover between us, and I want to take it back and tell him never mind when his lips part and he leans forward. Preston’s eyes stay on mine as I slide the bite into his mouth and watch as his lips close around it. The stubble on his face—which seems to be permanent since I requested it—creates a lovely movement of shadow and light as he chews. I pull the fork out and celebrate this small victory.
I place my lips on his and taste the sweetness that lingers there. What starts out chaste slowly morphs into ravenous. Soon our lips part, and we are consuming each other. We are rum and custard and pent-up desire. Preston’s hand slides up my thigh, pushing the hem of my dress up. His long fingers curl around my leg, and I whimper into his mouth.
“Let’s get out of here,” I breathe.
Preston nods and signals for the waiter to bring the check. He only removes his hand from me when he has to sign the receipt. As soon as that’s done, we are out the door and on our way back to Crowley. In the truck, I lean in to his side and vow not to distract him while he’s driving, though every minute that proves more and more difficult to do.