Chapter Seventeen
Get Nervous
“Preston and I did just fine on our own yesterday, Bennie. You don’t have to be here.”
She shoots me a look and flips the sign over to open. “I’m very capable of working in my own store. I’m okay.”
“Fine.” I blow the overgrown bangs from my eyes. “But you will sit in this chair,” I say, pointing to the one behind the register. “And stay at the front counter. Preston and I will deal with customers.”
“I will do what I damn well please,” Bennie says, glaring.
I throw my hands on my hips and shake my head. “Stubborn.”
“I prefer the term strong-willed.”
“Everyone’s a critic of my choice of adjectives,” I say, rolling my eyes.
With a satisfied smirk, Bennie takes a seat in the chair, and we both ignore the fact that she did exactly as I asked. I pull a bottled water from her small fridge under the counter and set it next to her. She doesn’t acknowledge it.
“Stay hydrated and off your feet, strong-willed.” I leave her with her magazine and water.
In the afternoon, we get a steady stream of customers. Some are looking for furniture, some for music. Preston and I take turns helping them while we keep Bennie at the register. I can tell she’s annoyed, but I don’t care.
A group of guys around my age comes in. They’re loud and look a little lost. Preston keeps his distance and a close eye on them while rearranging furniture in the back of the store. I can tell from the set of his stiff shoulders that he is uncomfortable with their rambunctious behavior. I decide to see if I can hurry along their shopping.
“You guys need help finding something?” I ask.
“Actually, yes,” a tall guy with shaggy brown hair answers. He gives me a once-over—the kind that’s supposed to be inviting—but it just makes me feel dirty. “We’re looking for some eighties music for a throwback party we’re having tonight.”
“You want hair bands, punk, or pop?” They look at each other and shrug. “Come, boys. Let me take you to school.”
I lead them over to the second aisle and skim through the stacks. When I see a record they need, I pull it out and flip it over my shoulder.
“You’ll need this.” I pass them the quintessential eighties pop album, Michael Jackson’s Thriller. “And this.” Journey’s Greatest Hits follows. “And definitely this.” I hand them Poison’s Look What the Cat Dragged In, along with a few more necessary records.
When I’m done, I turn to find them divvying up the stack. Three of the guys head toward the front to pay, while Shaggy Hair lingers behind. He gives me a goofy grin, and I know what’s coming next.
“You seem like a down girl. You want to come to our party tonight? We could continue my music education.”
I grin, but shake my head. “Sorry. I have to work tonight.”
“Oh,” he says glancing toward the front of the store. “Are you guys open late?”
“Not here,” I clarify. “I’m a bartender at The Haystack.”
“Oh,” he repeats. “That’s too bad. Maybe another time. Thanks for the help.”
The guy jogs away to catch up with his friends, and I busy myself with straightening the stacks. I can feel him before I see him. Preston’s presence is not subtle.
“Hello, Preston-who-eavesdrops-on-conversations,” I say without turning to face him.
“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need any help.” His deep, possessive voice sends chills racing across the back of my neck. Every inch of my body is aware of his nearness.
“I know music, and I know this job.”
“I didn’t mean help with music,” he clarifies.
The door chimes, and I know our customers have left. I spin to find him only a few inches away. His intense eyes challenge my easygoing attitude.
“I know boys, too. I can handle them.”
“You seem like a down girl,” he says, mocking Shaggy Hair.
I’m about to respond to this when we’re interrupted.
“Wren!” Bennie yells. She’s speed walking down the middle aisle, waving something. She lowers her voice when she gets closer. “Wren, this came for you.” Her face is worried, and she’s panting. “It’s from him, isn’t it?”
“From who?” Preston asks.
I take the envelope from her and look at my name and address scrawled on the front. It is from Dylan. The contents are bulky and strange between my fingers. I hold it at arm’s length, unsure if I even want to open it. But I know I have to. Even with my pulse pounding and the panic in my head, I’m aware of Bennie’s and Preston’s eyes on me.
I turn my back to them and clutch the envelope to my chest. Squeezing my eyes shut, I find the strength to tear it open. I turn the envelope over and out slides a necklace. The charm lands in my hand, and I recognize it immediately.
“Here, baby. I got you something,” Dylan said. His voice was sweet. It was the voice he used after he had gotten violent. I think it was supposed to soothe me, but it only reminded me of the bruises left on my arms.
I didn’t look at him, but stared out the kitchen window. I abandoned the dirty dishes and my hands sat idle in the soapy water.
“Baby.” I didn’t respond. Instead, I blinked away tears before he could see them.
“Wren.”
Dylan’s body pressed into my back, and his hand appeared in front of me. Dangling from his fingers was a necklace. The charm was a bird in a cage.
“You like it?” he asked.
I nodded my head.
“Good. That’s you, baby. My little bird.”
Dylan draped the necklace around my neck and fastened it. His thick, rough fingers traced the line of the chain until his hand was wrapped lightly around my throat.
“My little bird in her cage. She won’t fly away.”
“He gave me this,” I say, turning to show Bennie. “I left it behind when I ran.”
“Ran?” Preston asks. There is an urgency to his question.
“It’s a birdcage,” Bennie says.
“A wren. Locked away,” I clarify.
Fear sinks through me, pulling me down to the floor. I drop the envelope and pull my knees against my chest. The pendant sits heavy in my grip, the edges cutting into my palm. I stare at the empty envelope, trying to decipher his message. I want to believe that he is just returning a gift, but I know better. This is a warning.
“What did you run from?” Preston asks, his voice louder and more demanding now.
I look up to find Preston’s beautiful face contorted. His brows are low over each eye, a deep V appearing between them. The muscles of his sharp jaw twitch. I open my mouth, but can’t find the words.
Internal noise makes it hard to concentrate. My pulse is pounding like thunder in my ears. Memories of bruised ribs and Dylan’s violent hands around my throat threaten to bring up my lunch. Bennie gives me a sympathetic look and turns to Preston. She tells him everything, all my dirty secrets. I should be angry with her for doing it, but I feel nothing but relief.
I hook my finger in the collar of my T-shirt and slide it back and forth. Preston’s hands curl into fists that he presses into his thighs. The muscles and tendons of his arms tighten into cords. He shakes his head slightly as Bennie tells him how I escaped. When she finishes, Preston presses each palm into his eyes. His shaking fingers slide through his hair and interlock behind his head as he blows out a breath. He has yet to look at me.
Bennie drops to her knees before me. She’s whispering my nickname and holding my face in her hands.
“The phone call, the postcard, and now this. Wrenie, what does it mean?”
I shake my head because I don’t have an answer for her. Over Bennie’s shoulder I watch Preston retrieve the envelope from the floor and study it. I wait for something, anything from him.
“He’s probably just fucking with me,” I say to Bennie. But my words don’t sound true.
“How dangerous is this guy?” she asks. With a silent look between us, I don’t have to give her an answer. She knows.
I glance to Preston, standing there, still holding the envelope in his hands. His expression is all anger and worry.
“Bennie said he’s from Buffalo,” he says. I’m confused. I nod as he hands over the envelope. “It’s postmarked from Cleveland.”
“What?” I flip it over and read it for myself. “He’s coming,” I say. My voice cracks, and I stand quickly. Bennie scrambles to get up and takes the envelope from me.
“We don’t know that,” she says, studying the postmark.
“Shit,” I say. “Shit!” I run my hands through my hair and try to think. “He’s coming here.”
“You should go to the police, Wren. Make a report. I’m sure they can do something,” Bennie begs.
I ignore her suggestion. What I don’t need is anyone else getting involved in my mess, especially Sawyer. I took care of it before, I’ll take care of it now.
“He’s coming for me.”
“He’s not going to fucking touch you,” Preston says. His voice booms over the soft music in the store.
Bennie and I turn toward him, our faces holding identical expressions of shock. Preston looks furious and a little bit scary.
“What?” I ask. I’m not sure why I ask or what I’m questioning.
Preston steps between us, Bennie totally eclipsed by his large form. We are so close he has to crane his neck to look down at me.
“No one will hurt you, Wren. I swear.”
There is a growling kind of rage in his tone, and his words sound like the truest statement I’ve ever heard. We stand there, exchanging breaths, until the current racing between us threatens to bubble over. I step back so I can clear my head.
“I’ve got to get ready for work,” I say. My eyes stay glued to the floor as I walk past both of them, pushing through the swinging door. I take the stairs two at a time and throw myself into the apartment. I don’t cry until I’m locked in my bathroom and under the spray of the shower. Here, my tears mix with the scalding hot water and disappear down the drain.
…
“Coach, can you hand me two Coronas and a Miller Lite?” I slide my tray onto the bar and wait while he loads it up. “Thanks.”
I drop off the drinks and check on my other tables before heading back to the bar where I find Sawyer parked on a barstool.
“Hey, Wren.”
“Officer Sawyer. What can I get you?” My eyes scan the rest of the bar, searching for his gang of cronies, but I don’t find them. The confession about Dylan sits on the tip of my tongue.
“A Stella and three fingers of Johnnie Walker.”
I busy myself grabbing his drinks and almost drop the bottle of Johnnie when I see Angela Louise emerge from the bathroom and sidle up next to Sawyer. Dylan is forgotten, and I can’t help the smile that pulls across my face. I place the Scotch in front of him and the beer in front of Angela.
“Thanks,” she says. Her eyes shift from me to her lap before grabbing her beer and downing half of it.
“My pleasure.”
“I’m just going to grab a table,” she all but whispers. Angela points over her shoulder and picks up her drink. Gone is the confident, snarky girl I talked to the other night. This one is quiet and unnecessarily nervous.
“Okay,” Sawyer answers. “I’ll be there in a sec.”
“That’ll be $13.” He hands me a twenty and tells me to keep the change.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.
I shake my head and wipe down the bar.
“I can’t believe you actually listened to me.”
“Well, it was the nice tits comment that sold me.” He gives me a grin. “No, but really, I figured if anyone would know me well enough to know what I like, it’d be you. I imagine you know me better than most of the assholes I call friends.”
Sawyer slaps the bar and tips his glass at me before joining Angela. I smile at his back. He’s right. I probably do know him better than anyone, but he doesn’t know me anymore, not the girl I am now.
The rest of my shift flies by. It’s last call and I head to the bathroom while Coach closes out tabs. I find Angela in the cramped space, applying a fresh coat of lip gloss.
“Hey,” I greet.
“Hi,” she says, meeting my eyes in the mirror.
“How’s it going?”
Angela spins and leans against the sink. “Umm, it’s as good as a first date can be, awkward conversation included. I mean, you assume that the guy you’ve always crushed on probably has some kind of terrible flaw or that he’s a jerk—a third nipple maybe. But Sawyer? He seems legit, pretty transparent. I don’t know about that nipple thing yet, though. Is it weird to be talking about this with you?”
I laugh and lean against the sink next to her, bumping her shoulder with my own. “It’s cool. Who do you think told him to ask you out?”
Her head whips toward me. “You?” I nod. “Well, thanks for that. I doubt I would have ever grown the balls.”
“Eww. Don’t grow balls. Then Sawyer will definitely not be interested.”
Angela laughs and drops her lip gloss back into her purse.
“Men are sometimes blind to good things right in front of them,” I say. I wash my hands before drying them on the seat of my shorts. “They just need a little nudge.”
Her smile is grateful, and I can’t help but return it. “Thanks for nudging, Wren.”
I pull the door open. “No problem. And by the way, there’s no third nipple.” Her laugh carries through the room and out the door before it closes behind me.
Coach and I close and clean up, both of us dead tired and ready to go. After a busy night, it’s nearly two thirty before I turn off the outside sign and exit through the front doors. Preston waits in his usual place, but tonight he’s not writing in his notebook. Instead, the screen of his phone lights up his pretty face in a silver-blue glow.
“Ready?” I ask.
Preston tucks his phone away and nods. “Yes. I’m exhausted.”
I can tell he’s freshly showered, though somehow he still smells like wood. That, mixed with his usual scent, makes me inhale deeper.
“I saw your ex leaving earlier,” Preston says as we walk side-by-side.
“Then you also saw Angela leaving with him.”
“I did. That was a nice thing you did, setting them up.”
“Eh. It was a little selfish, too. I knew Sawyer would keep pursuing me. He’s very persistent. I’m not available, so I had to distract him.”
Preston turns toward me, his pretty lips volleying between a smirk and frown. “Are you not available?”
“Not to him.”
The smirk wins out. “Noted. So, what are we doing, Wren?”
“We’re walking home,” I say, pointing to the empty road ahead of us.
“No. I mean, this…relationship. I know I’ve asked you before, and I know you don’t like labels, but I feel like things have changed between us. What is this?”
“I don’t know. I like you. What do you want it to be?”
He stops walking and reaches for my hand. We’re in between streetlights, so in the gray darkness, I can barely see his eyes searching mine.
“There’s the answer I want to give, and there’s the answer I think you can handle.”
“Maybe you underestimate me.”
He nods. “Maybe so.”
“Give it to me straight.”
“I want us to be a great love story, something this town talks about for years.”
My hand presses to my chest in an effort to calm my racing heart as I suck in a lungful of night air. I blink at him, truly stunned by Preston’s confession. This boy and his words undo me a little more every day. His eyes continue to search mine, gauging me for a reaction. Once again, Preston has put himself out there, made himself vulnerable, and I sit speechless. In a moment of clarity, I realize that his statement scares me, but my heart wants it to come true.
“Wow,” I say.
“Wow?”
“I’m not a poet like you, Preston. I don’t have words like that to tell you how I feel. But it doesn’t mean I don’t feel that way.”
He brings our clasped hands to his face and places six kisses on the inside of each wrist. Technically, it is Saturday.
“I don’t need words, Wren. Your smile is enough.”