Chapter Nine
Lungs
“Tell me something about young Preston,” I say. I stand across from the front counter while Preston leans against the register. Bennie is out for lunch, so it’s just us in the store. These are my favorite times with him. He’s more relaxed and uninhibited.
“I was a fat kid,” he says, giving me a smirk.
My eyes rake over his body, and I find that statement hard to believe. “You were not!”
Preston nods. “Yep. My mom would take me school shopping for pants, and I thought that ‘husky’ was an actual name brand. It took me years to realize it was a size.”
I laugh at this, not even trying to hide my amusement. “That is hilarious. Husky, Levi, and Calvin Klein—seems legit.”
He chuckles and moves to stand in front of me. Only the counter separates us.
“Your turn,” Preston says, his low voice strong and suggestive.
“I moved out of my parents’ house when I was sixteen. Lived in the apartment next to Bennie. Where you live now.” I lean over the counter, resting on my elbows. My hands lay flat out in front of me, as if reaching for him.
“Why?”
“My parents aren’t very good at being parents,” I confess, folding one of the flyers in half over and over until it’s a small rectangle. I feel his expectant eyes on me in this silence, and the need to share with Preston makes me continue. “They’d rather raise a flock of followers than children. I was a heathen sinner who refused to repent, and they were ashamed of me. And now that I’ve seen so much, I know that religion doesn’t have to be like that. I just think they have a better relationship with God than people, especially their own kids.”
He considers this for a moment and shakes his head. “My mom is great at being a mom. But not so great at dealing with my OCD.” His hands rest on the counter, only inches from mine. Preston’s fingers each tap once starting with the thumb and moving out to the pinky. He repeats this action again and again, and I’m transfixed by it. “Once I had a legitimate diagnosis and medication, she just couldn’t understand why I didn’t get better. She couldn’t deal. Sent me to therapists and programs to fix me. Ultimately, it’s why I went away to college.”
My hands cover his, and the tapping stops. We both stare down at the gesture, struggling to understand each other’s home life. He couldn’t comprehend my parents’ version of love, and I may never grasp the depth of his mother’s love for a boy she can’t “fix.”
“Do you still talk to her?” I ask.
“Yeah. Every couple of weeks. It’s better this way. I don’t blame her. We all have our burdens to bear.”
“You’re not a burden, Preston.”
“And you’re not a heathen, Wren.”
We exchange smiles, and I squash down the urge to climb over this counter and wrap him in my arms. What started out as a physical conquest is turning into something else. There’s more than a desire to sleep with him now—something else unexpected. I can’t explain it, but I want him to crave me the way I crave him. I want him to fixate on me instead of the obsessions that trouble him. Sometimes the look he gives me makes me feel that way. The things we don’t know about each other outnumber the things we do, but I want to work at changing that.
“I don’t even know your whole name,” I blurt.
“Preston Ray Charles,” he says, grinning.
There’s a long moment before my brain connects the dots.
“Wait, Ray Charles? As in the genius singer-songwriter Ray Charles?” I let out a loud guffaw and cover my mouth to try and hide it. “You’re kidding, right?” I say from behind my fingers.
Preston shakes his head. There’s a lightness in his eyes, a happy little glimmer that I’ve never seen before. And, of course, the sexy eye crinkles in each corner. He looks younger with this smile, carefree. It passes quickly and is replaced by his usual intensity.
“I figured you’d enjoy that.”
“Well, I got a woman, way over town that’s good to me,” I sing.
I giggle like an idiot when I finish the verse, and Preston just shakes his head.
“How do you even know that song? It came out before you were born.”
“I worked in a record store and have a much older sister.”
“Fair enough.”
“Plus, Kanye sampled it for his song ‘Gold Digger.’”
The bell chimes, and two girls walk in. They’re all smiles and cleavage, giving Preston a wave before heading to the first aisle. I’m invisible. Something inside of me finds that completely unacceptable.
“Friends of yours?” I ask him.
“Regular customers. They come in every couple of weeks.”
“To buy records or flirt with you?” I step around the counter and watch the girls glance over their shoulders at him.
Preston whips his head toward me and back to the girls.
“They’re buying records,” he says as if the thought of ulterior motives never occurred to him.
I take a seat in Bennie’s usual chair as Preston watches over the store. He stacks and straightens three piles of flyers on the counter and then rearranges them. He does it again and again, until finally forcing himself to stop. His shoulders are tense, his hands balled into fists, as the girls approach the register.
“Hi, Preston,” the blond girl says.
“Hi,” he answers, his voice clipped. They place one record on the counter. Preston doesn’t touch it. He rings up the purchase and tells them their total. The girls smile and race each other trying to pay him. He takes the blonde’s money, makes change, and drops it into her outstretched hand.
“There’s a new band playing at Mac’s in Franklin tonight. You coming?” the brunette asks. “We’re going to be there.”
Preston shakes his head but doesn’t say a word. I see his fingers wrap around a bottle of hand sanitizer beneath the counter. He’s trying to wait until they leave. I jump up from my chair and place my hand on his forearm. His whole body jerks from the contact, but then relaxes. I grab a paper bag and slide the purchased record into it and drop the receipt inside.
“We have plans tonight, ladies. But thanks for the invite,” I say, giving them a wave.
The two take their bag and exit quickly, frowns firmly in place. As soon as the door closes behind them, I finish my sentence.
“Whores.”
Preston squeezes the sanitizer into his hands and rubs them together with vigor. He runs his fingers over his forearms up to his elbows and back down. Somehow this show has become erotic. I slide my finger along the collar of my shirt and get lost in the sight of his hand porn.
“I thought you were working tonight,” he says without looking up at me.
“I am.”
“And why are they whores?” Amusement seeps into his tone, and I know I’ve been caught marking my territory.
“Anyway,” I say, not wanting to admit anything. I cross my arms and search my brain for something else to say.
“Stop doing that,” he says.
“What?”
“Playing with your collar. It drives me crazy.”
I smirk. “Hmm. Noted.”
“It’s like handing ammunition to the enemy,” Preston says, throwing up his hands.
I step toward him, curl my fingers into his front jeans pocket, and tug. Preston sucks in a breath and holds it.
“Am I the enemy, Preston-who-used-to-be-husky?”
He opens his mouth to speak just as the door chimes again. We pull apart and find Bennie looking back at us.
“Interrupting something?” she asks, pushing past and taking a seat in her chair.
I hop up onto the counter and cross my legs. My boots tap out a tune against the cabinet. “Not really. We were just talking.”
“I don’t normally stand so close to people when talking,” Bennie says.
“Yes, well, I wanted to make sure Preston could hear me.”
Preston’s head shifts back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match.
“I think he hears you loud and clear, Wren.”
“Uh, I’ll just get back to work,” Preston says before escaping to the far corner of the store.
We both watch him go, though I guarantee our thoughts on his departure are extremely different.
“What are you doing with him, Wren?”
I look at my shoes and the floor beyond. “We’re just hanging out. I like him.”
“I know he seems like a big, strong man, but he’s much deeper than that. You could ruin each other.”
I jump down and glare at her. “We all have issues. He’s just a guy. And he likes me, too. We’re not doing anything wrong.” She frowns at me, and her eyes find Preston across the store. “Are you more worried about me or him?” I ask.
“I’m just worried.”
“We’re adults. We can handle it. I won’t ruin him if that’s what you’re really trying to say.”
I march my way to the back of the store, past Preston, and up the stairs to the apartment. When I get inside, I swear I smell weed. Though that wouldn’t surprise me coming from Bennie. I flip through her personal record collection and find what I need. The intimate movements of sliding the vinyl from the cardboard sleeve, balancing it on the tips of my fingers, placing it on the turntable, lifting the arm and swinging it over, and finally lowering it down to find its groove, is a dance I know by heart. It’s the beginning of a relationship between the music and me. When the opening notes sound, my body sways. The lyrics wait on my tongue.
“Happiness hit her, like a train on a traaaaaaack.”
When the beat comes in, I clap my hands in time. Clap, clap. Clap. Clap, clap. Clap. The words flow from my lips as I dance around the coffee table.
My voice is lost beneath Florence and the Machine, but I don’t care. I feel lighter and lifted above the heavy thoughts in my head. Shaking my hips and spinning around, I dance across the living room singing my heart out. I let the music take me, hopping over the back of the couch and wrapping myself in Bennie’s curtains. When the tempo changes again, I throw them off and spin in circles until I’m dizzy.
“Wren.”
Preston’s voice makes me freeze in place. He’s standing between the kitchen and me, his face dark. My chest heaves from dancing, and we have this sort of standoff amongst motley furniture. He says something else, but I don’t catch it. I hold a finger up, asking him to wait, and move to turn the volume down.
“What?” I ask from across the room.
“I told Bennie I’d check on you,” he says. He looks uncomfortable here, his eyes scanning the room but always coming back to me. I’m North on his compass.
“I’m fine. Great, actually. Just blowing off some steam.”
“I can see that.” Preston’s voice is strained, and so is his zipper. When he notices me noticing, he purses his lips and steps behind the tall armchair.
“How much did you see?” I ask.
“One minute, seventeen seconds.”
I smile and make my way across the room. My face is burning, and I can’t believe this man can make me blush like a little girl.
“Was it a good minute and seventeen seconds?”
“The best.”
“Maybe one day I’ll give you another private dance. But for now I’ve got to get ready for work.”
Preston swallows and checks his watch. “I’ll just tell Bennie you’re fine. I mean hot—good. I mean you’re okay.” He walks through the kitchen and closes the door behind him.
“I am now.”
…
Friday nights at The Haystack are busy. It seems like the whole town is here. Some order their drinks and leave, some want to make small talk. They come to see for themselves that Wren Hart has returned to Crowley. I’m on display tonight, but that’s fine with me. My tips are providing motivation to return their smiles and fake that enthusiasm.
By closing time, I’m exhausted. Running around in these silver metallic wedges doesn’t hurt my tips, but they’re killing my feet. The only thing keeping them on is my fear of the filth on the barroom floor. I wipe down tables and flip over chairs while Coach counts the till. He splits our tips, and I throw the cash into my bag without counting it. It’ll be a nice addition to my growing stash.
“Love having you here, Wren. I’m getting too old to wait on all these drunks.”
“Glad to be here, Coach. It gives me money, keeps me occupied and out of trouble.”
He smiles. It’s a fatherly smile, comforting and genuine. It’s more than my own father has ever given me.
“All done. You can head out, kiddo.”
“Thanks,” I say, giving him a wave. I grab my bag and hobble to the front door. “See you tomorrow.”
This time when I turn toward the lot, I’m not surprised to find Preston here. Again, he’s scribbling in his notebook, the pencil making quick scratches across the page. I hate to interrupt.
“Almost done,” he says without looking up.
I nod even though he can’t see me. A minute later, he folds the notebook closed—pencil inside—and slides it into his back pocket. His tired eyes connect with mine. He looks defeated.
I tiptoe over to him and raise my hand so that he knows my intentions. I run my fingers through his hair, down his neck, and rest them on his shoulder. Preston closes his eyes and lets out a heavy sigh.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Just had a rough day.” His eyes are still closed. Like it’s easier to confess things when he can’t see me. “My mom called. It’s the same questions every time. ‘How are you?’ ‘How’s the job?’ ‘Are you still taking your meds?’ I know she loves me, but every call feels robotic, like she’s trying to keep her distance.”
“Maybe she thinks it’s what you need?”
“Maybe,” he says. “And then, some days my anxiety gets the best of me. Some days I see fungus growing in my laundry basket. I worry that the locking mechanism on my deadbolt is faulty. I see myself tripping over a curb and tumbling into traffic.” He runs a hand through his hair and stretches his neck. “We don’t even have traffic here.”
“What can I do?” I ask. My hand runs down his tense arm, and I squeeze his fingers.
Preston opens his eyes and looks down. His silvery gaze drills through me, down to my center.
“You’re already doing it.” Heat races to my cheeks and I smile. “Ready to go?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I take a few steps and wince from the damn shoes.
“What’s wrong?”
“These weren’t the best choice for footwear tonight.”
Preston trails his gaze over my body, past my black shorts and down my legs, finally landing on my shoes.
“I thought you looked taller tonight,” he says, giving me a light smile.
“Yeah, well, I may be taller, but now I have to walk like a newborn giraffe.”
He stares at me for a bit, until I start to fidget beneath his gaze. The muscles in his jaw twitch before he gives me a slight nod. Preston turns around and bends lower.
“Hop on. I’ll give you a ride.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
I step out of my shoes and throw them in my bag. Then I place my hands on his strong shoulders and hop up, wrapping my legs around his waist. I hear him groan as he hooks his arms beneath my knees to hold me up.
“What’s wrong? Am I too heavy?”
“Not even close. It’s just having you pressed against me is…”
He walks for a few minutes and never finishes his thought, though I’m sure I know where it was going. I love being wrapped around him. The feel of his hard muscles moving and flexing against me fills my mind with dirty thoughts. To distract myself, I point out houses of people he might know and order him through the park for a shortcut.
“Oh! I know what will make you feel better. It always works for me,” I say. “Climb up the water tower with me.” Preston stops moving. I hug myself closer to his back and direct his attention upward. “That’s where I go to get away, to think.”
“Uh, no thanks. I’m good on the ground.”
“Oh, come on. Are you scared of heights?”
“No, I’m scared of rusty metal screws, tetanus, a ladder that probably hasn’t been safety tested since the seventies, and falling to my death.”
“Let me down.”
Preston lets go of my legs, and I slide off. I walk to the ladder and climb about ten steps up before turning around. “See? It’s okay.”
“That’s far enough. You don’t even have shoes on. Can you please come down?”
Even from this height I can see his worried face.
“Please come down,” he whispers. It’s a sound so faint, the words barely reach me. But when they do, the pleading in his voice almost knocks me from my perch.
“Shit,” I mumble and hurry down the ladder. When I land in the grass, I dust off my hands on my shorts. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “You were already having a bad day, and I didn’t help things. I suck.”
Preston shakes his head. “I wish I could go up there with you, Wren. I wish I could follow you anywhere.”
When the cool night air makes my skin prickle, Preston notices.
“Let’s get you home.”
Preston continues my piggyback ride home, even carrying me up the stairs to our apartments. When we reach Bennie’s door, he sets me down gently. I’m anxious about leaving him alone for the night. I lift my hand, but don’t touch him. I want this to be on Preston’s terms.
He leans in, his lips a few inches from mine. Both of our eyes are still open and locked on each other. I close the gap between us.
This kiss is different. He’s running the show. He leads, and I follow. We are a mess of exploring hands and stuttered sighs between kisses. His tongue sweeps over mine, and I feel weakened by his taste. The hand that is on my waist shifts lower, sliding over my hip and around. He cups my ass and then curls his fingers around my thigh. Preston presses his body against me and lifts my leg around his body. I can feel how hard he is as we move and shift together in the dimly lit hallway.
“Preston, please,” I say when his lips move to my neck.
“What do you need, Wren?” he whispers. I run my hands over his flat stomach and up to the planes of his chest. His body is so firm beneath my touch. “What do you want?”
“You,” I say. He shifts his hips against me again, and I moan at the feel of his erection pressing against me. “Fuck, Preston.”
Suddenly, his hands are on the door behind me, and he straightens his arms. I am trapped between them as he looks down at me, hunger in his eyes.
“I can’t,” he says. “I mean, I can. I haven’t…” Preston pushes off the door and puts some space between us. His eyes avoid mine as he fights for his breaths. One hand makes a fist, and the other curls around it, squeezing until I hear his knuckles pop.
“You’ve never had sex?” My voice is high and too loud. I clear my throat. His head hangs low, his eyes on the floor between us. “Preston, are you a virgin?”
“I’m not a virgin. I’ve had sex,” he says. “But I’m usually so intoxicated I barely remember it. It’s the only way to fight off the shit in my head. How pathetic is that?”
“Hey,” I say, reaching for him. “It’s not pathetic. You’re sober now, and you’re fine, right?”
He takes a step back. “I need to go.”
“Preston, don’t run from me.”
“Good night.”
He turns, puts the key in the lock, and opens his apartment door. It closes with barely a sound.
“Preston,” I whisper. He doesn’t answer. I lean my forehead against the wood and listen as he locks the deadbolt again and again. I count eight times before I give up and go inside.