Chaos and Control

by Season Vining

  I nod, but don’t let go of him. My mind reels with everything that’s happened. The night that Dylan showed up, Bennie lost her battle with cancer. While I fought for my life at the top of that water tower, Bennie slipped away peacefully in her sleep. No more pain, no more suffering, no more secrets between us.

  After hours of relaying my encounter with Dylan to the police—including off-duty Sawyer—we practically crawled back to the apartment and fell into my bed together. It wasn’t until the next day, when I woke at noon, and went to tell Bennie what happened, that I found her. She looked so serene and free, a book pressed open on her stomach to mark her place, a story that would never be finished.

  There were too many emotions in that moment. Too many thoughts and feelings when you realize someone you love is gone. Anger came first, selfish anger at what I had lost and what she was robbed of. It was easy to dwell in that anger; it kept the crushing sadness away. But I couldn’t hold on to it forever.

  In the kitchen, pinned to the fridge with an AC/DC magnet, I found a note.

  Wren,

  I’m so happy that you and Preston made up. He is good for you and you for him. Plus, you know I love being right. Let’s go get our tattoos tomorrow! See you on the flip side.

  Bennie

  Preston ushers me back to the apartment. He pulls Bennie’s favorite Simon & Garfunkel album from its sleeve and places it on the turntable. His movements are slow and reverent, and in the dusty stillness of this room, beautiful. Still in our funeral clothes, I pull him into bed with me. He holds me while I cry. And again when I scream at the unfairness of life and death. In this moment, he is the only thing holding me together when I feel like my world is unraveling.

  Bennetta was of the earth

  Made in the Midwest

  She walked clouds

  She fell up

  She grew gardens of pinwheels

  Bennetta was filled with music

  Flat and vinyl

  She sang with colors

  She danced asleep

  She played it for everyone

  Bennetta was a snowflake

  Rich in design

  She turned counterclockwise

  She talked silently

  She made us all believe in magic

  Bennetta was

  - Preston

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Transference

  I stand on the sidewalk and watch as the old vinyl sign comes down. It’s a bittersweet end and an exciting beginning. Preston wraps me in a hug and rests his chin on top of my head. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes, and I don’t want to wipe them away. I let them carve trails down my face. This is my war paint, my strength.

  The crew hoists the new sign into place, and Preston squeezes me so tight.

  “Bennie’s,” I say, reading the bold letters aloud. “Conformity looks good on you, Ben.”

  “It’s perfect,” Preston agrees. “Are you ready to open the doors tomorrow?”

  I sigh and turn in his arms, looking into the face that has been my saving grace for the past four months. Preston has been the glue holding me together and forcing me to keep going. After losing Bennie, it felt like I was alone, drowning in this heartbreaking sadness.

  After being notified that no charges would be filed in Dylan’s death, my first instinct was to run, to hit the road and put this town and all its memories to my back. I thought it would be easier to cut ties with this life. But I realized that I could never leave Preston. Just like I am his medicine, he has become mine.

  “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I still can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “We,” he corrects. “We’re doing this.”

  I turn in his arms and kiss him eight times, because it’s Thursday.

  “Yes. We. Me and you.”

  “Hmm. I like how that sounds,” he answers, returning my kisses, and making the last one count.

  “Stop trying to distract me,” I whisper against his lips, though my protest is half-hearted. “You know we’ve got work to do.”

  “Work shmerk.”

  “Who are you and what have you done with Preston Charles?” I ask.

  He gives me the lopsided smirk that I love. “I’ve hidden him away, along with the world-traveling Wren Hart. Come on, boss.”

  I frown at him. “We’re partners. No bosses.”

  Preston grabs my hand and pulls me across the street, inside our new store. There is still a large section of vinyl. It’s been combed over and whittled down to the best of the best. Half the store is filled with Preston’s refinished furniture. The rest of the space holds art from some locals and tons of vintage finds. Preston and I have become experts at locating these treasures at internet stores. I’m a beast at online bidding.

  I run my hand over the new front counter that Preston built and step behind it as he starts some music. I smile at the sound of Spoon, “Nobody Gets Me But You.” From this spot, I can see the entire store, including my pretty man perfecting the placement of each piece of furniture. I smile as I watch him move something a few inches, only to move it back seconds later. His muscles move and flex beneath his T-shirt, and the sight still gives me warm fuzzy feelings inside.

  We work all afternoon in the store, making sure everything is perfect for the grand opening. When Preston is satisfied, we head upstairs to Bennie’s old apartment. It looks completely different now—more me than Bennie—with Preston’s organization and cleanliness. Though we did leave little pieces of Bennie here and there. On the rough days, it’s these little pieces that bring a smile to my face.

  I toe off my shoes and leave them by the door so Preston can complain about them later. Slumping down in a kitchen chair, I watch while he locks the deadbolt six times. He washes his hands in the sink, soaping up to his elbows, and again, I’m entranced. I stand and sneak over to him.

  “I’m feeling particularly dirty,” I whisper, sliding between Preston and the sink.

  He presses his body against my back, trapping me, before reaching around and turning the water back on. His hands wrap around my forearms and guide them under the water. Then he adds soap and begins to massage it into my skin. Preston’s large hands slide around in the soap over my arms, his thumb tracing Bennie’s signature tattoo on my wrist. He laces our fingers together and brings us both back under the water, rinsing everything clean.

  “You’re all wet,” he says before placing eight kisses on my neck and handing me the towel.

  I laugh at him and open the fridge to try to find us some food. I grin, surprised at how happy I am in this life that I could have never imagined.

  After a quick dinner, Preston showers and heads into the living room. When I step out of the shower, I wipe the mirror clear and take a good look at myself. My hair is growing out, and I’m loving the way the lavender color clings to the tips. My cheeks are fuller, my curves filled out. I’ve even got some muscle definition from working out with Preston. I have survived violence and heartbreak and grief. I am stronger because of this. I am unrecognizable compared to the girl I was a year ago. That girl was a victim, a possession, lost and in search of something that was right here at home.

  I hear Bon Jovi’s “Bad Medicine” start up and smile at my reflection. Preston likes to play this when he thinks I need reminding of who I am. It is his “I love you” and so much more.

  A couple hours later we lay in bed together panting, sweaty, and satisfied.

  “I love that I don’t have the urge to wash you off my skin,” he whispers.

  “I love that, too.”

  Preston slides his hand across my belly and pulls me back against his chest. His nose skims down my neck before he places ten kisses on my shoulder.

  “I thought it was eight on Thursdays,” I murmur, trying to resist the pull of contented exhaustion.

  “It’s after midnight.” His hot breath fans over my skin, and a chill races down my spine. “Ten on Fridays.”

  I hum in approval and press my lips to P
reston’s bicep curled beneath my head. Tomorrow, I will open a store and begin a new life with the man that I love. This is our adventure, one that keeps me right here in Crowley. And I’ve never been happier.

  “I’m so in love with you,” he says into my hair.

  “I love you, too.”

  “And I’m so grateful you found your way home.”

  I curl into him further and close my eyes.

  “I’m glad you were here waiting for me.”

  A late afternoon of dust mites and vinyl and then

  She walks in

  Not just a she as in the female form, but a she as in

  There is nothing else

  This girl stands in vibrant colors and sharp lines against

  A blurred background

  The afternoon sun pushes through glass just to

  Seek her out

  Short hair frames that face like lilac feathers

  A pretty bird

  One look and I have forgotten myself, my habitual habits

  Dropped like baggage at my feet

  She is all appraising eyes and anarchist clothes

  Holding my heart

  The delicate way she handles it, fingertips and edges, I know

  She loves me

  Her words say I am pretty, the fire in her gaze

  Says something else

  My body responds, every muscle pulled tight in its

  Effort to stay put

  Like a ghostly hallucination that I often dream of

  She stays tucked into my side

  I am left with my first perfect obsession, reeling

  In her wake

  - Preston

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  Acknowledgments

  This book is a prime example of art inspiring art. One day, a video showed up in my Facebook feed that would stay with me for days. Neil Hilborn’s performance of his poem “OCD” left me speechless and also became my muse. His passion, his words, his real-life experience all paint an emotional picture of what it’s like to live with OCD, especially in a relationship.

  But Neil is only one person. This disorder takes on many forms and affects everyone differently. I want to thank the few people who were willing to show the good and the bad sides of living with OCD to me. You are more than research. You are an inspiration. Your strength and willingness to share your struggle with the world is admirable.

  As always, thank you to my tribe: Bridget, Lindsey, and the Fuckery Book Club, who fix my rambling words, call me on clichés, and do so with love. Deputy Kristi Nugent gets major props for being my consultant on all things lawful (and unlawful).

  A big shout-out goes to my agent, Rachel, who keeps her pimp hand strong.

  Thanks to Alexa for being my cheerleader and Stacy for taking a chance on this story.

  Lastly, I want to thank my family for putting up with an absentee girlfriend, daughter, aunt, sister, and mom while I worked to write the best story I could.

  About the Author

  Season Vining grew up in southern Louisiana, where food, culture, and family mean everything. She has lived in Houston, San Diego, and NYC—all of them providing colorful experiences and future writing material. She is a graphic designer by day, a complete font snob, and enjoys all forms of art. Her obsessions include live music, tattooed bad boys, vintage cars, and people who know the difference between their, there, and they’re. Season is a new mom to the cutest kid on the planet. She is the author of contemporary romance and romantic suspense novels—hot stories with heart.

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