Preston's Honor Read online

  “I came to see if you were okay.”

  I furrowed my brow, pressing my lower back against the high table. “How’d you know where I was?”

  He looked to the side with interest, glancing at the dispenser mounted on the wall that sold miniature boxes of laundry soap as if he’d never been inside a Laundromat before. God, he probably hadn’t been. When he looked back at me, he said, “I stopped by your house. Your mom told me you were here.”

  What? A feeling of horror moved up my spine. I swallowed. “You . . . stopped by my house? How did you . . . know where I live?” Oh God, I didn’t even want to know how my mama had greeted him. I actually couldn’t picture it. What would she have done when opening the door and finding Preston Sawyer standing there? Had she been nice to him? Had he seen inside? Oh God.

  “I’ve known where you live since we were kids.”

  “Oh.” I swallowed. “Does . . . Cole know, too?”

  There was a small tic in his jaw and he suddenly seemed to be watching me more closely than usual. “Not that I know of.”

  I nodded, thankful for that. “My mom, she . . . she doesn’t speak English. I mean, hardly at all.”

  “She knows the word Laundromat.” He let out a breath, a look of annoyance passing over his features. He shook his head slightly as if we’d gotten off track somehow. “You haven’t been at school.”

  I paused, trying to get my bearings. “No. I didn’t see any reason.” I frowned, gripping the table behind me. “You came all the way here just for that? Just to see why I hadn’t been in school?” Despite my embarrassment in him being anywhere near my house, a sudden warmth moved in my chest. It felt good to know he’d worried over me.

  Preston studied me and my stomach flipped at the intense scrutiny of his gaze. He stepped forward slowly, decreasing the amount of space between us until he was right in front of me. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” His voice sounded slightly scratchy as if some strange emotion had stuck in his throat. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about what happened, Lia. Alicia acted like a total bitch and everyone knows it. No one’s saying anything mean about you. I won’t let them. And neither will Cole.”

  I released a harsh breath, looking down at my feet for a moment before meeting his eyes again. “Preston . . . neither of you have to do that. You didn’t have to cancel your prom date.”

  A brief expression of hurt passed over his face before it settled into what looked like irritation again. “Yeah, I’m aware of what I have to do and what I don’t.”

  I pressed my lips together. “What I’m saying is, you don’t have to be my champion like some older brother. I never, ever wanted that. I avoid you and Cole in public specifically so you don’t feel obligated to include me or defend me or whatever might come up by me hanging around you and your friends.”

  “Obligated?” His jaw ticked and he looked angry. “Is that what you think?”

  “I . . . I don’t think you feel that way, but . . .” I don’t want you to have to. I don’t ever want to be a burden. I never want you to look at me the way my mama always has. I couldn’t stand it. “It’s just that we live such different lives.”

  I shook my head slightly, staring over his right shoulder, voicing the least of which he must already know. If he hadn’t known the extent of it before, he certainly did after visiting my house tonight. “Anyway, you should enjoy your last bit of time here. You and Cole are going away to college in just a few short months—”

  His shoulders seemed to sag in some incremental way that had less to do with movement and more to do with a sudden shift in mood. Was he nervous about going away to college? He must be—Preston loved this land as much as I did, maybe even more since his roots were generations deep. I had the love, and he had the addition of pride.

  “Are you going to miss Cole?” he asked. His voice was gentle though his body was still rigid. The question confused me for a moment when my mind had been going in a different direction. Was I going to miss Cole? I hadn’t seen Cole since that day at school either—had purposely stayed away from any other soul except my mama. I bit at my lip trying to answer the question inside my head before saying anything to him. For a second I considered asking Preston what he thought about Cole and I going on a couple of dates. For a second I hoped that he’d tell me he hated it. But then I remembered the way Preston had willingly turned back when Cole told him he was going to ask me out, and I realized I already had my answer: he was fine with it. He didn’t want me.

  “I’m going to miss both of you.” Mostly you, Preston. And I wish that wasn’t true because I don’t think you’re going to miss me back, at least not in the same way.

  He seemed to relax slightly, letting out a long sigh and massaging the back of his neck. While his gaze was directed away, I allowed my eyes to move down his body, taking in the way his long-sleeved T-shirt clung to the lean muscles of his chest, the way his shoulders were so broad and his hips narrow. The strength of his long, jean-clad legs, and how tall he was.

  He dropped his hand and met my eyes again, studying me for a moment as if trying to determine what was going on in my mind. He still looked a little troubled, and I wished he didn’t. It’d been nice of him to come all the way here to check on me, though I hated that he knew where I lived and had possibly even glanced inside. But he was here, right in front of me, and he wouldn’t be for long. My soul ached with the need to touch him before I no longer had the chance.

  He was going to go off and live his life and meet new people, maybe even fall in love, and I was going to be here, finding what joy I could in the earth and the sky and warm Laundromats—small joys within the parameters I’d been given—but mostly, mostly just existing and trying to get by day by day by day.

  An intense wave of need to make the most of what might be our last moment rose inside, drowning my usual reticence and the words fell from my lips, “We could . . . dance.” I blinked, holding my breath for a few seconds before releasing it in a barely controlled exhale. “So you can at least dance just once on the night of your senior prom. Especially since I’m kind of the reason you’re missing it.” The final words faded into nothing, my heart pounding in my ears.

  He stared at me, his eyes darting to my mouth, and then quickly back to my eyes. He looked slightly startled and backed up a step, opening his mouth as if to say something and then closing it again. “I . . . no. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  I stared at him for a second, feeling a cold sinking in my stomach at being turned down, at the way he was moving away from me as if he didn’t want to be near me. Didn’t want to touch me.

  Oh. Oh God.

  Realization dawned. Of course. I’d almost forgotten about the bedbugs. I felt suddenly nauseated. Of course he wouldn’t want to get close to me. What had I been thinking? He had defended me before Alicia, but he was still revolted by me. There had been a moment of kindness in his eyes—how he’d used to look at me—but now it was gone. He was gone. “Okay,” I whispered. I turned abruptly and began stuffing the rest of my laundry into the bag.

  “Lia.”

  I ignored him, continuing to put the piles haphazardly away. My hands were shaking though, and I dropped a stack of pants, a tiny sobbing sound coming up my throat. I started bending to pick them up, but I felt Preston’s hands on my arms and then he had stepped right up to me and I felt the warmth of him at my back. “Lia,” he repeated.

  The one word, spoken with so much intensity, lashed at my heart, causing the loneliness I’d felt inside most of my life—and certainly more so in the last couple of weeks—to come barreling at me as if it would knock me straight to the ground. Only his body, the solid wall of it, kept me from hitting the floor.

  I leaned back against him, weak with the emotional impact, going limp as he wrapped his arms around me from behind. “I’m not . . . I’m not dirty. I made sure—”

  “Stop,” he growled against my ear. “There’s nothing, nothing dirty about you.”

  My racing heart steadied, a
nd my ragged breathing calmed. He was holding me, and it felt so good. The need for human contact overwhelmed me and though I knew I should step away and compose myself, I couldn’t. Instead, I pressed backward, into his body and allowed myself to enjoy it. Just for a minute. Just a small sliver of joy. Just one memory of being in Preston’s arms.

  After a minute or so, he turned me around and pulled me back into his chest, wrapping his arms around me again in a strong embrace. Oh, my heart sighed.

  I gripped the material of his T-shirt at his back and turned my cheek into his shoulder, letting out a shuddery breath and then inhaling the comforting smell of him—soap and that same faint saltiness I associated with him, and only him. Preston.

  He was murmuring my name and running his hands up and down my back. After a minute I pulled away slightly to look up at him, though I could have stayed that way forever. He was gazing down at me and his face was cast in the overly bright lighting of the Laundromat, the masculine lines of his bone structure made sharper by the harshness of the incandescent bulbs, the shadow of hair under the skin of his jaw made more obvious. There was something so manly about him right then and I stared, mesmerized. When had he lost the last vestiges of boyishness and become a man? Or was it me, overly aware of his masculinity pressed up against him like this?

  I had a momentary flashback to the time we’d sat in the town square eating ice cream. I’d wondered then when he’d started losing the look of childhood. And now, I was staring at him again and he’d graduated into manhood.

  Part of my love for Preston was like a slow-moving river that had gained breadth and speed over time. And another part came in short bursts of white-hot lightning, marking the very moments when the love in my heart had charged and intensified. And I knew this would be one of those flashes, one of those moments burned into my memory, and even possibly, the last one I’d ever get.

  “Lia,” he said yet again and his voice was low and throaty.

  My body stilled and the moment itself seemed to freeze as we both stared at each other, our chests rising and falling against the other’s. His eyes moved to my mouth again and I felt my lips part. For a breathless second I wondered if he might kiss me, wondered if those quick glances at my mouth meant he was considering it. But then his eyes snapped to mine and he moved back slightly. “I—”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, dropping my arms. “I’ve gotten your shirt wet.” I pointed toward the wet mark near his shoulder where the tears I hadn’t even realized were falling had soaked through the fabric.

  He glanced down distractedly, but didn’t comment. Didn’t seem to care. He watched me for a second.

  I shifted on my feet, feeling embarrassed and emotional and drained, confused and fifteen, and like I desperately needed someone to answer all my questions about life and love and the aching throb in my heart that never seemed to go away.

  “I’d like to take you up on that dance if you’re still offering.”

  “What?”

  “The dance. This is my favorite song.”

  I blinked, pulling myself back to reality, to the bright Laundromat with music piping softly through the speakers.

  I paused and then looked down, biting my lip and laughing softly. “Your favorite song is ‘Stuck on You’ by Lionel Richie?”

  He nodded. “I’m a big fan of the eighties.” His expression remained serious but his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.

  Something fluttery moved between my ribs and I couldn’t help smiling back, though he hadn’t exactly given me a smile. I took a deep breath, my shoulders relaxing as I gazed into his earnest eyes. “I’d love to.”

  We both stepped toward each other at the same moment and laughed when we collided gently, and whatever tension had been there seemed to ease.

  He wrapped his arms around me and we began to dance slowly under the bright lights. He tightened his grip around my waist and spun me when the chorus came on. Surprised, I laughed and gripped him tighter, joyful delight expanding my chest. He sung softly in my ear about a midnight train and a feeling down deep in his soul, and I could feel the smile on his lips against my cheek and it filled me with dreamy happiness.

  We moved together again, and my heart was beating triple time at the closeness of our bodies, the awareness of every part of him pressed directly against me, and the giddiness of discovering this new playful side of Preston, one I’d only ever glimpsed.

  We swayed and something about moving as one that way felt so incredibly intimate. I’d never danced before and now I understood why it might lead to . . . more.

  The tension between us built again, only this time the undercurrent was different—warm and exciting. My body felt heated in a way I’d never experienced, my breasts heavier as they pressed against the solidness of Preston’s chest. My nipples hardened and I blushed at my own body’s reactions, wondering if he felt it, wondering if he knew. Would it make him uncomfortable if he did?

  His hand gripped mine and his breathing seemed to increase. My brain clouded slightly and I felt off balance and again, had the sensation that the only reason I was standing was because Preston was holding me up.

  I tilted my head back and gazed up at him to find him already staring down at me. His stare was intense, but then Preston’s stare was usually intense.

  The moment of lighthearted singing had passed and moved to something else—something I wasn’t experienced enough to name. I wanted to know if he was feeling the same things I was, if maybe things were changing between us. But I was too shy and insecure. I didn’t know how to ask, couldn’t risk my far-too-tender heart to rejection.

  He stepped back, letting go of me and jarring me out of my own foggy thoughts. I felt the loss of his body heat as harshly as I felt the loss of the connection I’d felt so strongly.

  “I should go.”

  “You . . . you don’t have to.” My smile was shaky. “The eighties never end here.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, not reacting to my attempted joke. “Yeah. I do.”

  Cold achiness settled in my bones, extinguishing the warmth I’d been feeling. Oh God, he hadn’t been feeling the same things I had. I had been wishing this moment could last forever, and he was ready to end it.

  “And you should get home,” he said. “I’ll give you a ride.” He looked around, frowning slightly. “This doesn’t seem like the safest place for you to come by yourself.”

  He spoke as if he were a father or an older brother, and I wrapped my arms around my waist, realizing that’s exactly how he saw me. A little sister. Someone to look out for. Someone to dance with for a few minutes and wipe away her tears. The kid who’d been following on his heels since she was barely out of training pants.

  Cole kissed me, but all Preston ever wanted was to protect me.

  I didn’t take his protective nature lightly. I’d always appreciated it so much, but suddenly I hated it with the burning heat of a thousand suns. It meant he didn’t want me. I brought my chin up and forced a smile. “Well, thank you for checking on me. Thank you for coming out here.”

  He nodded once, rubbing his hands together. I reached down and gathered the pants I’d dropped and pushed them into the bag, along with the other things I’d folded, the few unfolded items, and my paperback. Preston picked up the heavy bag from the counter, and I followed him outside to his truck.

  There was no point in asking him to drop me off somewhere other than my house. He’d already seen it. We rode in silence and though I tried to think of something to say, something that might bring back the easy rapport we’d had as we danced in the Laundromat, I couldn’t think of anything. All too soon, he was pulling to the side of the dirt road next to my house and I looked over at him.

  I wasn’t sure why, but when I thought about our friendship, I realized he’d been pulling away for a while. The last time we’d sat and talked quietly together, had been the day I gave him the other half of my sea glass heart. “Someday I’m going to leave here, but a part of my heart is go
ing to remain. With you.” Mine was wrapped in a small piece of cloth and kept under my mattress. He’d probably thrown his away, never to think of it again. Now he was going to leave here, and a part of my heart would go with him, even though he clearly didn’t want it. I missed my friend.

  “Thank you, Preston.” For being my friend once, for giving me my first dance, for watching over me. It was all I had. It would have to be enough.

  He paused for the breath of a moment and then his lips tipped up slightly, too, looking more like a strange grimace in the dim light of his truck. “Goodnight, Lia,” he said.

  I paused for a second, waiting—hoping—he might say more, but he didn’t, so I grabbed my laundry bag and hopped down, shutting his door behind me and walking quickly inside, not looking back.

  I didn’t hear his truck pull away until after I’d shut the door of my house behind me. My mama was already sleeping. I dropped the laundry bag on the floor and curled up on my air mattress.

  “Annalia.” My mama’s voice drifted to me from the other side of the room, though she was turned toward the wall.

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “You don’t open your legs for the boys.” She spoke in broken English and I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it had something to do with Preston coming by. Maybe it was the first time she realized I lived in two worlds—one in Spanish, and one in English. Perhaps she was trying to relate to me in the world that she was warning me about. Whatever it was, it embarrassed me, and I felt heat rise in my face.

  My mama had never talked to me about boys. For a second I almost sat up, desperate to ask her all the questions I wanted answers to so badly. But the words stuck in my throat as so many of my words did. I didn’t know how to start, not with my mama, and so I relaxed my muscles, sinking back down onto my bed. “No, Mama.”

  She paused for a second before she spoke again. “Rich boy only want one thing from nobody girl.”

  Nobody girl. There wasn’t malice in her tone, just weariness. Her words, as usual, had been harsh, and I wondered if there had been something lost in translation. The few times she’d attempted to speak English to me, she’d chosen words that weren’t exactly what she meant.