Slammed

his own lame attempt at flirting.
     
    "Oh yeah?" I say. I'll call his bluff. "What's it called?"
     
    "It's The Avett Brothers," he says. "I call it 'Gabriella,’ but I think it's the end to one of their 'Pretty Girl' songs. I love the end of this one when they break out with the electric guitars."
     
    His response to my question startles me. He really does know this. "You like The Avett Brothers?"
     
    "I love them. They played in Detroit last year. Best live show I've ever seen," he says.
     
    A rush of adrenaline shoots through my body as I look down at his hand, still holding onto mine, still holding onto the volume button. I like it, but I'm mad at myself for liking it. Boys have given me the butterflies before, but I usually have more control over my susceptibility to such mundane movements.
     
    He notices me noticing our hands and he lets go, rubbing his palms on his pant leg. It seems like a nervous gesture, and I'm curious if he shares my uneasiness.
     
    I tend to listen to music that isn’t typically mainstream. It’s rare when I meet someone that has even heard of half the bands I love. The Avett Brothers are my all time favorite, though.
     
    My father and I would stay up at night and sing some of the songs together as he attempted to work the chords out on his guitar. He described them to me once. He said, "Lake, you know a band has true talent when their imperfections define perfection ."
     
    I eventually understood what he meant when I started really listening to them. Broken banjo strings, momentary passionate lapses of harmony, voices that go from smooth to gravelling to all out screaming in a single verse. All these things add substance, character and believability to their music.
     
    After my father died, my mother gave me an early present he had intended to give me for my eighteenth birthday—a pair of Avett Brothers concert tickets. I cried when she gave them to me, thinking about how much my father was probably looking forward to giving me the gift himself. I knew he would have wanted me to use them, but I couldn’t. The concert was just weeks after his death and I knew I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it. Not like I would have if he were with me.
     
    "I love them too,” I say unsteadily.
     
    "Have you ever seen them play live?" Will asks.
     
    I’m not sure why, but as we talk, I tell him the entire story about my dad. He listens intently, interrupting only to instruct me when and where to turn. I tell him all about our passion for music. I tell him about how my father died suddenly and extremely unexpectedly of a heart attack. I tell him about my eighteenth birthday and the concert we never made it to. I don't know why I keep talking, but I can't seem to shut myself up. I never divulge information so freely, especially to people I barely know. Especially to guys I barely know. I'm still talking when I realize we’ve come to a stop in a grocery store parking lot.
     
    "Wow," I say as I take in the time on the clock. "Is that the quickest way to the store? That drive took twenty minutes.”
     
    He winks at me as he opens his door. "No, actually it's not."
     
    That's definitely flirting. And I definitely have butterflies.
     
    The snow flurries start to mix with sleet as we're making our way through the parking lot. “Run,” he says. He takes my hand in his and pulls me faster toward the entrance.
     
    We’re out of breath and laughing when we make it inside the store, shaking the wetness from our clothes. I take my jacket off and shake it out when his hand brushes against my face, wiping a strand of wet hair away that's stuck to my cheek. His hand is cold but the moment his fingers graze my skin, I forget about the frigid temperatures when my face grows warm. His smile fades as we both stare at each other. I’m still trying to become accustomed to the reactions I have around him. The slightest touch and simplest gestures have such an illicit effect on my senses.
     
    I clear my throat and break our stare as I grab an available cart next to us and hand him the grocery list.
     
    “ Does it always snow in September?” I ask in an attempt to appear unfazed by his touch.
     
    He lays his jacket across the side of the shopping cart. “No, it won’t last more than a few days, maybe a week. Most of the time the snow doesn’t start until late October," he says. "You’re lucky.”
     
    “ Lucky?"
     
    "Yeah. It’s a pretty rare cold front. You got here right in