Chance Encounters (25 page)

“It’s fine,” I say, pulling my sleeve down over my shoulder. “I can get it.”

He opens a bandage as I wipe the blood off the wound. “So, what were you doing outside in your pajamas at seven o’clock in the morning?” he asks. “Are you guys still unloading?”

I shake my head and toss the napkin into the trash can. “Coffee.”

“Oh. I guess you aren’t a morning person.” Will says this as more of a statement than a question.

As he moves in closer to place the bandage on my shoulder, I feel his breath on my neck. I rub my arms to hide the chills that are creeping up them. He adheres it to my shoulder and pats it.

“There. Good as new,” he says.

“Thanks. And I 
am
 a morning person,” I say. “
After
 I get my coffee.” I stand up and look over my shoulder, pretending to inspect the bandage as I plot my next move. I already thanked him. I could turn and walk out now, but that would seem rude after he just helped me. If I just stand here waiting on him to make more small talk, I might look stupid for 
not
 leaving. I don’t understand why I’m even contemplating basic actions around him. He’s just another inhabitant!

When I turn around, he’s at the counter pouring a cup of coffee. He walks toward me and sets it on the bar in front of me. “You want cream or sugar?”

I shake my head. “Black is fine. Thanks.”

He’s leaning across the bar watching me as I drink the coffee. His eyes are the exact same hue of deep green as his mothers are from the picture. I guess he did get a feature from her. He smiles and breaks our gaze by looking down at his watch. “I need to go, my brother’s waiting in the car and I’ve got to get to work,” he says. “I’ll walk you back. You can keep the cup.”

I look at the cup before taking another sip and notice the big letters emblazoned on the side. 
World’s Greatest Dad
. It’s the exact same cup my father used to drink coffee from. “I’ll be okay,” I say as I head toward the front door. “I think I’ve got the whole walking erect thing down now.”

He follows me outside and shuts his front door behind him, insisting I take his jacket with me. I pull it on over my shoulders, thank him again, then head across the street.

“Layken!” he yells just as I’m about to walk back inside my house. I turn back toward him and he’s standing in his driveway.

“May the force be with you!” He laughs and hops into his car as I stand there, staring down at the Darth Vader house shoes I’m still sporting. Classic.

The coffee helps. I locate the thermostat and by lunch the house has finally started to warm up. Mom and Kel are gone to the utility company to get everything switched into her name and I’m left with the last of the boxes, if you don’t count what’s still in the Jeep. I get a few more things unpacked and decide it’s high time for a shower. I’m pretty sure I’m closing in on day three of my granola girl look.

I get out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel; flipping my hair forward as I brush it out and blow dry it. When it’s dry, I point the blow dryer at the fogged up mirror, forming a clear circular area so that I can apply a little makeup. I notice my tan has started to fade. There won’t be much laying out here so I might as well get used to a slightly paler complexion.

I brush my hair and pull it back into a ponytail and put on some lip-gloss and mascara. I forego the blush since there no longer seems to be a need for it anymore. Between the weather and my brief encounters with Will my cheeks seem to 
stay
 red.

I search my closet and find a long sleeved shirt and throw it on with some jeans and the socks I wasn’t able to find this morning. The only shoes I find that are weather appropriate are a pair of thin black boots. I slide them on and zip them up over my pant legs.

Mom and Kel have already come and gone while I was in the shower. There is a note from her informing me she and Kel are following her friend Brenda into the city to return the U-Haul. Three twenty-dollar bills are on the counter next to the car keys and a grocery list. I snatch them up and head to the Jeep, reaching it successfully this time.

I realize as I’m putting the car into reverse that I have absolutely no idea where I’m going. I know nothing about this town, much less whether I need to turn left or right off of my own street. Will’s little brother is in their front yard so I pull the car up parallel to their curb and roll down my passenger window.

“Hey, come here for a sec!” I yell at him.

He looks at me and hesitates. Maybe he thinks I’m going to bust out in Zombie mode again. He walks toward the car, but stops three feet short of the window.

“How do I get to the closest grocery store?” I ask him.

He rolls his eyes. “Seriously? I’m nine.”

Okay
. So the resemblance to his brother is only skin deep.

“Well, thanks for nothing,” I say. “What’s your name anyway?”

He smiles at me mischievously and yells, “Darth Vader!” He’s laughing as he runs in the opposite direction of the car.

Darth Vader? I realize the significance of his response. He’s making a crack at the house shoes I had on this morning. Not a big deal. The big deal is that Will must have been talking about me to him. I can’t help but try to imagine the conversation between them, and what Will thinks about me
. If
 he even thinks about me. For some reason, I’ve been thinking about him more than I’m comfortable with. I keep wondering how old he is, what his major is, if he’s 
single.

Luckily, I didn’t leave any boyfriends behind in Texas. I haven’t dated anyone in almost a year. Between High School, my part time job, and helping out with Kel’s sports, I hadn’t had much time for boys. I realize it’s going to be an adjustment, going from a person with absolutely no free time to a person with absolutely nothing to do.

I reach into the glove box to retrieve my GPS.

“That’s not a good idea,” Will says.

I look up to see him walking toward the car. I make my best attempt to stifle the smile that is involuntarily trying to take over my face. “What’s not a good idea?” I say as I insert the GPS into its holder and power it on.

He crosses his arms and leans in the window of the car. “There’s quite a bit of construction going on right now. That thing will get you lost.”

I’m about to respond when Brenda pulls up alongside me with my mother. Brenda rolls down her driver window and my mother leans across the seat.

“Don’t forget laundry detergent, I can’t remember if I put it on the list. And cough syrup. I think I’m coming down with something,” she says through the window.

Kel jumps out of the backseat, runs to Will’s brother and invites him inside to look at our house.

“Can I?” Will’s brother asks him.

“Sure,” Will says as he opens my passenger door. “I’ll be back in a little while, Caulder. I’m riding with Layken to the store.”

He is?
 I shoot a look in his direction and he’s buckling his seat belt.

“I don’t give very good verbal directions. Mind if I go with you?”

“I guess not,” I laugh.

I look back toward Brenda and my mother, but they have already pulled forward into the driveway. I put the car in drive and listen as Will gives me directions out of the neighborhood. “So, Caulder is your little brother’s name?” I say, making a half-hearted attempt at small talk.

“One and only. My parents tried for years to have another baby after me. They eventually had Caulder, when names like ‘Will’ weren’t that cool anymore.”

“I like your name,” I say. I immediately regret saying it as soon as it comes out of my mouth. It sounds like a lame attempt at flirting.

He laughs. I like his laugh. I hate that I like his laugh.

It startles me when I feel him brush the hair off my shoulder and touch my neck. His fingers slip under the collar of my shirt and he pulls it slightly down over my shoulder. “You’re going to need a new bandage soon.” He pulls my shirt back up and gives it a pat. His fingers leave a streak of heat across my neck.

“Remind me to grab some at the store,” I say, trying to prove that his actions and his presence have no effect on me whatsoever.

“So, Layken.” He pauses as he glances past me at the boxes still piled high in the back seat. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Um, no. That’s so cliché,” I say.

He laughs. “Fine. I’ll figure you out myself.” He leans forward and hits eject on my c.d. player. His movements are so fluid, like he’s been rehearsing them for years. I envy this about him. I’ve never been known for my grace.

“You know, you can tell a lot about a person by their taste in music.” He pulls the c.d. out and examines the label. “Layken’s shit?” he says aloud. “Is ‘shit’ descriptive here, or possessive?”

“I don’t like Kel touching my shit, okay?” I grab the c.d. out of his hands and insert it back into the player.

When the banjo pours out of the speakers at full volume, I’m immediately embarrassed. I’m from Texas, but I don’t want him confusing this for country music. If there’s one thing I 
don’t
 miss about Texas, it’s the country music. I reach over and turn down the volume when he grabs my hand in objection.

“Turn it back up, I know this,” he says. His hand remains clasped on top of mine.

My fingers are still on the volume so I turn it back up. There’s no 
way
 he knows this. I realize he’s bluffing-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.”

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 and 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. I hand him the grocery list. “Does it always snow in September?” I ask in an attempt to appear unfazed by his touch.

“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 time.”

“Huh. I assumed most of y’all would hate the snow. Doesn’t it snow here most of the year?”

He laughs. “
Y’all
?”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says with a smile on his face. “I’ve just never heard anyone say ‘y’all’ in real life before. It’s cute. So southern belle.”