Chance Encounters

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 wetne

ss 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.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. “From now on I’ll do like you Yankees and waste my breath by saying ‘all you guys.’”

He laughs and nudges my shoulder. “Don’t. I like your accent, it’s perfect.”

I can’t believe I’ve actually turned into a girl who swoons over a guy. I detest it so much; I start to inspect his features more intently, trying to find a flaw. I can’t. Everything about him so far is perfect.

We get the items on our list and head to the checkout. He refuses to let me put anything on the conveyor belt, so I just stand back and watch as he unloads the items from the buggy. The last item he places on the line is a box of bandages. I never even saw him grab them.

When we pull out of the grocery store, Will tells me to turn in the opposite direction in which we came. We drive maybe two whole blocks when he instructs me to turn left-onto our street. The drive that took us twenty minutes on the way there takes us less than a minute on the way back.

“Nice,” I say when I pull in my driveway. I realize what he’s done and that the flirtation on his end is blatantly obvious.

Will has already rounded to the back of the Jeep so I press the trunk lever for him. I get out and walk to where he is, expecting him to have an armload of groceries. Instead, he’s just standing there holding the trunk up, watching me.

With my best southern belle impression, I place my hand across my chest and say, “Why! I never would have been able to find the store without your help. Thank you so much for your hospitality kind sir.”

I sort of expect him to laugh, but he just stands there, staring at me.