Slammed(7)

I'm about to respond when Brenda pulls up along side 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 as 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 ask, 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.

"Fine," he laughs. "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 laughs 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 as 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," 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."