A Love Letter to Whiskey Read Free Page B

on my skin from the salt water drying. He leaned forward to adjust the air. “I don’t know, just in case, I guess. I love to drive. Helps clear my head.”
    I nodded. “Yeah, I get that.”
    “It’s also about the only time I get to listen to the music I actually want to listen to. You know, when no one else is in the car to say anything about it.”
    “Okay, now I’m curious,” I said, uncrossing my arms and tucking my legs beneath me. “What exactly do you listen to?”
    Jamie pressed his lips together in a tight line. “Promise not to laugh?”
    “No.”
    He chuckled. “Then I can’t show you.”
    “Fine, fine. I won’t laugh.” He eyed me, debating whether to trust me or not. “At least, not loud enough for you to hear.”
    “Fair enough.” He smiled, but it dropped quickly as he plugged his phone into the auxiliary cord and thumbed through his music. Each time he flicked his thumb up, scrolling through the playlists, a long indented line would break on his forearm where the muscles worked. I let my eyes stay there, watching that muscle, until the first note played as we pulled up to a stop light.
    It was soft, soothing, familiar. Really familiar. When it sank in what song it was, I couldn’t hold back my reaction.
    “No fucking way.”
    “Yeah, I know, it’s nerdy.” Jamie reached for the volume knob but I smacked his hand away.
    “No, no it’s amazing. I just, I can’t believe you listen to classical music. This is Brian Crain, right?”
    It was his turn to blanch. “Yes.”
    “I love him,” I said excitedly, sitting up straighter. I might have even bounced a little. “He’s incredible. Please tell me you listen to The Piano Guys, too.”
    His mouth fell open. “I fucking love The Piano Guys.”
    We both laughed, our eyes bright, searching each other as if the other didn’t truly exist. “This is crazy! I’ve never met anyone else who loved this kind of music. Like… ever.”
    “That makes two of us,” he said as the light turned green. He didn’t go right away, just kept his eyes on mine, staring at me that way he did that made me wonder what he was thinking. It was as if I were a painting and he a curator. I felt him debating, circling, wondering if he should collect me or pass me by.
    I prayed for the first option, even though I knew I shouldn’t.
    The Mazda behind us honked and Jamie blinked, the spell broken. For the rest of the ride home, we didn’t say another word, just enjoyed his playlist and the wind in our hair. It was strangely comfortable sitting in silence with Jamie, as if we didn’t need words, especially with a piano version of “Bring Him Home” from Les Miserables serenading us as he drove.
    When he pulled up to my house, I smiled, my head still laid back against the headrest as I turned to face him. “I can play this one.”
    “Play it?”
    I nodded. “Mm-hmm, on violin.”
    “You play the violin?”
    “No.”
    He opened his mouth, shut it again, and then laughed. “Okay, color me confused.”
    My smile grew. “I don’t play violin. But, one day I was sitting next to this kid in band at lunch and he heard me listening to this. He plucked my earbuds out and thought he was so cute, talking in my ear about how he could play this song on violin. He thought his game was smooth.” I shrugged. “But I wasn’t impressed, told him anyone could learn to play it. He gave up on flirting then and started taking offense, told me there was no way I could learn to do it, so we made a bet. And five weeks later, I strode up to the same table where he sat, pulled out his violin that was propped up next to him, and played it.”
    “No you didn’t.”
    I pulled my lips between my teeth in a smile. “I did. I’m a very competitive person, Jamie Shaw. And I never turn down a challenge.”
    His eyes were a sort of golden green in what light was left from the day, dusk settling in around us, and his skin crinkled at the edges as he let his head fall back to mirror