“It’s from Javier,” I say unnecessarily. “Do you remember Wes, the musician who performed last night?”
“Sure. He was great.”
“Apparently, he’s offered to teach me the conga drum.” I still can’t believe it. Even though Javier said he’d arrange a lesson, I didn’t think it would actually happen.
“That’s amazing, Q. What a cool opportunity.”
“The thing is…” I trail off, rereading the text to make sure. “He says it would have to be this afternoon.” I glance from Ethan to the computer screen, then back to my phone, feeling torn.
“Go. We can do this anytime.” He smiles, but I notice it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Part of me wants to stay and explore whatever almost happened between us. But the other part of me—the smarter, more sensible one—knows I need to extricate myself from the situation, and that whatever did or didn’t happen is best forgotten.
“Thanks.” An emptiness creeps over me as I text Javier back, like I’d just closed the door on something potentially life-altering. But even having the thought makes me feel foolish. I’m infusing more meaning into the moment than I should. Time for a much-needed reality check.
“Well,” I say awkwardly, rising to my feet. “Guess I’d better get ready. Javier will be picking me up soon.”
“Have a good time.” Ethan turns back to the computer, as if he’s silently releasing me from any lingering obligation I might have to stay.
My conflicted emotions weigh down my movements as I freshen up my hair and add a touch of mascara and matte lipstick.
I’d asked Javier to pick me up at the curb, and when he sends a text letting me know his car is out front, I give Whiskers a quick kiss goodbye before slipping outside. For some reason, I’m grateful Ethan is still in his room and doesn’t see me leave.
When I step into the crisp, wintry air, I tug my Burberry scarf tighter around my neck to block out the cold and look toward the street.
Javier leans against a black town car with all the casual elegance of a cover model. And in his sleek onyx suit and calf-length wool coat, he could very easily be one.
He straightens when he sees me, and his entire face brightens in a near-blinding smile. How on earth does someone get their teeth so white? It doesn’t seem humanly possible.
“Quincy! It’s great to see you again. I’m so glad the timing worked out.” To my surprise, he greets me with a light kiss on each cheek, feathery soft and subtly seductive in a way only he could pull off. His cologne—which reminds me of the spiced bourbon my dad reserves for special occasions—lingers as he opens the car door and ushers me into the back seat.
“Me, too. Thanks so much for arranging this.” I settle on the creamy leather seat, impressed by the pristine interior. Not only is the upholstery smooth instead of sticky, but there isn’t a single moldy food wrapper or stale wad of gum to be seen. I bet I could swipe a fingertip over the cupholder wearing a white glove and not find a trace of dust. So unlike my first experience in a New York cab.
“You look gorgeous, by the way,” Javier adds as he climbs in next to me. Normally, his remark would make me uncomfortable. But there’s something about the way he delivers the compliment that makes it sound mundane, like he overuses the word the way some people say they just ate the most gorgeous tuna fish sandwich or how they found the most gorgeous parking spot.
I glance out the window toward Ethan’s window. Ethan, who never gives flippant flattery. But when he does say something nice, it feels personal, measured, and thoughtful. And you know he means every word. For a split second, I wish he were looking down, watching us. But he’s not. And why would he?
I direct my attention back to Javier. “Thanks.” I twist my restless hands in my lap, suddenly wondering if I should have given this excursion a bit more thought. Even though Harper vouched for him, I barely know Javier, and I’ve never even met Wes. Now I’m going to embarrass myself in front of two virtual strangers.
The closer we get to the recording studio, the clearer it becomes that I was swept away by the idea of learning from a famous musician without considering all the implications. Like my inevitable humiliation.
By the time we step into the sound booth, I’m practically vibrating with nerves. And it doesn’t help that Wes is even more intimidating in person than he was on stage. He’s well over six feet of solid muscle and has the kind of flawless dark skin that makes it impossible to determine his age. I’m going to guess somewhere in his thirties, give or take ten years.
“You must be Quincy.” Wes smiles at me, and the second his lips tilt upward, my anxiety melts away. It’s the type of smile that not only reaches his eyes, but radiates from every pore, like he’s lit from within. I instantly feel like I’ve made a new friend.
“Thank you so much for doing this. I’ll try not to be too much of a burden on your time.”
“No burden,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Music is my passion. I welcome any and every opportunity to introduce someone to something I love.”
I smile at his infectious sincerity. “I’m glad you feel that way because I’m afraid you have your work cut out for you. I have zero musical ability.”
“Everyone has music inside them.” He taps his chest, right above his heart. “We simply have to let it out.”
“Well, my music is buried pretty deep. Like in one of those bunkers built for the apocalypse.”
Wes and Javier laugh, not realizing it wasn’t a joke. I don’t even sing in the shower anymore. Not since my neighbor called the cops when she mistook my Mariah Carey impersonation as a cry for help.
“Good thing I like a challenge,” Wes says, adding, “And the conga will be perfect for you. There are no keys or strings to learn. It’s merely a vessel to channel your inner song.”
I nod like I understand what he’s saying, but in actuality it sounds like woo-woo gibberish to me.
Javier wishes us luck and excuses himself to join a heavyset man seated on the opposite side of the laminated glass, and once again, I’m reminded that my epic failure will have an audience. I loosen my scarf.
“Make yourself comfortable.” Wes gestures to a squat stool beside what I’m assuming is the conga drum—it looks a little like a small, skinny wine barrel with worn leather stretched over the top. And judging from the knicks and divots in the aged wood, it could easily be a hundred years old. Not exactly what I was expecting.
“To be honest,” I say, stiffly lowering myself onto the stool, “the only thing that might make me feel a little more comfortable is Prozac.”
He releases another laugh, and much like his singing voice, the sound is thick and warm, and wraps around me like a soft wool sweater. “Trust me, music is much more cathartic than medicine.” He settles on a larger stool beside me, a modern-looking drum propped between his knees. He nods to the man in the control room, who moves some knobs and switches on the console, and slow, sultry jazz music spills into the confined space.
With his gaze fixed on me, Wes beats the drum in perfect tempo, making it look effortless, almost second nature.
I stare back, completely at a loss. Has our lesson started? Because I have no clue what I’m doing.
“Don’t overthink it,” Wes says, sensing my hesitation. “Place your hands on the drum and let the rhythm find you.”
Let the rhythm find you? Is this guy for real? I’m starting to feel a little salty toward my musical Yoda, who insists on speaking in vague adages, but it’s too late to back out now. For some reason, I swing and stretch my arms like I’m preparing for a triple backflip before placing my palms on the drum.
The surface is silky smooth, and as I run my fingertips across it, tingles skitter up my arms.
“Close your eyes,” Wes instructs. “Then allow your hands to move when and how they want. Don’t worry about what it sounds like. Focus on what it feels like.”
I want to tell him it feels awkward and unnatural, but I refrain. He’s doing me a favor, so I might as well play along. Besides, I just need to get through the lesson and get Wes’s stamp of approval so I can check the task off my list.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and let the melody wash over me, trying to pinpoint a discernible cadence I can mimic. I give the drum a couple tentative taps, wincing at how clumsy they sound. Frustration builds in my chest, heightened by my regret. I should never have agreed to this.
My thoughts drift to the first time I played the violin in front of my family. They’d all gathered in the living room, while I stood in front of the hearth, framed by the ornate mantel, a picture of hopeful naivety at the tender age of twelve. I’d been taking lessons for months and looked forward to finally unveiling all my hard work.
Thanks to my nerves, the first few notes debuted as ear-splitting screeches. Matt and Veronica snickered, but I plowed ahead, performing a rendition of “Amazing Grace” that made the neighbor’s dog howl for relief. Needless to say, my siblings weren’t very gracious after that. But their unrestrained laughter didn’t compare to the pitying looks of disappointment splashed across my parents’ faces.
Don’t get me wrong, they’d tried to spare my feelings. They’d immediately shushed the snickering and tried to hide their dismay behind smiles of encouragement, but I could see it in their eyes. Something had gone awry when I was born, as if Matt and Veronica had monopolized all the prime genetic material, leaving me with the dregs, and everyone knew it.
The painful memory must have registered on my face, because Wes says softly, “Music has always been a balm to the downtrodden; a way to communicate when you have no voice, to transform the pain into something beautiful, something worthwhile.”
As he speaks, I barely notice that my hands are still moving, tapping the drum of their own accord.
“The conga has roots in Afro-Cuban culture,” he continues, my hands drumming along as I listen. “When thousands of slaves were brought to Cuba from the Bantu-speaking Congo region of Africa during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, they brought their music with them. Because music comes from a person’s heart, from their soul, it’s not something that can be stolen or stripped away. And in its purest form, it’s not about performance or perfection. It’s personal.”
Something in his story unlocks a hidden compartment inside of me, where there isn’t this constant fear that no matter what I do or how hard I try, I’ll never be good enough.
My hands are flying across the drum now, and I have no idea what it sounds like, but I know I’ve never felt this free, this unencumbered by expectations I’ll never meet. And it feels incredible.
We continue in this state of bliss for several songs, and when our jam session finally comes to an end, my cheeks are flushed and a little sore from smiling so wide.
Wes is smiling, too. “I’m pleased to say that you, Quincy Carmichael, have successfully learned the conga.” He stands and offers his hand in congratulations, but I fling my arms around his waist instead.
“Thank you, thank you,” I murmur as I hug the giant man within an inch of his life.
He chuckles. “It was my pleasure.” When I release him, he lifts the battered but beautiful conga off the ground, and lovingly pats its side. “This ol’ girl has been with me a long time. I played my first song on her, and my father before me.”
I’m moved beyond words that he’d allow me to use a family heirloom, and even more amazed when he holds it out to me. “I’d like you to keep her.”
“Oh, wow,” I stammer, too stunned for words. “Th-that’s incredibly generous of you, but I couldn’t possibly accept.”
“I’d like her to go where she’s needed most. I barely have time to play her anymore, and I have a feeling she’ll be happier with you, freeing more of the music locked inside of you.”
I can’t help but smile at the endearing way he speaks about an inanimate object. And if I’m honest, I’m starting to buy into all the woo-woo sentimentality. Besides, maybe it would be good for me to have a little more music in my life.
“I can’t thank you enough, Wes,” I say as I gingerly cradle the drum in my arms. “I promise I’ll take good care of her.”
“Just promise me you’ll use her,” he says, then adds with a grin, “What’s the saying? Drum like no one’s listening?”
“I will.” I grin back, not pointing out the expression is slightly paraphrased.
The entire drive home, I feel like I’m soaring in the clouds. Wes was right about music being cathartic. A weight has been lifted that I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying. I’m almost positive I don’t even touch the ground when I step out of the town car.
“I’m pleased the lesson went so well.” Javier places a hand on my elbow, probably to keep me from floating away.
“Thank you so much for arranging it. I had the best time.” It’s clearly an understatement, but I don’t think there are any words in my vocabulary to adequately describe the afternoon.
“I look forward to getting together again.” He bends down, and I brace myself for a goodbye kiss on both cheeks.
But instead, before I realize what’s happening, he briefly presses his lips to mine. I blink in bewilderment, completely caught off guard.
With a quick flash of his dizzying smile, Javier disappears into the town car, leaving me alone on the curb, too dazed to move.
From the corner of my eye, I catch a figure moving toward me. I blink again as my vision comes into focus.
The man walking his dog is Ethan.
And from the shocked look on his face, he witnessed everything.