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“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 mostgorgeoustuna fish sandwich or how they found the mostgorgeousparking 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 itfeelslike.”
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.
