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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’lluseher,” 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.
CHAPTERELEVEN
The short trek through the lobby and subsequent ride in the elevator may have been the most awkward five minutes of my life. Other than a quick greeting, Ethan hasn’t spoken a word. Not even to ask why I’m carrying a conga drum.
Part of me wonders if it’s weird for him to see someone kiss me, like it would be weird to see some random guy kiss Brynn. Except, deep down, I suspect there’s an entirely different reason. Only I’m not brave enough to dwell on what that reason might be.
Thankfully, the uncomfortable silence is broken by Brynn when we enter the apartment. “Yay! You’re back! Where have you been?” She untangles her legs from sitting cross-legged on the floor cuddling Whiskers, and bundles the kitten into her arms to join me in the kitchen. Her eyes double in size when I set the conga drum on the counter. “Where’d you get that?”
