He shakes his head again. “No. It’s perfect as is.”
“What are you going to do with the recording?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know yet. I need to think about it.”
“Thank you for this,” I say. “Playing music in a real studio…” I laugh. “You’re just making all my dreams come true, aren’t you?”
“As many as I can,” he says. “As many as I can.”
There’s a thick layer of subtext beneath that statement, but I’m not touching it with a ten-foot pole. I feel good. I feel connected to Westley, bonded by our shared love for music.
He holds my hand. “Thankyoufor sharing that with me, Jo. That last song especially was…it was special.”
If there was something meaningful between us before, this experience, playing music with him, has only intensified it.
Music has power. It can bring memories up with visceral, intense immediacy. Music can make the past feel new again. You feel that moment from years ago all over again. Singing with someone? Sharing the song with them, riding the high of the passion, the wild thrill of the music…there’s nothing like it.
Can I stay here and sing with you forever?
I don’t say it.
Maybe that’s a new song I’ll write, when I get a few minutes alone.
Round Two
Westley
After the session in the studio, I developed a plan to take Jolene out on a date. Something magical, something romantic. I even start working on the plans with Jen, booking a table and everything. My nascent plans are quickly derailed, however, by Jolene getting hit with an assault of agony worse than the last one.
I notice she seems quiet as we eat a dinner of cold cuts sandwiches and popcorn and watch a movie. And then she just wants to lie down on my lap for the end of the movie.
“Jo?” I touch her temple—she’s burning up. “Are you feeling sick?”
She nods. “Yeah.” A sudden, wracking sob. “I don’t want it, Wes. I want to feel good.”
My gut twists. “I’m so sorry, Jo. What can I do?”
“Carry me to bed? I…I don’t think I can walk.”
I gather her into my arms, cradle her close, and carry her to my—toour—bedroom.
She’s shivering. “Wes?” Her voice chatters, shakes. “I’m scared. This is bad. This is a bad one.”
“Should I call your parents? Or…or a doctor? Or something?”
She grunts a negative. “I think I need some medicine. It’s in my toiletries bag in my suitcase.”
I find the pill bottle in question and bring her one, with a glass of water. She’s weak enough and shaky enough that I hold her upright and help her drink.
Her eyes are narrow, squinting with pain. “I’m sorry, Wes.”
“Don’t be sorry. Tell me what else I can do.”
“The pill is going to knock me out. Just…stay with me until it does. Please?”
“Like I’d leave your side.”
“It’s too soon,” she mutters. “Too soon. I need more time…please.” I don’t think she’s talking to me.
