“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. “Thank you for 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—to our—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.
Fuck.
“If I’m not feeling better in a day or two, call my parents.”
“I should call them now.”
“Then we won’t be alone when I feel better.”
“We’ll figure that out then.”
“I want to make love to you, Wes.”
“I know. Me too.” My whole being burns with emotional agony. Helplessness. Anger that this is happening to her.
“This isn’t…it.” Her eyes open to slits of green. “It’s not it. Not the end. Not yet.” She finds my hand. “I promise. I won’t go, Wes. Not until we make love, at least once.”
“Just…rest, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”
“I want to say it,” she murmurs. Again, this part doesn’t seem addressed to me, necessarily. “It’s true, and I want to say it. But I’m not going to. Not yet. But it’s true.”
Somehow, I know exactly what she’s refusing to say.
A moan escapes her lips, a ragged groan of pain.
“Do you believe in love, Westley?” Her eyes open, suddenly. Fix on mine.
I nod. “Yeah, I do.”
“How do you know when it’s love?”
I shake my head and shrug. “I don’t know, Jo. I’ve never been in love before.”
“You haven’t?”
“No.” I brush a thumb over her cheekbone. Her skin is on fire. “Not until you.”
A smile curves her lips. She doesn’t say anything else. An occasional whimper rises from her.
She’s the same, the next day. She refuses another pill, though. “Call them,” she whispers.
Her dad’s number rings twice, and he answers it. “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Wes.”
He hesitates. “Wes, hi.” A clearing of his throat. “If you’re calling instead of her…”
“She’s…it’s pretty bad. She felt pretty crappy a couple days ago, on the way here. This is…worse.”
“Has she taken a pill?”
“Yes.”
“Crap. That’s not good. She hates those things.”
“When it first hit, yesterday evening. Just the one, so far. She told me to call you.”
“Is she feverish?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll book a flight.” He sighs, a sad, ragged sound. “How are you?”
“Um, I mean…I don’t know. It’s…I can’t do anything, and it’s…it’s hard. Really hard.” I rub my face. “But I…I’m here for her. No matter what.”
“Westley, my friend, no matter what is gonna get tested, big time. And sooner than I think any of us are ready for.”
“I know.”
“You don’t, though. Not really.”
“I know enough to know I don’t know, but I’m not…I’m not a flake, Mr. Park. I’m here for her. For you guys.” I clear my throat. “Don’t book a flight. I’ll get you one. I have an extra bedroom.”
“Um, I think…I don’t…I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“I’ll text you the flight info. I can get you a private flight way faster than you could book on your own. Trust me on this.”
“Okay.”
“There’s a hotel ten minutes from me, if you don’t want to stay with…with us.”
“Thank you.” A pause. “When it’s…um, time—” his voice breaks, recovers, “…her best friend and grandmother will need to be close, too.”
“Of course.” I clear my throat. “She said this isn’t…that. She won’t let it.”
“She’s stubborn like that.”
“So I’m discovering.”
“Thanks for calling.”
“Yeah, of course.”
Next, I call Jen.
“Hey, Wes,” she says, by way of greeting. “Martin and I were planning on coming over around six this evening. I’ll bring carryout with me. Sound good?”