Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
I wrinkled my nose and muttered, “Funny how helping people isn’t actually on that list.”
“I know. They’ll pretend it matters to them when they’re bragging about the lives they’ve saved and the pro bono cases they’ve taken, but really it’s all about self-aggrandizement.”
I asked, “How on earth did you end up so normal, after being raised by a pack of egomaniacs?”
“I guess by being so average that they gave up on me early on.”
“You’re only average by their impossibly high standards. In truth, you’re a huge success, and to me, you’re a superhero.” He snort-laughed when I said that, so I told him, “I’m serious. I think you’re a great man, Wesley Bennett. The greatest I’ve ever known.”
“And I think you’re amazing.”
“You don’t have to pay me back compliment-for-compliment. We both know I’ve never done anything that matters.”
“Absolutely not true,” he said. “Even in just the short time I’ve known you, you’ve made my world a better place. You also have incredible talent and energy, and you bring joy to people. That’s no small feat.”
“What are you basing that on?”
“I was at the club for about an hour Wednesday night, watching you work. At one point, you did this…custom mix? I don’t know what you call it, but you pulled together all these different elements—songs and sound bites, even bits of advertising jingles, and you made this brand new creation. I knew right then I was watching an artist at work. And when I looked at the people around me, you know what I saw?”
I tried to make a joke out of it, because I was dangerously close to getting emotional. “A bunch of dudes in leather chaps with their asses out?”
“Pure joy, Ash. Your art makes people happy. It’s creative, and spontaneous, and unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. The closest thing I can compare it to is this modern artist I saw once at a gallery. He painted so quickly that he was able to create a masterpiece in a matter of minutes.”
I was on the verge of tears, and I looked away and murmured, “I don’t do that.”
“Yes, you do. Instead of using paint, your medium is sound. You use it to paint pictures, to tell stories, to reach into people’s lives and leave them a little better and happier than when you found them.” When a tear rolled down my cheek, Wes drew me into his arms and asked, “Did I say something wrong?”
I shook my head and sat up, as I ran the back of my hand over my cheek. “No. I’m just being stupid.”
He sat up, too. “Can you tell me what just happened?”
“It’s hard to put it into words, but…that was the most validating thing anyone’s ever said to me. I’ve spent so much of my life feeling like I don’t matter. I’m just this dumb guy who plays music in a nightclub, and I could be replaced in about two seconds by a hundred other guys just like me. But you saw something worthwhile in what I do. You saw art in it. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that until you said it.”
I climbed onto his lap and buried my face in his shoulder. He was so patient. He just held me and let me get it together without judging me.
After a while, I murmured, “I guess we should start getting ready for the party.” Music was drifting in from the pool area, and we could hear muted conversations as guests started to arrive.
He kissed me for a long moment before saying, “I’m already counting down the minutes until we can slip away on our own.”
After we took turns showering and got dressed, I stepped back to admire Wes and told him, “You look so handsome.”
He was wearing his new marina blue suit, along with a pink shirt, floral bowtie, and Italian loafers, all selected during our quick shopping spree. “Thank you. I’m sure this outfit is wrong for the party somehow, but I like it,” he said. “If we were in New England, I’d know what to wear. But in this setting, I honestly have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Want me to scope out the other guests and report back?” I’d only brought two suits, both of them borrowed from Jasper. For tonight, I’d gone with a gorgeous, pearl gray number, which I’d paired with a white, open-collared shirt and purple Converse sneakers. I knew the shoes were wrong and that I should probably put on a tie, but it was important to me to still feel like myself.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m just going to commit to this look, even if it’s wrong.” We linked arms, and as we left our room, Wes took a deep breath and straightened his posture.
A huge team of workers had transformed the house throughout the course of the afternoon. The lighting was soft, and all the brightly-colored floral arrangements had been replaced with more formal arrangements in dark red and cream, in honor of his parents’ ruby wedding anniversary. I noticed the long dining table was gone, replaced with an additional sofa and chairs.