I thought about Wes way too much that night.
The image of him on stage absolutely haunted me. When I closed my eyes, I could imagine the tone of his soulful voice and see him standing behind the microphone. He had a compelling stage presence, and the memory of it stayed with me all through the night. I tried to tell myself I was only impressed because of the things my brother had told me about his family. I hoped this would make me forget about him, but it didn't help at all.
I remembered that dark-haired vixen sitting on the table making pretty eyes at him, and that helped a little—at least it helped me get mad and remember that I had already decided to never contact him. It was just a silly little crush, after all. And avoiding him was the only surefire way to fix it.
Turns out that was no easy task.
I got a call from my brother before noon next day, and the first thing out of his mouth was, "Hey Wes wants you to call him."
"Wes who?" I asked.
I cringed, squeezing my eyes shut tight when I realized how silly it was for me to play dumb. This would do nothing but giveaway to my brother how much I had been thinking about him. I was silent as I waited for him to tease me about it, but he didn't.
"Wes Bishop," he said. "He called me just now asking if I gave you his number. He's expecting you to call him. He said you have a lesson today."
I let out a laugh. I expected my brother to confess that he had been joking, but he just stayed silent on the other end.
"Are you going to call him?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because we don't have a lesson. I don't give lessons. I told him that last night."
"I thought you worked it out," Luke said. "He thinks you said 'yes'. He thinks you're doing it."
"Just tell him he can watch my videos," I said. "I don't see why he thinks he needs a personal lesson."
"Why don't you tell him?" Luke said. "I don't want to get in the middle of this. He's sort of my boss, Jo. I wish you would just do it. He wants to learn how to throw a knife. It's no big deal."
Luke was right. It was no big deal. I was over reacting. I knew my brother loved that company, and it was selfish of me to avoid doing that simple favor just because I was scared of a little crush. I had crushes before and I had gotten over them. Once you're over a crush it seems silly that you've ever had it in the first place. I wished I could get to that point with Wes—the point where being attracted to him seemed silly to me. Either way, I knew the right thing was to suck it up and pretend not to be affected. I could give the guy a lesson. What harm could come from that?
"Jo?"
"Yeah, you're right. It's no big deal. I'm sorry. I'll call him."
"Thank you," he said in a relieved tone. "I'll text you his number."
"Okay. Sounds good."
"Thanks, JoJo."
"No problem."
Luke and I said our goodbyes, and seconds later a text came in with Wes's contact information. I used the next few minutes to think about what I should write, and then I composed a text to Wes.
Me: This is Jolene. Luke said you were still interested in taking a throwing lesson. Maybe we can work out a time next week. Let me know what you have available. We enjoyed your show last night!"
I pressed send before I could overthink it, and I heard back from him right away.
Wes: "Why not today? What do you have going on? I'm free all afternoon."
Nerves flooded my body when I read his words, and I glanced around my apartment, trying to judge whether or not it was clean enough for him to come over. I had to stop caring whether or not it was clean. I needed to make myself as unappealing as possible just to prove to myself that I didn't want to impress him. It was out of sheer stubbornness that I made myself agree to letting him come over whether I was ready for it or not.
Me: "Today's fine, but you won't have time to order a knife. You can use mine, but you'll want to order a few for practice."
Wes: "Great. Thank you! Name a time and tell me your address, and I'll be there."
I sent him a message saying that three o'clock worked for me, and I attached the address of my building. I was mad at myself for agreeing to do it, but I knew it was the right thing to do. I would act unaffected and get through the lesson. I would be nice to him just like I was nice to everyone else I met. I had to forget about his looks and his talent. I had to forget about the fact that he came from a famous family.
A few times growing up, I had heard my mom say that we shouldn't be a respecter of persons. She used it in a way that would encourage us not to show partiality. I was fairly certain she had learned it from the Bible, so I typed the phrase into Google and found a verse in the book of Acts where Peter says God is "not a respecter of persons". Some versions said that God doesn't show favoritism or partiality.
This was an interesting passage for me. I thought about all the different levels of people in the world—different levels of success, different levels of beauty, different levels of wealth, different levels of intelligence or talent. I thought about all the many varieties of people in the world and felt touched when it sank in that God showed absolutely no partiality to any of us. I was kind of hoping that the passage I searched would have said that we shouldn't be a respecter of persons so that I could tell myself it was wrong of me to be impressed by Wes, but I figured that if the Bible made a point of saying that God wasn't partial, then perhaps that was the same as saying we shouldn’t either.
I was thankful that I had taken the time to look that verse up, because it honestly made me less nervous about Wes coming over. I imagined him as just any old person and not necessarily a gorgeous, rich, talented, wonderful one.
Wes knocked on my door at exactly three o'clock. I answered the door with that verse in my heart, repeating to myself that he was just like any other guy. But the thing is, he wasn't. He was so very handsome that my body reacted to him even though my brain kept saying over and over again that it shouldn't. My heart raced despite me begging it not to. My breath came up short despite me trying to regulate it.
"Hey Bugs," I said, smiling and doing my best to seem nonchalant.
"Hey," he said.
I stood back, and he stepped inside, instantly looking around as if checking out the place. "Did you just call me Bugs?"
"Yes."
He waited for me to explain, but when I didn't he said, "Why? Where'd you get that?"
"Wes Bishop," I said. "W.B. Warner Brothers."
"Bugs Bunny," he said, smiling and nodding like he understood.
"Bugs Bunny," I agreed.
"I like that. Nobody's ever called me anything but Wes before."
"You mean nobody's ever noticed your initials are clearly Warner Brothers?" I asked, looking totally surprised.
He gave me an amused grin. "Nope," he said. "Pretty crazy, isn't it?"
"Yeah," I said. I gestured for him to make himself at home.
"I live like four blocks from here," he said.
"Really?" I asked.
"Yeah, I come by here all the time. That's my favorite coffee shop across the street."
"I'm surprised I've never run into you in there," I said. I wasn't really surprised. I loved coffee, but I never went to that coffee shop. I always made it at home. I only said that because I was nervous and it popped out of my mouth before I could even think of what I was saying. "My mom loves it, too," I added, since that was the truth. "I went there to get her a pound of coffee beans for her birthday."
"I was thinking about that card you gave her. I think it's really cool that you make her one every year. My mom would really love that."
"Are they still in the U.S.?" I asked. I wondered if it was a question he knew I knew the answer to. My brother had told me some things that he didn't want me to repeat, and I got suddenly scared that I would accidentally say too much.
"They are. Memphis. That's where I grew up."
"I've never been to Memphis. I was born in Philadelphia, but I spent most of my childhood in Savannah, Georgia."
I talked as I crossed my living room toward the throwing area. Before Wes could comment on what I had said or make another statement of his own, I spoke again.
"These are a few of my favorite throwing knives," I said, pointing at the coffee table.
I usually kept my knives stored in a drawer, but I had lined them up on a coffee table for the lesson. I had chosen several from my set of simple blades along with a few different types of handled knives. I planned on letting him try each of them so he could decide what he liked best.
"You'll want to start pretty close to the target," I said, gesturing to a spot about five feet from the wall.
He smiled at me. There was something about his smile—something that told me he was a bit amused at how quickly I wanted to get started. I could tell just by the way he looked at me that he expected us to make some more small talk before starting the lesson.
He was too nice to say as much, however, and he politely moved to the place where I motioned for him to stand. He took a deep breath and straightened his stance as if he was the nervous one, which was kind but completely unnecessary since I knew he wasn't nervous at all. Confidence seemed to emanate from him.
I spent the next half-hour giving Wes a beginner's lesson that was similar to my first YouTube videos. It was a good thing I knew what I was talking about, because I was able to do it without nerves being too much of an issue. I explained the knives and the different ways to hold them. I even demonstrated a few different releases before telling him that we would start with a simple overhand technique.
The first ten knives he threw did not stick into the wall at all—they hit at the wrong angle and fell to the floor. I had three square cushions placed strategically under the target so that the knives wouldn't clang to the floor when they fell. They were pretty large, and I usually had them stacked in the corner of my bedroom in case I ever needed extra seating in my apartment. Wes glanced at me with a look of lighthearted frustration when the tenth knife fell onto the cushion. He let out a deflated sigh.
"I thought I was going to be really good at this," he said. "I thought I was going to hit them all bull's-eye, square on the nose."
I smiled at him and shook my head. "You're doing great. A couple of them almost stuck."
"It's a good thing you have those pillows under there to catch them when they fall," he said. "I guess you have to keep them there so you don't bother your downstairs neighbor."
The truth was, I only put them there for this lesson. I would sometimes miss my expected aiming location, but I almost never missed to the point where the knife fell to the floor—except for when I was trying something crazy or new. I smiled and nodded, but there was enough confusion in my initial reaction that he figured it out. He flashed me a small, self-deprecating grin. "You probably just put them there for me, didn't you?"
"I use them sometimes when I'm trying something new."
He let out a sigh. "I really thought it was gonna be easier than this."
"Did you learn how to play the guitar in thirty minutes?"
"No, but that's different. That takes memorizing a lot of different configurations and stuff. This is just one motion. I thought it would be like throwing a ball. I don't understand why I can't make it stick."
"You're just over rotating a little," I said. "You have to use your index finger to slow it down. It's like riding a bike. Once you get it, you'll get it."
I knew what happened next was a bad idea before I even did it. It crossed my mind to stand in front of him and let him feel my form. I told myself it was a terrible idea. I begged myself not to stand there and let him touch me. I knew it was going to do nothing but get me in trouble.
But I still did it.
I did it for his sake.
I did it because I knew it would fix his problem and help him learn how to rotate the blade.
I positioned myself right in front of him.
"Okay," I said with a sigh. "I'm gonna hold a blade and go through the motion of throwing it. I'm gonna let you feel how I hold it and where I release."
Wes nodded, and I took a deep breath as I situated my stance to aim at the wall.
"So, stand right behind me and hold onto my hand. I want you to feel my throwing motion—the way my wrist moves and the way I push down with my finger to stop it from over rotating. I'm not actually going to release it. I'm just going to go through the motion a few times so you can get the feel of it.
Five times, I pulled back and then slowly made the overhand motion. I had to make myself ignore the fact that Wes was touching me. I kept telling myself not to be a respecter of persons even though that pretty much didn't even make sense to me anymore and I respected his person now more than ever.
"Okay, I'm going to let it go on this next one," I said, begging myself not to tremble. "Just barely hold onto the back of my hand and see if you can get a feel how I release it."
I pulled back and then swung forward in an overhand arch, letting the knife fly gently through the air. It certainly wasn't my most accurate throw, but it did stick into the board. I turned and smiled at Wes, stepping away from him in the process.
"How in the world did you do that?" he asked, looking amazed.
"You'll get it," I promised. "Just remember to use your index finger as a guide as you release."