by Tillie Cole
My eyes shone as the piece kept playing. Before I knew it, my feet were moving. My hand softly lay upon the doorknob, but it didn’t turn.
It didn’t turn because I could see the piano through a gap between the shutter and the door. My lungs forgot how to breathe as I looked at the pianist, the master of those beautiful sounds.
I had seen so many performances in my lifetime, yet none had compared to the rawness of what I had heard tonight. I followed the fingers dancing like birds on a lake. My eyes tracked up a pair of tattooed arms, over a white sleeveless shirt, over stubble-dark cheeks and silver piercings.
Then they locked on a single teardrop. A falling drop that rolled down the tanned cheek to splash on the ivory keys that were pouring with sounds of pain and hurt and regret.
My chest was stricken, reacting to the wordless story the music was telling. As I stared at Cromwell’s face, it was like seeing it for the first time. Gone was the arrogance and the anger he wore like a shield. The shield was lowered, and a boy I didn’t recognize was laid bare.
I’d never seen anyone so beautiful.
I stayed there, heart in my throat, as he played, face stoic but traitorous tears displaying his pain. His fingers never hit a wrong note. He was perfect as he told me a story I would never know, yet completely understood.
His fingers slowed, and as I looked closer, I saw they were shaking. His hands danced their way to the finale, a long, haunting note drawing the beautiful melody to a close.
Cromwell’s head bowed, and his shoulders shook. My lip trembled as I felt the depths of his despair. He wiped at his eyes and tipped back his head.
I watched him breathe. I watched him in his silence. I watched in reverie as I let it sink in—Cromwell Dean was the hope I had always dreamed him to be.
Cromwell took a deep breath. My heart beat faster than I thought possible at the sight. The doorknob moved under my hand, and the door crept open, exposing where I stood.
Cromwell looked up at the noise, the creak of wood like a thunderclap in the silent aftermath of his sorrow. His beautiful face drained of blood when he met my eyes.
I stepped forward. “Cromwell, I—”
He stood from the piano stool; the abrupt movement sent it crashing to the floor. He swung around, hands clenched by his sides and dark blue eyes lost. Cromwell’s mouth opened like he would speak, but nothing came out. He glanced about the room, at the instruments he had played, as if they were betraying his secret.
“I heard you.” I stepped further into the room. My bottom lip shook with fear. Not fear of him, but fear of what this all meant. Of who Cromwell Dean truly was. Of what he possessed inside of him.
Of who he could be.
“Your talent . . .” I shook my head. “Cromwell . . . I never imagined . . .”
Cromwell turned away from me and edged around the room like he was trying to escape. I held out my hand, wanting to touch him, to offer him comfort as he breathed too quickly, as his lost eyes searched desperately for what to do next. Cromwell darted across the room toward where I stood, to the only exit. His eyes were wide and his face was pale. He stopped only a couple feet in front of me, shoulders sagging and body exhausted.
He appeared completely broken.
Cromwell’s piercings glinted in the one dim light he had been playing under. A reluctant spotlight. Not daring to shine too brightly on an artist who didn’t want his gift to be seen.
This close I could see his skin was mottled, the wet residue of his tears kissing his cheeks. He stepped closer again, edging his way to the exit. I’d never seen him this way. Gone was the arrogance. Gone was the attitude.
This was Cromwell Dean laid bare.
His breath blew across my face. Mint and tobacco and something sweet. “Bonnie,” he whispered. My name from his lips cut me. His raspy voice sounded like it was crying out for help.
“I heard you.” I met his watery stare. My heart thudded in my chest. The silence in the room was so profound I could hear the two very different beats of our hearts slamming between us.
Cromwell stumbled away until his back hit the wall. His blue stare focused on the piano across the room. I wasn’t sure from the look in his eyes if he saw it as an enemy or a savior.
Cromwell suddenly pushed off the wall and rushed to pick something off the top of the piano. He tried to get past me. As his arm brushed past mine, I acted on instinct and took hold of him. He stopped dead and bowed his head. His wide shoulders were slumped. I blinked away tears seeing him so undone. So tortured.
So exposed.
“Please . . . let me go,” he said.
My heart lurched at the desperation in his voice. I should have done what he asked, but I kept tight hold. I couldn’t let him leave so upset. In this moment, I found I didn’t want to let him go.
“The way you can play . . .” I shook my head, speechless.
Cromwell sighed, his breath shaking, then brought something over his heart. I stepped back so I could see what it was. A set of dog tags was clenched in his trembling hands. He held them so tightly that his knuckles were white.
Cromwell screwed his eyes shut, and my body tensed with sympathy as a tear fell from his eye. I wanted to smooth it from his face, but I held back. I wasn’t sure he would let me go that far. When he opened his eyes, the look on his face was nothing but tortured. “Bonnie . . .” he whispered, his accent thick as he met my eyes. I’d always thought his accent was patronizing. Right now, broken and hoarse, it was only endearing.
Then he pulled from me and fled to the door, footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. “Cromwell!” I called after him. He paused in the doorway, but he didn’t turn. I wanted him to stay. I didn’t know what I would say, but I didn’t want him to leave. It felt like I waited a lifetime, heart in my throat, for him to decide what to do, whether to turn and come to me. But then the door opened and closed, and he left me alone.
I tried to catch my breath. I tried to make my feet work to go after him. But I was grounded, unable to process the memory of Cromwell so destroyed at the piano. It was ten long breaths before I could move.
I walked to the piano and picked up the stool from where it had fallen. Sitting down, I ran my fingers along the keys. They still held a flicker of heat from where he played.
My fingertip dipped into something wet as I placed my hands. It was a fallen tear from Cromwell’s eyes.
I didn’t wipe it away.
Repositioning my hands, I began to play something I had written myself. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth, letting my biggest joy fly free. The answered prayer that was lyrics to a melody. A sung poem. Delivered from the heart yet sung from the soul.
I sang softly, a song I’d written just for me. One that was as timely as it was meaningful. One that had become my anthem. One that kept me strong.
It was meant to be sung with an acoustic guitar, yet something made me sit here, at this beautiful instrument. My hands moved along the ivories with practiced skill. But when the song came to a close and I shut the piano’s lid, I knew my playing hadn’t been worthy of this instrument after what Cromwell had brought to life from its keys.
I looked up at the door, the ghost of Cromwell’s broken voice and haunted eyes still lingering in the air. I took in a deep inhale and tried to find the dislike for him that had settled upon me from our very first meeting.
Only now it wasn’t there. Even with the rudeness and the arrogance that I saw from him most days. I now knew there was a pain behind his blue eyes, tattoos, and dark hair. In an instant, it made it impossible for me to think of him as I once did.
A tear dropped down my cheek. Cromwell Dean was in so much pain that it took away his joy to play music that he’d once loved. Pain that caused him to shed tears.
I ached. Because I knew what that kind of pain felt like.
In the most unlikely of places, at the most unlikely of times, I’d found common ground with Cromwell Dean. But would we ever share those secrets . . .?
I
sighed.
Probably not.
Chapter Eight
Cromwell
The breeze slapped my skin as I rushed through the quad, past some old alumnus memorialized in a cast-iron statue in the center. My eyes darted around me, at the darkened edge of the grass and the illuminated benches under vintage streetlamps.
I breathed in my cigarette smoke, forcing it into my lungs, waiting for the rush of nicotine to calm me down. But it didn’t work. I let my feet lead me wherever they wanted me to go. But it didn’t stop the shaking of my hands. It didn’t stop the erratic beat of my heart, and the tears that just wouldn’t fucking stop.
My fingers ached as I clutched the metal in my hands so tightly I wondered if they would ever get the feeling back in them again. I walked and walked until I found myself at the lake. It was silent, no sign of life but the docked boats and the dim lights from the far-off lakeside bar that sat on the edge. My feet led me to the end of a dock before they gave out and I dropped to my knees.
The sound of the lake lapping against the dock’s wooden posts hit my ears. Pale purples lit up my eyes, and the taste of cinnamon burst in my mouth. I groaned low, not wanting any of it. Not wanting the colors or the tastes or the feels . . .
“Son,” he whispered, his eyes shining. “How . . . how did you play like that?”
I shrugged, dropping my hands from the piano. Dad’s hand came on my head, and he crouched beside me. “Has someone taught you that?”
I shook my head. “I—” I quickly shut my mouth.
“You what?” He smiled. “Come on, buddy, I promise I’m not angry.” I didn’t want to make him angry. He’d been away with the army for months and months and he’d just got back. I wanted to make him proud, not angry.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and ran my fingertips over the keys. They didn’t make a sound. “I can just play,” I whispered. I glanced up at Dad. I lifted my hands. “They just know what to do.” I pointed to my head. “I just follow the colors. The tastes.” I pointed at my chest, my stomach. “How they make me feel.”
My dad blinked then suddenly hugged me to his chest. I missed him when he was away. It wasn’t the same when he was gone. When he pulled back, he said, “Play again, Cromwell. Let me listen.”
So I did.
It was the first time in my life I’d ever seen my dad cry.
So I played some more . . .
I gasped, sucking in the humid air. I moved my feet, my back hitting the wooden post. A man was canoeing in the distance. I wondered why the hell he was here at night. But then I thought maybe he was like me. Maybe when he closed his eyes, he never got rest. Instead, he only saw the memory of what destroyed him. As I looked at the water rippling beneath the oars, I wished I was him right now. Just going. No destination in mind. Just bloody going.
Bonnie’s face popped into my head as I felt the dog tag’s metal cutting into my palm. I glanced down at my fingers and relived them playing the keys. Tattoos of skulls, and of the ID number that meant the most to me in the world, looked back at me. They mocked me.
It had to have been Bonnie Farraday who had walked in. At midnight, when everyone else was out at the bar or in bed, it had to be her who stood at the door. The one girl who had managed to get under my skin. To make me feel things I had never wanted to feel. I shook my head and ran my free hand over my face.
It had started with a message in my mailbox . . .
Drop by my office at five,
Professor Lewis.
I’d gone there and taken a seat in the chair opposite his. He had stared at me quietly. I’d met him a couple of times in my life. Mostly when I was young . . . then just before . . .
The first time I’d met him, I’d gone with my parents to see him conduct his work at the Royal Albert Hall. He’d heard of me and had invited us all along.
Then years passed and I heard nothing again. Not when I’d wanted him anyway.
Right now, I barely knew him at all. “How are you doing, Cromwell?” he asked, his accent similar to my mum’s. Although hers had been diluted through too many years in England.
“Fine,” I muttered and looked at the certificates on the walls. At a picture of him conducting an orchestra playing his music at the BBC Proms in the Royal Albert Hall.
I remembered how the place had smelled. Wood. Resin from the bows.
“How are you finding Jefferson?”
“Dull.”
Lewis sighed. He leaned forward, his face apprehensive. It became clear why a few seconds later. “I noticed the date this morning.” He paused. “I know it’s the anniversary of your father . . .” He cleared his throat. “I know I only met him a couple of times. But we spoke often. He . . . he believed in you so much . . .”
I paled. I didn’t know my father spoke to him often. I closed my eyes for a second and inhaled.
It was as simple as a Google search to see how and when it happened. People I didn’t know—or barely knew—could find out every detail if they got hold of my father’s name. They could read his death like they knew him. Like they were there when it happened . . .
But I couldn’t do it right now. I wouldn’t face this with a professor I didn’t know from Adam. He might have offered me a scholarship, but the guy didn’t know me. He had no right to stick his nose in this.
I jumped to my feet and stormed out of the door. “Cromwell!” Lewis’s voice trailed off to nothing as I got the hell away.
Students gave me a wide berth as I stormed down the corridor. I shouldered some arsehole, who spun on me. “Watch it, douchebag.”
I slammed my hands into his chest and threw him up against the wall. “You watch it, wanker. Before I rearrange your face.” I needed to hit him. I needed to get this surge of anger out of me before I did something I’d regret.
“Cromwell!” Easton’s voice cut through the gathering crowd. I yanked the prick in my hands off the wall and threw him to the ground. He looked up at me, wide eyed. I turned and burst through the door, looking from left to right, just wondering where the hell to go.
Easton caught up with me. He jumped in front of me. “East, I swear to God. Get out of my way.”
“Come with me,” he said.
“East—”
“Just come with me.”
I followed after him.
Some chick waved at me. “Hi, Cromwell.”
“Not now,” I snapped, then jumped into Easton’s truck. Easton pulled out of the campus, and for once in his life had the sense not to open his mouth.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. My mum was calling. She’d been trying all day. Gritting my teeth, I answered.
“Cromwell,” she said, relief in her voice.
“What?”
There was a pause. “I was just checking you were okay today, honey.”
“I’m fine,” I said, shuffling in my seat. I needed to get the hell out of this truck.
My mum sniffed, and ice-cold fury swept through me. “It’s a hard day for us both, Cromwell.”
My lip curled in disgust. “Yeah, well, you got your new husband to make it all better. Go pour your heart out to him.”
I hung up, just as Easton pulled up to a wooded area covered with thick green trees. I jumped out of the truck and stormed forward, not knowing where I was going. I burst through the trees and came to water. I stopped dead.
I closed my eyes and just stood there trying to calm the hell down. I breathed in, tensing my stomach when I felt all the pain I knew would come today.
I dropped to the ground and stared out over the water. I didn’t even know this place existed, never mind so close to campus.
Easton dropped down beside me. I shoved my mum’s phone call from my head. Pushed the anger over the nosy bastard that was Lewis aside and just breathed.
“I come here when I get like you are now.” Easton leaned forward, putting his arms around his legs and his chin on his arms. “Peaceful, you know? Like there’s no one else out here but you.” He laughed once.
“Or us.”
I put my hands in my hair and hung my head. I squeezed my eyes shut, but all I could see was Dad’s face. The last time we spoke. The raised words and his expression as I turned my back on him and walked away. I couldn’t stand it.
I looked out over the lake. I was born in this state, yet I had absolutely no connection to it. The view right now looked nothing like home. It wasn’t green enough, and the weather was too hot. For the first time since I’d been here, I felt homesick. But I didn’t know what for. That place hadn’t felt like my home for a long time. My relationship with my mum had deteriorated and I had no friends. Not real friends, anyway.
It was an age before I calmed down. Easton had disappeared a while back. When he dropped beside me again, he held out a beer. He put the six-pack between us. I pulled off the cap with my teeth. The minute the beer hit my lips, I exhaled.
“You good?” Easton asked.
I nodded. He clinked his beer to mine. “Wood Knocks. Tonight. We’ll get out of our heads. Help you forget.”
I nodded again, then drank another three beers.
I’d have done anything to take myself away from feeling like this.
*****
Some bird’s hands moved down my stomach, dipping under the waistband of my jeans. I let my head fall back against the wall. Her lips sucked on my neck as she took me in her hand. “Cromwell,” she whispered against my skin. “I’m gonna enjoy this.”
I stared out into the blackened room. Some cloakroom where students could store their coats in winter. Sawdust covered the floor. Peanut shells were down there too. The girl held me in her hand. Her lips kept pressing against my neck. It was annoying me. “You’re so hot,” she whispered.
I wasn’t doing this.
I rolled my eyes, pushed her off me, and moved her hand away. I ducked out of the cloakroom and into the mass of students Easton seemed to have gathered in the hour between us getting back to the dorm and coming here.
I could hear him. I was sure Easton’s voice could be heard from space. I burst out onto Main Street and looked around. There was hardly anyone around. Everyone was inside.