by Tillie Cole
But my hair . . .
“Why are you pushing him on me so much?” I asked my dad.
“Because he understands, son. He understands what it’s like to be like you.” He sighed. “Just give him a chance. I think you’ll like him if you get to know him. You should know him, son.”
No. It couldn’t be true. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.
Hands shaking, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. Everything was too much. Everything, my life, falling apart. I pressed the contact and waited until it connected. “Cromwell! Baby, are you okay?” My mum’s faint South Carolinian accent drifted into my ears.
“Was Dad my real dad?” I blurted.
My mum paused on the other end of the phone. I heard her struggling for words. “Cromwell . . . what . . . ?”
“Was Dad my real dad? Just answer the question!”
But she didn’t. She was silent.
It said everything.
I slammed my hand down to end the call. My pulse was sprinting, and before I knew it I was out of the car. I started running, and I didn’t stop until I got to his house on campus.
My fist pounded on the door until it opened. Lewis stood there, dressing gown on, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Cromwell?” he said groggily. “What—?”
“Who had synesthesia, your mum or dad?”
It took him a while for the question to sink in. “Um . . . my mama had it.” And then he looked at me. He saw me glaring. And I watched the arsehole’s face pale.
“How well did you know my mum?” I asked, voice strained.
I didn’t think Lewis was going to answer, but then he said, “Well.” He swallowed. “Very well.”
I closed my eyes. When I opened them again. I noticed Lewis’s black hair. His build. His height. And I knew. I backed away from the door, pain and shock and Bonnie being in a coma all melting into one fucked-up pot.
“Cromwell . . .” Lewis stepped forward.
He was my father. My phone rang in my pocket. I took it out to see my mum’s name. He must have seen it too. “Cromwell, please, I can explain. We can explain.”
“Get the hell away from me,” I said, backing over his garden. But he kept coming, and my feet ground to a halt. “Get away,” I warned again, and I felt something in my chest rip open when I thought of my dad. Of him trying to understand me. My music. The colors . . .
And I wasn’t even his.
Lewis kept coming. He came closer and closer, until he was right in front of me. “Cromwell, please—”
But before he could say any more, I sent my fist flying across his face. His head snapped back. When he turned around, his lip was busted. “You’re nothing,” I spat. “You’re nothing compared to him.” I rushed out of his garden before he could say anything else. I ran and ran, until I found myself back at the lake. But the minute I was back there, all I saw was Bonnie, and whatever was left of my heart shredded into fragments.
I sank down to the dock and hung my feet off the end. My head dropped, and I let everything come out. I couldn’t hold it together.
Bonnie.
My dad.
Lewis . . .
Tipping my head back, I stared at the stars in the sky and had never felt so insignificant in my life. I couldn’t be here. But I had nowhere else to go.
No. That was a lie.
I drove back to the hospital. When I walked into the waiting room, the Farradays all looked up at me. They hadn’t left.
“I’m not leaving her,” I said, voice broken and raw. I knew I must have looked a sight. I knew because Mrs. Farraday stood and took my hand, bringing me back to a seat beside her. Easton came and sat beside me too. The window on the other side of the room showed Bonnie, lying in the bed. So I focused on her. Wishing on the stars I’d just seen that she would pull through.
I needed her, and I wasn’t sure what the hell I’d do if I didn’t have her in my life. So I would wait. I’d wait for her to wake. And we’d pray for a heart.
Or I was pretty sure I’d lose the beat in mine.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bonnie
Five days later . . .
An incessant beep filled my brain. Its rhythm was unwavering. I wanted to go back to sleep, but when I tried to turn over, my body ached. Everywhere ached. I winced and felt something tickling my nose. I tried to move my hand to scratch it, but something was in my hand. It was warm, and I didn’t want it to go. So I tried to hold on.
“Bonnie?” A deeply accented voice drifted into my ears. It made me think of Mozart. My eyes felt gritty as I forced them open. Bright light made me flinch. I blinked until my eyes got used to the light. Things started to become clear. White ceiling. Light in the center of the room. I glanced down. I was in a bed, a pink blanket covering my legs. Then I saw my hand, and the hand it was wrapped in.
I lifted my eyes, confusion thick in my head. But then my gaze collided with a set of blue eyes that immediately stole my breath. “Cromwell,” I said. No noise left my mouth. I tried to clear my throat, but it hurt to swallow. My free hand tried to lift to my throat, but my arm was weak and I could barely move it.
Panic flared inside me. Cromwell moved to sit on the edge of the bed. I stilled, captivated by him as always, as he brought my hand to his lips. His other hand cupped my face. I wanted to cover it with mine. But I couldn’t and I didn’t know why.
“Farraday,” he breathed, relief thick in his voice. It made my heart flutter in my chest.
“Cromwell.” My eyes shimmered as I looked around the room. Then I saw my hand on the bed. Wires were coming from it. Panic took me in its hold.
“Shh.” Cromwell brought his lips to my forehead. I immediately stilled, trying my best to calm down. When he pulled back, I studied his face. For some reason I felt like it had been a lifetime since I’d seen him. I searched my mind for the last time he’d been with me, but everything was muddled and unclear.
But as I surveyed him, I knew last time his eyes had been brighter. I knew he hadn’t had that much dark stubble on his cheeks, and I knew that his hair, although always messy, had never been this unkempt. He had dark circles under his eyes, and he seemed pale. He was dressed as always in a black knitted sweater and ripped black jeans. I couldn’t see his feet, but I knew that heavy black boots would be on them.
And his tattoos and piercings were as prominent as they’d ever been. And I knew one thing above everything else: that I loved him. I was convinced I could have forgotten everything about him but that. That I loved him with all my heart.
Cromwell stroked back my hair. I smiled, the movement familiar. He swallowed. “We were on the boat, baby. Do you remember?” I searched my head for the memory. Fuzzy images of the lake came back to me. Birds singing and rustling leaves. Cromwell held my hand tighter. “You had an episode.” Cromwell looked behind him. “Maybe I should get a doctor. To explain it better. Your parents . . .”
He went to pull away, but I held on. “You,” I whispered. Cromwell sighed and moved his hand over my heart. He clenched his jaw. “You had a heart attack, baby.” His broken-voiced words swam around my head on repeat. Heart attack . . . heart attack . . . heart attack . . .
Fear and shock quickly took me in their thrall, their heavy weights pressing down, suffocating me. I wanted to climb from the bed and escape the heavy, confusing darkness I felt looming over me. But I couldn’t move, so I clung to Cromwell for safety. His finger stroking down my cheek was like water to the fire of fear that blazed inside me. “You made it through, baby. The doctors kept you going.” He gestured to the machines that hissed and beeped around me. “You were in an induced coma while you got better. You’ve been under for five days.” His lip shook. “We’ve all been waiting for you to wake up.”
I closed my eyes, trying to stave off the fear that I refused to let take me over. I breathed, feeling the oxygen tube in my nose. When I opened my eyes again, when I saw the dark circles under his eyes, I asked, “You . . . stayed . . . here?”
Cromwell kissed my lips, and the darkness that had been pressing down on me disappeared. His light chased it away. A tear fell from the corner of my eyes. He wiped it away with his thumb. “I’d better go and tell the doctor and your parents you’re awake.”
He kissed my hand again before walking out of the room. The minute he left, I felt a flash of coldness that I never felt when he was beside me. Cromwell Dean was my warmth. The blazing soul that kept mine tethered to this life.
My eyes drifted around the room. And my heart stuttered when my gaze fell on my guitar in the corner. The keyboard that stood against the wall. The violin that lay on the sofa. This time it wasn’t just a simple tear that tracked down my cheek; it was a torrent.
“He played for you every day.” My eyes moved to the doorway. My stomach fell when I saw Easton. His hair was a mess, and I could see the anxiety on his face. “Easton,” I mouthed, emotion stealing whatever voice I had managed to salvage since I’d awoken.
Easton walked into the room, his fingers brushing over the keyboard. His eyes were shining. “He hasn’t been to school. Just brought these the day after you were brought in. And he played for you all day every day. Papa had to force him to eat and sleep. Then when he had, he was back here, playing for you.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Bonn.” Easton ran his hand down his face. He looked tired. So tired. Guilt assaulted me. “He’s talented, sis. I’ll give him that.” He stared at the instruments, lost in thought. “There was this one piece he kept playing on the keyboard . . .” He huffed a laugh. “Kept making Mama cry.”
My fight song.
I knew it without any further explanation. I knew that even unconscious, my heart would have heard it too.
Easton came to stand beside me. His gaze dropped, but after a few seconds, his hand threaded into mine. It crushed me to see him so hurt. His bandages were still on his wrists, and I wanted nothing more than to leap from the bed and tell him I was cured. “Hey, sis,” he whispered, voice broken.
“Hey, you.”
My hand shook. So did his. Easton sat down on the bed. My face crumbled when I saw tears flooding his face. “Thought I’d lost you, Bonn,” he said hoarsely. I held on to him as tightly as I could.
“Not yet . . .” I said and offered what smile I could. Easton stared out the window. “I’m gonna make it,” I forced out. Easton nodded, and I ran my finger over his bandage. “I’ll live for us both . . .”
Easton ducked his head, his long blond hair hiding his face. I held him tight as he just sat there with me. Footsteps hurried down the hallway, then my mama burst into the room, my papa following behind. They both hugged me as best they could. When they moved back, I saw Cromwell in the doorway, and despite the fact that my parents were speaking to me, he was all I could see.
He was my violet blue.
My favorite-ever note.
The doctor came and checked on me. My heart cracked just that little bit more when he told me I was here to stay. That there would be no going home. And that I was now on the top of the heart donor list. It inspired in me both terror and hope. Hope that I may actually get a heart. And terror as my life was now on a countdown, an hourglass quickly losing sand. But I didn’t ask how long I had. I didn’t want to know from the doctor. I didn’t want to hear things like that delivered from his clinical mouth.
I wanted to hear it from someone I loved.
For a day I fought with tiredness, the residual effects of the induced coma. I thought I was dreaming. My eyes were shut, and I could hear the most beautiful music playing. In fact, I could’ve been fooled into thinking I was in heaven. But then I opened my eyes and saw the source of the music. Cromwell sat at the keyboard, his hands hypnotizing as he played my song. I listened, my heart listened, as the notes I’d inspired floated into the air and blanketed me in a cocoon. I listened until he played the very last note.
And when he turned, I simply held out my hand. Cromwell smiled, and I melted into the bed. He had rolled his sweater up to his forearms, showing off his tattoos. Today, his knitted sweater was white. He looked beautiful. Cromwell went to sit on the chair beside me. But I shook my head. He slipped his hand in mine and perched on the edge of the bed. But that wasn’t enough either. I shifted my body, gritting my teeth at the pain it caused.
“Baby, no,” he said, but I smiled when I saw there was now enough room for him to lie down. He shook his head, but I could see the hint of a smile on his lips too.
“Lie down . . . please.” Cromwell lay on the bed. The doors of my room were shut, and frankly, even if they weren’t I wouldn’t have cared.
Cromwell’s large body felt so perfect next to mine. And for the first time since I’d woken up, I felt warm. I felt safe. Beside Cromwell, I was complete.
“My song,” I managed to whisper, my throat still sore from the ventilator’s tube.
Cromwell laid his head on the pillow beside me. “Your song.” For a brief moment I felt a sense of utter peace. Until I fought to breathe, and I realized I couldn’t keep up the feeling for long.
I leaned closer to Cromwell, using his scent and frame for courage. When I met his eyes, I found him already watching me. I swallowed. “How long?” The minute the question was out, I thought I felt my heart pounding.
Cromwell paled as the words left my mouth. “Baby.” He shook his head. I held his hand tighter.
“Please . . . I have to know.”
Cromwell shut his eyes. “No more than a week,” he whispered. I’d thought his words would wound me. I’d thought if the answer was only a short amount of time, it would cripple me. Instead, a strange sense of calm beset me. A week . . .
I nodded my head. Cromwell’s hand, this time, tightened in mine. It was he who needed the support. Not me. “They’ll get you a heart.” He closed his eyes and kissed my hand. “I know it.”
But I knew different.
It was funny. After years of praying a heart would come, after wish after wish that I would be healed, now I was here. At the end. Days away from my tired heart being unable to beat once more, it felt freeing to just accept it. To stop the prayers. To stop the wishes. And to embrace the time I had left with the people I loved.
I took a deep breath. “You must look after Easton for me.”
Cromwell stilled. He shook his head, fighting where I was taking the conversation. “Don’t, baby. Don’t talk like this.”
“Promise me . . .” I was breathless, the short request taking so much out of me that I already felt exhausted. Cromwell’s jaw clenched and he looked away. “He is fragile . . . but he is stronger . . . than he knows.”
Cromwell’s nose flared. He refused to look at me. I lifted my hand and steered his face toward mine.
“Don’t,” he whispered brokenly. His lashes grew wet with the start of tears. “I can’t . . . I can’t lose you too.”
I rolled my lips to stop myself from falling apart. “You . . . you won’t lose me.” I laid my hand on his heart. “Not in here.” Cromwell ducked his head. “Just like your father isn’t gone either.” I believed that now. I believed that when someone was so imbedded in your heart, your soul, they never truly left.
A strange look passed over Cromwell’s face, then he tucked his head into my neck. I felt the tears pour. So I wrapped my arm around his back and held him close. I stared at the keyboard and violin and knew that he would create music that would change the world. I was as sure of it as I was sure the sun would rise each day. It was the biggest sadness I held. That I wouldn’t be beside him to hear it. To watch him perform at sold-out theaters. To see him on podiums, bringing people to their feet.
When Cromwell raised his head, I whispered, “Promise me . . . Look after him.”
Cromwell, red eyed and cheeks flushed, nodded his head. A weight I didn’t know I carried lifted from my shoulders. “And compose.” Cromwell stilled. I tapped my hand on his chest. “Don’t lose your passion again.”
“You brought it back to me.”
His words were heaven to my ears. I smiled, and I saw the love in Cromwell’s eyes. “My bag . . .” His eyebrows pulled down in confusion. “A notebook . . . in my bag.”
Cromwell found the notebook. He went to hand it to me, but I pushed it back at him. “For you.”
He looked even more confused. I motioned for him to lie back down. He did, settling beside me. “My words . . .” I said. Realization spread on his face.
“Your songs?”
I nodded. “The one at the end.” Cromwell ran his eyes over the book filled with my thoughts and dreams and wishes. And I just watched him. I realized I could have watched him for an eternity and never grown tired of it.
I knew when he had reached the last page. I saw his eyes raking first over the words, and then the notes. He didn’t say anything, but the shine in his eyes and the words that never came told me enough.
“For . . . us,” I explained and kissed the back of his hand. Cromwell watched every single thing I did, as if he didn’t want to miss a single movement I made. A gesture I gave. A word I spoke. I pointed at my old guitar. “I wanted to sing it for you . . . but I lost my breath before I could.” It was my biggest regret, that I hadn’t written this sooner. Clara had helped me. She had written down the words, and I had shown her how to draw the notes.
I wanted to sing this for him someday when I was better. But now . . . at least he had it now.
“Bonnie.” He ran his fingers down the page as though he had been handed the original score of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony to keep.
“You can imagine the music in your head,” I said, pointing to the simple notes that made up its composition. Nothing fancy. Nothing hard. Just my words and the chords that made me think of him.
“‘A Wish For Us,’” he said, reading the title aloud.