A Wish for Us

by Tillie Cole

  “He knew you had synesthesia too. He knew you’d be able to help me.” My heart squeezed as I thought of the pride my father would have had to swallow to ask Lewis, the father who didn’t want me, for help. But he’d done it.

  He’d done it for me.

  A tear tracked down my cheek.

  “That night,” Lewis said, his voice trembling. “I’d been sober for a few years . . .” He looked at me. It was the first time I’d really looked at him. And I saw myself in his face. I saw the similarities and the shared features. “When I saw you . . .my son, standing there in front of me, your mama so gracious in letting me meet you after everything I’d done . . . I went home that night and overdosed so badly that I woke up in the hospital with a permanently damaged liver.”

  My eyes widened. Lewis’s tears were free-falling now. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t take all of this. “Seeing you showed me how much I’d messed up. And my son, who was more talented than I would ever be, didn’t know me. Called someone else Dad.” He wiped his face with his hand. “It destroyed me. And from that moment on, I made myself a promise. That I would do anything I could to help you . . .” Lewis trailed off, and I knew what happened next. “Cromwell, when I learned of your father . . .”

  “Don’t,” I said, unable to hear it.

  Lewis nodded, and the silence hung heavily between us. “I’ve never met a more honorable man in my life. Your father . . .” I choked on the lump. “He loved you more than anything in this world. And because of that, he allowed me glimpses into your life—something I didn’t deserve. Still don’t.”

  I dropped my head, and the teardrops from my eyes crashed to the floor. “He should be here right now,” I choked out. “Seeing this. Me, tomorrow.”

  I felt a hand on my back. I tensed. I almost told him to move it, to fuck off, but I didn’t. After everything—after Dad, and Bonnie, and Easton—I just let it happen. I needed it. I needed to know I wasn’t on my own. I let it all out. On the theater floor where tomorrow I would conduct, I let everything that had been caged up inside me for so long loose.

  When my eyes were swollen and my throat was dry, I lifted my head. Lewis kept his hand where it was. “I have no right to ask anything of you, Cromwell. And I’ll understand if you never want more from me than my help over these past weeks.” I met his eyes and saw the desperation there. “I’m not a good man like your father. And I could never fill his shoes. But if you ever want me, or need me, or would be gracious enough to let me into your life, even just a little bit . . .” He trailed off, and I knew he was struggling to finish. “Then . . . that would be the greatest gift I’d ever receive.”

  As I looked at Lewis, I realized I was tired. I was tired of letting everything get to me. Of carrying all the sadness in my heart and the anger in my gut. I thought of Bonnie and of Easton, and of everything they’d gone through. Of how Easton couldn’t cope. I didn’t want that for my life. I’d spent three years choking on the anger and sadness . . . the regret of my last words to my dad, and I didn’t want to go there again. Bonnie had shown me a new way to be. And I refused to go back.

  I took a deep breath. “I don’t know how much I can give you.” It was the truth. Lewis looked like I’d struck him, but he nodded his head. He went to get up. “But I can . . . try,” I said and felt a new kind of lightness settle in my chest.

  Lewis looked back at me and took a quick inhale. Tears built in his eyes. “Thank you, son.” He started to walk away.

  Son.

  Son . . .

  “Thank you,” I said as he approached the exit. Lewis turned around, frowning. “For everything you’ve done, these past months. I . . . I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “I did nothing, son. This was all you. And tomorrow night, it’ll be all you again.”

  I looked down at the Jack Daniels in my hand. “Will you be okay? Tomorrow?” I’d asked a favor of Lewis, for the sake of the piece. He’d accepted straight away, without thought.

  Lewis looked up at the empty stage, which this time tomorrow would be full of musicians like us. “I’ll be up there beside you, Cromwell.” He gave me a tentative smile. “I imagine I’ll be the most okay I’ve ever been in my life.”

  With that he walked out of the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I sat there for another hour, playing the piece in my head, replaying how it looked in rehearsals. Just as I was about to leave, I took out my phone and texted Bonnie.

  I hope you come tomorrow, baby. It’s all for you. I love you.

  I pocketed my mobile and walked back to the hotel. And with every breath, I thought of Bonnie’s face, her brown eyes sparkling from my music. And I prayed to God that she’d be there.

  Hopefully, with a smile once again on her lips.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bonnie

  The line was huge as we pulled up to the venue. I stared out of the window and swallowed my nerves. Cromwell was playing in here tonight. I missed him. I missed him more than I ever thought possible. Every day when he wasn’t beside me, I felt it more and more. I missed his deep sea-colored eyes. Missed the way he would push my hair back from my face, and I missed the rare smiles I’d sometimes be blessed with.

  I missed his hand holding mine.

  I missed his kisses.

  I missed his music.

  But most of all, I simply missed him.

  I hadn’t realized until he came to Charleston just how much I needed him in my life. He was the air I breathed, the moon at my night.

  Cromwell Dean was my sun.

  “You ready, Bonnie?”

  I nodded at my mama. She helped me from the back seat and into my chair. I’d started walking more and more now. My physical therapy was going well. In a few more weeks I hoped to be walking all the time.

  Easton’s heart was meshing well with me. But then, I’d always known that would be the case. My brother would never have seen me wrong.

  Mama led us toward the doors. But we headed to a different one from everyone else. I realized it was the VIP entrance. I smiled at the man who took our tickets, then my heart started beating loudly in my chest when we were personally led to our seats.

  The theater was full to the brim, not a spare seat to be found. I was breathless as I looked at the stage, hearing the telltale sounds of the orchestra warming up behind the heavy red curtain. A certain electricity buzzed in the air, making goosebumps rise on my skin.

  When we arrived at our seats, I looked around at everyone dressed in their best. Men wore tuxes, and women wore glamorous dresses. A sense of pride filled my heart. They were all here for Cromwell. Every person was here to hear my Cromwell Dean.

  Mama leaned over and took my hand. Her eyes were wide. “This is . . .” She shook her head, struggling for words.

  I held her hand tighter. I couldn’t find the words either. The house lights flashed, signaling that the show was about to start. I stared up at the curtain as if I could see through it. I wondered where Cromwell was now. Was he in the wings waiting to be announced? Was he okay? I wanted to run backstage and take his hand.

  He hadn’t performed in three years.

  He must have been so nervous.

  I shared that nervousness as the room quieted and the lights dimmed. My breath became trapped in my throat as the curtain lifted and the orchestra was revealed. Applause rang out for the musicians, then died down as we waited . . . waited for the boy I loved with both my old and new hearts more than anything in this world.

  I heard my heart beat in my ears, only for it to skip when Cromwell stepped out onto the stage. My hand squeezed my mama’s as I drank him in. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored tux. His large frame and tall height made him look like a model as he walked to the podium. The audience’s applause ricocheted off the walls as Cromwell stopped center stage. I stopped breathing, seeing his neck tattoos creeping from the collar of his shirt. His piercings glimmered in the light. His black hair was as messy as it always was. And flutters broke out in m
y chest when I saw his handsome face.

  He was nervous. No one else would see it. But I did. I could see him rolling his tongue and rubbing his lips together. I saw his eyes adjust to the light then rove the seats.

  I froze as his deep blue eyes fell on me. And then warmth burst inside me as his shoulders relaxed and I saw him exhale. His eyes closed for a moment, and when they reopened, he smiled. A true smile. A wide smile.

  A smile of love.

  A smile just for me.

  Any air that was in my lungs fled as his smile hit my heart. Cromwell bowed then turned to the orchestra. He raised a baton into the air, and in that suspended moment, I realized I was seeing the true Cromwell. The musical proficient that he was born to be. The orchestra waited for his signal, and the lights dropped low.

  The symphony started with a single violin. And I gasped. Not at the already heavenly sound, but at the screen above the orchestra. The black screen that, when a note was played, flashed up a color and a shape—a triangle.

  Cromwell was showing me. He was showing what it was like for him.

  He was showing me the colors he heard.

  I watched, mesmerized, as shapes in every color of the rainbow danced across the screen. Strings and woodwinds and brass joined in, following every movement of Cromwell’s hand. And I watched, heart full and eyes wide, as Cromwell showed me his soul. I tried to drink it all in, the sounds, the sights, the smells of instruments being played so perfectly. Of Cromwell, at home on that stage, showing the world what he was born to do.

  At the end of the second movement, the music died down to a single drum carrying a beat. Cromwell lowered his baton. Then, from stage left, out came Professor Lewis. The audience clapped lightly, unsure what to do at the surprise introduction of the infamous conductor. Cromwell handed Lewis the baton and disappeared into the dark. The drum continued, a steady rhythm . . . just like a heartbeat . . .

  A spotlight suddenly flashed onto the upper stage left. Cromwell stood under the spotlight, his decks, laptop, and drum pad in front of him. His headphones were on his ears, making him look every inch the EDM DJ I knew him to be. The drum that was playing was suddenly echoed by Cromwell’s synthetic drum.

  The strings came in next, a double bass and cello taking the lead. Violins took the melody. Light and pure. Then a song I knew started to play. The pianist to the right was playing the piece I’d seen Cromwell play so long ago, in a music room on a late night . . . falling apart after the last note faded away.

  My heart leaped to my throat. Tears swelled in my eyes. The pianist played the song perfectly as Lewis conducted the orchestra with ease. Then the music dropped again, and the faint sound of a song I knew—a song that came from my heart—poured from the speakers above us.

  My song.

  My voice.

  I gasped. My voice singing “Wings” filled the room. The song was set to a harp and a flute. Serene. Pure.

  Beautiful.

  My hand went to my mouth as my breathing stuttered. Because this was how he saw me. Then, from the background came the sound of an offbeat heart. My hands shook when I recognized the sound.

  It was my heart.

  My old heart.

  A melody grew louder. One of sadness. The beautiful sound of the clarinet and cello playing side by side made my heart ache. And then it came, the sound of another heart. A much stronger heart.

  Easton’s heart.

  My heart.

  My hand fell over my chest, and I felt the beat beneath my palm, in sync with the beat from the speakers. Cromwell threaded electronic beats with the orchestra, the colors a firework display of what he saw in his head when his music played. And I was enraptured. I was drawn into the piece like I was living it. My fight song came next, the song he had played for me so many times in the hospital it had become my anthem. The soundtrack to my hopes and wishes as I lay breathless in bed.

  My wish to be forever with him.

  The music that I had pushed away for so long seeped into my skin, my flesh, and down to my bones. It didn’t stop until it made its way down to my heart and, finally, my soul.

  I closed my eyes as the symphony came to its crescendo, the mixture of mediums, modern and old, making me feel alive. I felt like my heart wanted to leap from my chest.

  This was why I loved music.

  This feeling right now. This harmony. This melody, this perfect symphony . . . and then I heard the guitar, the acoustic guitar finding its way over the crashing of drums and the soaring violins.

  My song.

  Our song.

  “A Wish For Us.”

  The tears fell down my face as the rest of the story was told. Because that’s what Cromwell was doing. He was telling me it all. From his first composition as a child, to his father, to Easton . . . and to me. He was telling me it all, through music, through song . . . the only way he knew how.

  I cried. Chest wracking with my love for Cromwell Dean, the boy I met on the beach in Brighton. The boy I loved with my entire soul. The boy who had created a symphony just for me.

  As the last note sailed into the air, cementing Cromwell’s place among the musical greats, the audience erupted. People jumped to their feet, applauding the genius that was Cromwell and his symphony.

  A program fell to the floor in front of me. When I looked down, I saw the symphony’s title: “A Wish For Us.” And I smiled. I let the tears fall down my cheeks, exorcising the pain, the numbness, and my life without Cromwell.

  Cromwell came to the center of the stage. Lewis held out his arm, presenting his son to the audience. The pride in Lewis’s eyes was almost my undoing. Cromwell took a deep breath, his eyes searching the crowd. I clapped and clapped, in awe of everything he was. The person he was and the love he inspired in me.

  And then his eyes fixed on me. His hand moved to his chest and tapped over his heart, a shy smile on his face. Happiness filled my every cell. Cromwell bowed and left the stage. The applause lasted long after he’d gone. A testimony to the effect his music had on the people who let it into their hearts.

  When the theater was clear, my mama pushed us backstage. My heart thundered in my chest as I smoothed my hands over my dress. Musicians moved around backstage, the adrenaline that was surging through them palpable.

  And then we turned the corner, and I saw him.

  Cromwell was at the end of the hallway, standing against the wall, eyes closed and taking deep breaths. His bow tie was loose and his shirt was open. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing his tattoos. “I’ll leave you two alone.” My mama’s footsteps faded away.

  Cromwell opened his eyes. He startled when he saw me. He straightened off the wall, his chest rising and falling in rapid movements, and went to take a step forward, but I held out my hand for him to stop.

  He did, and I took a deep breath.

  I gripped the chair’s arms and pushed myself up. My feet shakily hit the floor . . . and the whole time, I never took my eyes off Cromwell. A proud smile lit up his face when I took a step toward him, my weak legs knowing they had no other choice but to carry me forward. Because they knew, as much as my heart did—I had to be with Cromwell.

  He was our home.

  My heart beat strong. And I made my way to Cromwell, remembering the symphony he’d created for me. And with every note I remembered, every flash of color that had given me a glimpse into his heart, I pushed on. I pushed and pushed, until I was out of breath . . . but I was before him. I’d made it to him. I’d fought to get here. And I refused to quit now.

  I looked up, and Cromwell’s shining eyes were fixed on me. “It was beautiful,” I whispered, my voice cracking.

  “Baby.” Cromwell pushed his hand through my hair. I closed my eyes, the touch of him so, so welcomed after so much time apart. And then his lips were on mine, as sweet and as perfect as I remembered them to be.

  I felt him. Felt everything about this moment. When he pulled back, I stared into his eyes. “I love you,” I said, holding on to hi
s wrists. His hands cupped my face.

  “I love you too,” he breathed, and closed his eyes. Like he couldn’t believe I was here. Like I was his dream come true.

  Like I was his living, breathing wish.

  When his eyes opened again, he said, “Come with me.” I nodded. He whisked me up into his arms and held me closely to his chest as he carried me to an elevator. When the doors closed, all I could see and feel and smell was Cromwell. I didn’t move my eyes from his. He seemed changed somehow. His shoulders had relaxed, and there was a light in his eyes that I’d never seen before. As if they had been injected with life.

  When his eyes fixed on me, I could see nothing but love.

  The doors opened and fresh air whooshed around us. Cromwell didn’t put me down; he kept me in his strong arms and took me along what I saw was a roof terrace. A blanket of stars stared down at us, not a single cloud in the sky.

  “Cromwell . . .” I murmured, feeling overcome at the sight. At everything tonight. At the music, the heartbeats, the symphony . . . and him.

  Always him.

  Cromwell sat down on a sofa in the center of a small rooftop garden. Water flowed around us, sounding like a tranquil river. Winter flowers of reds and greens in decorative pots surrounded us. It was like a glimpse of heaven. And when Cromwell held me tighter, it felt like coming home.

  The rooftop was silent. Only the sound of the street below could be heard in the distance. I blinked up at the stars and wondered if Easton was up there, still tethered somehow to his heart . . . to me.

  “It’s beautiful up here,” I said and finally turned to Cromwell.

  Cromwell was already watching me. He looked at me like I was a gift he couldn’t believe he’d received. My chest expanded, letting in more love for him than the minute before. I hadn’t been sure that was possible.