Page 79 of A Wish for Us

I looked at my brother, and I saw that he was losing it. “Easton,” I said quietly.

“I need to get back to the dorm.” He kissed my cheek and backed away to his truck, which was parked on the driveway.

“East?” He turned, mid-step. I swallowed. “You’re okay, yeah?”

He threw on a smile that I wasn’t sure was entirely real. “I am, Bonn. I swear. I just gotta get to school. I need…”

“I get it.” He needed space. Easton smiled then got into his truck. I watched him drive away. He had sworn to me he was taking his meds. I had made him promise to tell me if it all—me, my illness—got too much.

“You think he’s okay?” I asked my papa as we started walking slowly up the path.

“I check in with him several times a day, Bonn. He’s doing the best he can. His therapist is happy with his progress.” My father’s voice grew husky as he said, “It’s just you, you know? He wants to fix you. And he can’t.” My papa pulled me close. “It’s hard for your brother, and your papa, to deal with. The fact that we can’t protect you. Can’t heal you.”

“Papa…” I whispered, my throat thickening with sadness.

“Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart. It’s been a long day.” My father led me down the path, each step like a marathon to my quickly tiring legs. I knew he couldn’t talk to me right then. And I didn’t know what to say in return.

I slept for hours. When I woke, it was dark outside, the rain slashing off the windows. It was nearly midnight. Realizing I hadn’t texted Cromwell to let him know I was back, I sent him a quick message that I would see him tomorrow and went back to sleep.

It felt like I’d barely closed my eyes when I heard a knock at my window. I squinted in the dark, trying to get my bearings. When the knock sounded again, I got up from my bed, using the frame to keep me steady. The clock on the side table said it was two thirty in the morning.

I pulled back the curtains. At the window, drenched, black clothes slick to his body, was Cromwell. At just the sight of him, my heart seemed to try to leap from my chest as if it could break free and reside next to his. I reached up and flicked the lock. Before I’d even had a chance to lift the window, Cromwell had it open and was climbing inside.

I stepped back as his tall frame came into my bedroom. I was breathless when he looked up. His intense blue eyes were on me, and his black hair was messy, strands sticking to his face. I went to speak, but before I could, Cromwell had stepped forward and taken me in his arms.

His mouth took mine, a sigh slipping from my lips. He was wet, soaked through to the bone, but I didn’t care as his lips moved against mine, soft yet demanding. Rough, yet so caring it almost made me cry. He knew I was struggling to breathe lately, and he pulled back, leaving his hands framing my face.

“I’ve missed you.”

His words were a fire to a chill I didn’t even know I felt. His eyes never left mine, his stare intense.

“I missed you too,” I whispered and watched his tense shoulders relax. His eyes ran down my pajamas.

“You’re tired?”

I laughed, the sound weak. “I’m always tired.”

Cromwell swallowed then scooped me up in his arms. The arms of his black sweater—the sweater I’d once worn—were wet, but I didn’t care. I would face the cold if it meant being in his arms like this.

Cromwell laid me on the bed and sat down on the edge. His tattooed hand pushed back my hair before skimming softly down my cheek. I caught it in my hand before he pulled it away. I pressed it against my face and closed my eyes. I could smell the rain. I could smellhim.

But when I opened my eyes, I truly looked at his face. “Cromwell?” I asked, concern taking me in its grip. “What’s wrong?”

Cromwell’s eyes looked haunted, his olive skin pale. He had dark circles under his eyes. He looked…sad.

But before I could ask any more, Cromwell got to his feet and moved to the piano. For a few moments, I didn’t dare move, watching as he pulled out my piano stool and slowly sat down. His back was ramrod straight, his head hanging low.

I could hear my short breaths echoing in my ears, only faintly catching the sound of the piano lid being opened and the volume being turned to its lowest setting. I sat up, wondering what Cromwell was doing. I hugged my pillow, keeping the chill from my now wet pajamas from me, and Cromwell started to play.

I froze, every part of me captured in shock as the piece he had once partially played drifted across the room. The time the touch of my handon his shoulder had helped him to play. My eyes widened and my bottom lip trembled as the most beautiful composition I’d ever had the pleasure of hearing graced my ears. The notes sank into the marrow of my bones and spread throughout my body. They filled every part of me, until they filled my heart, infusing it with life.

I sat mesmerized as Cromwell passed the point at which he’d once stopped, and he now blessed me with more. Notes I’d never heard so beautifully, perfectly placed together poured from him, his body moving to the rhythm like he was part of the song. Cromwell was the music he created. I was sure I was seeing through the walls he kept so high. I was seeing the darkness he kept hidden deep finally fleeing its prison.

My shaking hand came to my mouth. I forgot to breathe, the power of the piece like a weight in my chest. Because it spoke of sorrow and loss. It spoke of anger and regret.

It spoke of love.

I recognized every feeling, because I had felt them too. Was feeling them now. Cromwell’s hands danced over the keys, perfectly, gracefully, and with such beauty that I was sure that if my heart gave out at that moment, it would be at peace after hearing this.

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