Page 113 of A Wish for Us

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 prodigy 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 playso 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. Graceful.

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.

Myoldheart.

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 waslivingit. My fight song came next, the song he had played for me so many times in the hospital that it had become my personal anthem. The soundtrack to my hopes and wishes as I lay breathless in bed.

My wish to be with him forever.

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 ofmediums, modern and old, making me feelalive. 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.

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