Page 17 of A Wish for Us

I smiled again, but I was sure he could see the sadness in my face. “I’ll just get my things and go. What time is it anyway?” A quick glance around the coffee shop showed me they were closing. Chairs were upside down on tables, and the floor was partially mopped. “I’m sorry, Sam. You should have told me sooner to go.”

“Not a problem. You seemed deep into your work. I didn’t wanna disturb you.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s eleven thirty, by the way. Just in case you were still wondering.”

I gave him another tight smile, then threw my bag over my shoulder. I pulled my sweater on. I was cold. And tired. I’d walked here from the dorm, needing the fresh air and exercise.

I made my way down Main Street and stopped when I passed Wood Knocks. It was the bar most people went to. They had a small club underneath when it hit midnight. If the Barn wasn’t on, then it was Wood Knocks that everyone went to. The dancing, cheap beer, and the casual attitude toward the mass of fake IDs were just a prelude to getting laid, really.

“Shots, motherfuckers!” I recognized my brother’s voice in an instant. I peered through the window and saw Easton standing on the table, his loud voice ricocheting off the walls. I couldn’t believe he was so drunk again. Just another thing that was worrying me. He was partying too much.

“Cromwell, get your ‘arse,’” he said in a terrible English accent, “here right now, boy!” He searched the crowd. “Where is he?”

A disbelieving laugh spilled from my lips. I walked away, leaving my brother searching the packed crowd, before I could see Cromwell’s face. If I did, I didn’t trust I wouldn’t make a fool of myself by storming in there and ripping into him for leaving me in that coffee shop for nearly five hours doing our joint work on my own.

I picked up my pace as I made my way back to campus, pushing myself more than was wise. I arrived at my dorm, but as my hand hovered above the doorknob, I changed my mind and headed for the music departmentinstead. Even before Lewis had arrived at the college, the rooms were open to students around the clock. The faculty understood that the time of day wasn’t a factor when inspiration hit. Most artistic people were night people. At least the ones I knew.

I swiped my card and made my way down the hallway to a practice room. I had just dropped my purse to the floor when I heard the sound of a piano drifting down the hall.

I stood near the door and closed my eyes, a smile etched on my lips. It was always the same. Whenever I heard music, something happened inside me. Music always seeped into me like damp drizzle on a cold day. I could feel it down to my bones.

Nothing in my life made me as happy as hearing an instrument being played as perfectly as the piano was now. I loved all kinds of instruments. But there was just something about a piano that simply made mefeelmore. Maybe it was because I would never play it as beautifully as the person playing it now. I didn’t know. All I knew was that the sound gripped hold of my heart and made it so I never wanted to let it go.

The piano stopped. I opened my eyes. I moved to go to the piano in my own room, but then the sound of a violin began. I stopped dead in my tracks and exhaled a short puff of air. It was perfect. Every movement of the bow. I listened harder, trying to place the piece, or even the composer. But I couldn’t…

And then somehow I knew—it was an original piece.

When the violin stopped and the sound of a clarinet floated down the hallway, I realized that the sounds were coming from the largest room, where the loan instruments for the music education majors were stored. I closed my eyes and listened as whoever was in there played them all in turn.

I wasn’t sure how long I listened. But when a silence rang out, my ears mourning the absence of the most breathtaking music I had ever heard, I let out a deep exhale. It felt as though I hadn’t breathed through the tour of each instrument.

I stared at the closed door. The window panel was covered with a shutter. I stood, gathering my thoughts, and the piano played again. But unlike the other piece the musician had played, this one was different. Itfeltdifferent.The slow notes were somber, the deeper tones the principal of the show. My throat clogged with the sadness the music evoked.

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 creator 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 were 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 Deanwasthe 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 inthe silent aftermath of his sorrow. His beautiful face drained of blood when he met my eyes.

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