Page 19 of A Wish for Us

A tear dropped down my cheek. Cromwell Dean was in so much pain that it took away his joy to play music that he’d once loved. Pain that caused him to shed tears.

I ached. Because I knew what that kind of pain felt like.

In the most unlikely of places, at the most unlikely of times, I’d found common ground with Cromwell Dean. But would we ever share those secrets…?

I sighed.

Probably not.

Chapter Eight

Cromwell

The breeze slapped my skin as I rushed through the quad, past some old alumnus memorialized in a cast-iron statue in the center. My eyes darted around me, at the darkened edge of the grass and the illuminated benches under vintage streetlamps.

I breathed in my cigarette smoke, forcing it into my lungs, waiting for the rush of nicotine to calm me down. But it didn’t work. I let my feet lead me wherever they wanted me to go. But it didn’t stop the shaking of my hands. It didn’t stop the erratic beat of my heart and the tears that just wouldn’t fucking stop.

My fingers ached as I clutched the metal in my hands so tightly I wondered if they would ever get the feeling back in them again. I walked and walked until I found myself at the lake. It was silent, no sign of life but the docked boats and the dim lights from the far-off lakeside bar that sat on the edge. My feet led me to the end of a dock before they gave out and I dropped to my knees.

The sound of the lake lapping against the dock’s wooden posts hit my ears. Pale purples lit up my eyes, and the taste of cinnamon burst in my mouth. I groaned low, not wanting any of it. Not wanting the colors or the tastes or the feels…

“Son,” he whispered, his eyes shining. “How…how did you play like that?”

I shrugged, dropping my hands from the piano. Dad’s hand came on my head, and he crouched beside me. “Has someone taught you that?”

I shook my head. “I—” I quickly shut my mouth.

“You what?” He smiled. “Come on, buddy. I promise I’m not angry.” I didn’twant to make him angry. He’d been away with the army for months and months and he’d just got back. I wanted to make him proud, not angry.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and ran my fingertips over the keys. They didn’t make a sound. “I can just play,” I whispered. I glanced up at Dad. I lifted my hands. “They just know what to do.” I pointed to my head. “I just follow the colors. The tastes.” I pointed at my chest, my stomach. “How they make me feel.”

My dad blinked then suddenly hugged me to his chest. I missed him when he was away. It wasn’t the same when he was gone. When he pulled back, he said, “Play again, Cromwell. Let me listen.”

So I did.

It was the first time in my life I’d ever seen my dad cry.

So I played some more…

I gasped, sucking in the humid air. I moved my feet, my back hitting the wooden post. A man was canoeing in the distance. I wondered why the hell he was here at night. But then I thought maybe he was like me. Maybe when he closed his eyes, he never got rest. Instead, he only saw the memory of what destroyed him. As I looked at the water rippling beneath the oars, I wished I were him right now. Just going. No destination in mind. Just bloody going.

Bonnie’s face popped into my head as I felt the dog tag’s metal cutting into my palm. I glanced down at my fingers and relived them playing the keys. Tattoos of skulls, and of the ID number that meant the most to me in the world, looked back at me. They mocked me.

It had to have been Bonnie Farraday who had walked in. At midnight, when everyone else was out at the bar or in bed, it had to be her who stood at the door. The one girl who had managed to get under my skin. To make me feel things I had never wanted to feel. I shook my head and ran my free hand over my face.

It had started with a message in my mailbox…

Drop by my office at five,

Professor Lewis.

I’d gone there and taken a seat in the chair opposite his. He had stared at me quietly. I’d met him a couple of times in my life. Mostly when I was young…then just before…

The first time I’d met him, I’d gone with my parents to see him conduct his work at the Royal Albert Hall.

He’d heard of me and had invited us all along.

Then years passed and I heard nothing again. Not when I’d wanted him anyway.

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