Page 84 of A Wish for Us

“You’re the lyricist.”

She nodded. “It’s my dream. To put words to music. To bring them to life. I’m not much of a performer.” I wanted to argue that fact. The night I’d seen her at the coffee house, that’s when everything changed. “But my dream would be to write for others.” She looked to me. “What’s yours?”

“To just make music.” I sighed. “Music that means something.”

“Wouldn’t it be something if our two dreams collided?” I smiled, because I saw it in my head. Saw Bonnie by my side, writing lyrics as I composed the music. Her by my side, bringing life to my notes.

“It would be something,” I echoed. Bonnie yawned. As her eyes began to drift closed, I heard her song, “Wings,” which I’d layered over my mix. And I smiled.

Us.

“Cromwell?” Bonnie sat up, putting on her pajamas. I watched her. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to take my eyes off her again. She lay down, her eyes pulling shut. “Put your clothes on, Cromwell. Before my papa comes down in the morning and shoots you.”

Despite feeling the rawness in my chest, and despite the fucking ten-ton weight of fear I felt knowing that Bonnie didn’t have long until her heart could take no more, I laughed. Bonnie smiled, eyes still closed, and I dressed. But I lay back on the bed, not even giving one shit about my damp clothes or the fact that her parents could find us like this in the morning. I pulled her to me as she lay under the comforter, vowing to never let her go.

“Crom?” Bonnie said, her voice laced with sleep. I smiled at the nickname that had just slipped from her lips.

“Mmm?”

“I love you,” she whispered and obliterated what was left of my heart.

“I love you too.”

Music filled my head as I thought of her fight. As I heard her wheezing breath and saw her lips deepening in color through the lack of blood from her heart. It was a melody just for her. To keep her strong. To inspire her to fight.

I knew I’d record it as soon as I went home.

Because she had to survive.

I couldn’t take another loss. But the loss of what could be, that was what scared me most. Because I was sure we could be something special.

She just had to survive.

Chapter Twenty

Cromwell

Two weeks later…

I walked back into the dorm room to darkness. I went over to the curtains and pulled them back. Easton was in bed again. He threw the duvet over his head. “What the hell, Crom?”

I stood beside his bed and pulled the covers back. Easton whipped around. He stank of alcohol. I’d just got back from sleeping over at Bonnie’s, but I knew he’d only just got in.

“Get up. I need your help,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. I looked at the painting on the easel. Another dark, messed-up piece. I got it. Christ knew I got it. I could see the pain he was in every day as he walked around, lost.

He saw Bonnie, and when he did he was all smiles. Even as she started to fade. As her days at college became less and less frequent. As her legs grew weak and she had to use a wheelchair, and when her breathing got so bad she needed oxygen through her nose every day. A piece of me died each time I saw her body giving up. And I wanted to scream when I saw the fight in her eyes. As she held my hand, gripping on as hard as she could…the once hard grip now as light as a feather.

Easton was getting worse. But Bonnie needed him. Hell, I needed him. He was the only other person who understood all this.

But when he was back here, he was thrashing canvases with black paint or out getting hammered.

“I need you to help me load up my truck.” Easton cracked his eye open. Irubbed the back of my head, my chest pulled tight. At every moment, I felt I was only ever one step from falling the hell apart. “I’m taking the instruments to her.”

Easton’s face fell, and I heard him inhale deeply. He knew what it meant. Bonnie was no longer able to come to college. She was no longer able to do much of anything.

“Please, East.” I knew he would have heard the telltale rasp in my voice. Easton got dressed and followed me to the music building. Lewis had given me permission to work with Bonnie at home. We’d gotten far. But now Bonnie could only lie in her bed and listen. If she tried to pick up a violin her arms would fail. If she tried to play the keys of a piano, her fingers would become too numb for her to move. And, the worst part, if she tried to play the guitar she loved so much, her hands couldn’t find the strength to strum.

And her voice. The violet blue. Her passion. Her words…they would fade to a whisper, her short breath making it impossible for her to sing. That was the worst of all. Each day she sang. I would lie with her on her bed, and she would sing. And every day the violet blue grew weaker and weaker, fading until it was a diluted sort of lilac. Until there was no pigment left at all.

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