A Wish for Us

  I slid my hand in his, trying to keep it from shaking. I thought he’d let go of my hand as we made our way down the path to the entrance. But he didn’t. He kept tight hold. I tried to keep up with him, but I couldn’t. Cromwell stopped. “You okay? You’re limping.”

  “I twisted my ankle,” I said, feeling the tinny taste of lies on my tongue.

  “Can you walk?” The truth was, it was becoming more and more difficult. But I wouldn’t give up.

  I was determined to fight.

  “I can walk if we go slow.”

  Cromwell walked slowly beside me. “Do I get any clue yet as to what we’re doing here at the museum after hours?” I pulled on his arm. “You’re not gonna break us in, are you?”

  Cromwell’s dimple popped again. A single dimple on his left cheek. The sight pulled at my heart. “It’s the tattoos, isn’t it?” he said.

  I fought a laugh. “The piercings, really.” As if on cue, Cromwell rolled his tongue and his tongue ring came between his teeth. My face set on fire when I remembered how it had danced so close to mine. I hadn’t kissed him enough yet to feel its full effect.

  I couldn’t let that happen at all.

  “Don’t worry, Sandra Dee, I’ve got permission to be here.”

  The security guard must have expected us, because he let us straight through. “Second floor,” he said.

  “I’ve been here this week already.” Cromwell led us toward the stairs. He quickly looked back at me, then took us to the elevator. I melted a little.

  As the elevator doors closed, Cromwell stayed right by my side. “Any clue yet?” I asked, when the proximity and strained silence got too much.

  “Patience, Farraday.”

  We got out of the elevator and stopped in front of a closed door. Cromwell ran his hand through his hair. “You said you wanted to know what it felt like.” He opened the door and led me inside a dark room. He pulled me by the hand to the center then moved to the side. I squinted, trying to see what he was doing, but I could barely see in front of me.

  Then Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor flooded through speakers hidden somewhere in the walls. I smiled as the music filled the room.

  And then I sucked in a quick breath. Lines of color started dancing along the black walls. Reds and pinks and blues and greens. I stood, mesmerized, as with each note another color burst against the walls. Shapes formed on one wall, triangles, circles, squares. And I let it wash over me. As the music poured into my ears, colors flared in my eyes.

  I drank it all in. This was synesthesia. It had to be. Cromwell had brought me here to show me what he saw. When the piece ended and the walls faded to black, Cromwell came over to me. I turned to him, wide eyed and filled with so much awe it was overwhelming.

  “Cromwell,” I said, and a line of bright yellow splashed along the walls. I threw my hand over my mouth, laughing when it happened again.

  Cromwell brought a couple of beanbags over from the side of the room. He placed them side by side and said, “Sit.”

  A flash of pale blue darted across the walls as he spoke. I did as he said, grateful for the reprise. I stared up at the ceiling; it too was painted black. I turned to Cromwell, his face already watching mine. He was so close to me. Our arms already touching. “It’s what you see, isn’t it?”

  He looked at the lines of color that flickered in tune with our words. “It’s like it.” He studied the blue that came when he spoke. “It’s based on someone else. My colors are different.” He tapped his ear. “I hear Requiem differently. My colors aren’t in tune with this one.”

  I tilted my head to the side. “So y’all hear colors differently?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Cromwell lay back on the beanbag. They were put here, I guessed, for this reason. So you could lie back and see the colors colliding with the music. A full sensory experience. I watched Cromwell. Watched as he caught the dying embers of the colored lines. This was how he lived. This was his norm.

  “You said before that you didn’t just see colors when music played . . .” I left the sentence hanging there.

  Cromwell put his arms behind his head. He rolled his head to me. “No.” He became lost in thought. “I can taste it too. It’s not strong. Certain sounds or scents leave tastes in my mouth. Not really specific, but sweet or sour. Bitterness. Metallic.” He laid one hand on his chest. “Music . . . it makes me feel things. Certain types of music make my emotions more heightened.” His voice was clipped as he said the last part, and I knew without asking that there was something more behind that.

  Then I wondered if it was classical that made his emotions heightened. Maybe too heightened to cope with. Or if it somehow reminded him of something painful. I wondered if that’s why he ran from it.

  Cromwell rolled over to face me. I lost my breath as he studied me. I had just opened my mouth to ask him what he was thinking when he said, “Sing.”

  “What?” My heart began its unmelodic beat.

  “Sing.” He pointed up at the ceiling, at the black walls, at small microphones planted in the ceiling’s crevices. “The song you sang at the coffee house.”

  I felt my face light with fire. Because the last time we sang, Cromwell had been behind me, his chest to my back. “Sing,” he said again.

  “I don’t have my guitar.”

  “You don’t need it.”

  I stared into Cromwell’s eyes and saw the pleading there. I had no idea why he wanted me to sing it. I had sung as much as I could of late. It was getting harder and harder, my breathing robbing me of my greatest joy. My voice had lost strength, yet I hadn’t lost passion.

  “Sing,” he said again. There was a desperation on his face. One that made me melt. In this moment, begging me to sing, he looked beautiful.

  Even though I was scared, I pushed through. It was the way I lived. I always tried to face my fears head-on. Closing my eyes, needing to escape Cromwell’s stare, I opened my mouth and let the song free. I heard my voice, weakened and strained, sail out around the room. I heard Cromwell’s breathing beside me. And I felt him when he moved closer to my side.

  “Open your eyes,” he whispered into my ear. “See your song.”

  I let go and just let Cromwell lead. I opened my eyes and lost my rhythm when I was bathed in a cocoon of pinks and purples. Cromwell’s fingers ran across mine. “Keep going.”

  With my eyes locked on the ceiling, I sang. Tears sprang to my eyes as my words brought forth colors so beautiful I felt them down to my soul. As my voice sang the final word, I blinked the tears away. I watched the final line of pink fade to white, then nothing.

  The silence in the aftermath was thick. My breathing was labored. It was labored as I felt the heavy stare of Cromwell’s blue eyes on me. I took three deep breaths then turned his way.

  I didn’t get time to look into his eyes. I didn’t get time to see his dimple in his left cheek. I didn’t get time to ask him if he saw the pinks and purples of my voice, because the second I turned, his hands cupped my face and his lips pressed to mine. A shocked cry sounded in my throat when I felt him against my mouth. His hands were hot against my face. His chest was pressed flush against mine. But as his lips started to move, I melted into him. Cromwell’s taste of mint, chocolate, and tobacco slipped into my mouth. My hands reached out and clutched his sweater. His musky scent filled my nose, and I let his soft lips work against mine.

  Cromwell kissed me. He kissed me and kissed me in soft, slow kisses, until his tongue pushed against the seams and slid into my mouth. He groaned as his tongue met mine. He was everywhere. I felt him everywhere, my body and senses swept away by the hurricane that was Cromwell Dean.

  I moved my tongue with his. Then I felt the cold metal of his tongue ring and sank into him further. Cromwell Dean kissed like he played music—completely and with every ounce of his soul.

  He kissed me and kissed me until I had no breath left in my body. I broke away, gasping. But Cromwell wasn’t finished. As I searched for air, for any wa
y to fill my lungs and calm my pounding heart, he moved down my neck. My eyes fluttered closed, and I held onto his sweater like it was my lifeline from being swept away by everything that was Cromwell. His warm breath drifted down my neck and caused goosebumps to spread over my skin.

  I looked up, and I saw bright greens and lilac purples dancing around us—the color of our kisses.

  But it was too much. My chest tightened at the exertion, at the all too encompassing heaviness that was this kiss. I moved my head to tell him so, to break away, but in a second, Cromwell’s lips were back on mine. The minute I felt them, I was his. I sank back into the soft cushion beneath me and let him take my mouth. Cromwell’s tongue met mine and he shifted his body until it lay over me. My hands moved to his back. His sweater had ridden up as he moved over me. My palms met warm skin, the feel of it heightening every sense I had.

  “Cromwell,” I whispered. Orange flashed over the ceiling. “Cromwell,” I repeated, smiling when the same color returned. But that smile faded when I realized what we were doing. That I shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t have let him kiss me. I should have walked away when I still had the chance.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and hung on to him like I would never let him go. I deepened the kiss. I kissed him so I would never forget. I kissed him until he was imprinted on my soul.

  I eventually pulled back, moving my hands up Cromwell’s body until my hands shadowed his and I cupped his cheeks. His lips were swollen from the kiss, and his stubbled cheeks were warm.

  “I can’t.” My heart cracked in two at the confession. “We can’t do this.”

  Cromwell searched my face. “Why?”

  “I need to get home.”

  Cromwell’s eyebrows pulled down in confusion. “Bonn—”

  “Please.”

  “Okay.”

  He got up from the beanbag and moved silently across the room to the lights. I flinched at the invading brightness. In the light, the walls were just black. The magic had gone.

  I watched Cromwell move around the room making sure everything was switched off. He came toward me, and as his eyes fell upon me, I couldn’t believe how someone could be so handsome. When he stopped, his feet at mine, he dropped a single long kiss on my forehead.

  The room shimmered, and I felt a tear escape my eye. He went to move away, but I grabbed his wrists, savoring him just a little more. Cromwell looked down, a serious expression on his face. I never moved my eyes away. I kept my eyes on him as I moved in, shifting to my tiptoes. I didn’t let myself think this time; I just followed my heart and pressed my lips to his. It was the first time I’d ever initiated a kiss in my life. I would never have believed it would be with Cromwell Dean. But now we were here, like this, suspended in this most perfect of moments, I knew it would never have been anyone but him.

  As I pulled away, I let my forehead fall to his. I breathed him in, committing every second to memory. I lifted my head and met his eyes. A burning question was in my mind. “What did it look like to you?” I asked. “My song. The colors.”

  Cromwell breathed in, then, eyes bright, said, “It illuminated the room.”

  I sagged against him, resting my head on his chest, my arms around his waist. It illuminated the room.

  Cromwell led me out of the museum and into his truck. No music played as we made our way home. We didn’t talk either. But it was a comfortable silence. I couldn’t speak. I had a million questions I wanted to ask him. But I didn’t. I had to leave this night exactly where it belonged. In the past. As a memory I’d keep to help me through the journey ahead.

  It illuminated the room . . .

  Cromwell pulled up in front of my dorm. I looked at the entrance with a sense of dread. When I was through that door, this would all end. Whatever this was. I still wasn’t sure myself.

  Cromwell sat in his seat, his eyes on me. I could feel it. And I didn’t want to look his way. Because I knew that when I did, I had to end it.

  “Cromwell,” I whispered, hands in my lap.

  “Farraday.” I wished he hadn’t just said that. I liked the way he had always called me that. Only now when he said it, it was breathtaking to me. Just like his music.

  “I can’t.” My voice sounded too loud in the old truck’s cabin. Cromwell didn’t ask what I couldn’t do. He knew what I meant. When I finally looked up at him, he was staring straight out of the window and his jaw was clenched. In that moment, he was the Cromwell I knew from the first days of school.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, hating to see him this way. I didn’t want to hurt him. I had no idea what he thought of me, but by the way he’d acted this past week, what he did for me after the coffee house performance, and what he showed me tonight . . . I knew it had to be something real. And that kiss . . . “I . . . I can’t explain . . .”

  “I like you,” he said, and as the sweetly accented words hit my ear, I wanted to move across the seat and wrap my arms around him. I didn’t know Cromwell well, but I knew he didn’t say those words easily. He lived behind high walls, yet with me, they had started to lower.

  I didn’t want to be the cause of them growing back high. In my heart I wanted to be the one to smash them until he was free. But I couldn’t. It just wasn’t fair.

  A sudden wave of anger hit me. At the unfairness. That I couldn’t just be here right now, enjoying the moment, falling into his arms.

  “Bonnie?” I wanted to sob when my name left his lips. He’d never called me Bonnie before.

  “I like you too.” I looked into his blue eyes. I owed him that much. “But it’s more complicated than that. I shouldn’t have let it get this far. It isn’t fair. I’m so sorry . . .”

  The feel of his hand slipping into mine silenced me. “Come with me to Charleston tomorrow night.”

  “What?”

  “I’m playing at a club.” He held my hand tighter. “I want you to come.”

  “Why?”

  “To see . . .” He sighed. “To see me play my new mixes. To stand beside me and see how it is. To make you understand. It’s only an hour away.”

  “Cromwell, I—”

  “East is coming.” Disappointment dripped off him in waves. “It doesn’t have to be anything you don’t want it to be.”

  I wasn’t sure I could be around East either. When Sunday came, I would have to tell him. And Cromwell would no doubt find out too.

  I thought of one night. One last night where I got to be free. Surrounded by music and Cromwell. My brother and us, sharing laughs. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll come. But I have to come back here afterward.”

  Cromwell’s lips pursed, the promise of a small smile. “Good,” he said. “Let’s get you into bed, Farraday.”

  Cromwell got out of the truck and held my door open like before. And like before, he held out his hand for me. He held my hand until he brought me to the door of the dorm. My heart flip-flopped in my chest when he faced me. He put his hands on my face and pressed a single, soft kiss to my lips. “Night.”

  He turned and walked off. I wasn’t sure I could move. Then, just before he got into his truck, I said, “Cromwell?” He looked up. I could feel my cheeks burning before I even spoke. “What color is my voice?”

  Cromwell stared at me, eyes full of some kind of light I couldn’t decipher. That small, beautiful smile pulled on his lips again, and he said, “Violet blue.”

  I tried to breathe. I really did. I tried to move. Violet blue. Cromwell got in his truck and pulled away. A memory from last week came to my mind.

  “Cromwell?” I asked, and he turned my way. “What’s your favorite? Your favorite color to see?”

  “Violet blue,” he said in an instant.

  Violet blue. His favorite color to see . . . and also the sound of my voice.

  If my failing heart hadn’t let him in before, it did just then.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cromwell

  “This is gonna be fucking lit!” Easton bounced around on the seat of my truck. I eyed him, wond
ering what the hell was into him tonight.

  “Easton.” Bonnie put her hand on his arm. “Calm down.”

  “Calm down? My boy is playing at Chandelier and you’re telling me to calm down? No way, Bonn. The Barn is one thing, but seeing Cromwell spin tonight at a real venue is gonna be sick. You know how many people are coming to see him? A few thousand at least!”

  I drove us toward Charleston, listening to Easton losing his mind over tonight. Easton hadn’t even been concerned over why his sister was coming. I thought he’d give me shit. He’d been asking about Bonnie and me the past week. I thought he suspected something, but ever since we got up this morning, he’d been all over the place, high as a damn kite. The daft bugger had even woken me up at four a.m. asking me to go for food. I’d only gone to bed half an hour before. I’d created a mix just for tonight.

  I couldn’t wait to play it.

  It took just under an hour to get to the venue. The security at Chandelier told me to pull my truck around back. A couple of guys tried to take my new laptop from me. Not a chance. No one ever touched my laptop. Easton walked on one side of me. Bonnie was on the other. I’d lost my mind, I had to have, because I wanted to reach out and hold her hand.

  And I couldn’t get last night from my head. Couldn’t get the taste of her lips off my tongue. But more than that, I couldn’t get my head around the fact that she said we couldn’t happen.

  I didn’t do girlfriends. Never had. I was a use-them-and-move-on kind of guy. But from day one Bonnie Farraday had gotten under my skin. And sod’s law, the one girl I was chasing as more than a quick shag wasn’t having any of it.

  I had no idea why. We’d both been into it last night. I’d felt her against me. Her hands hadn’t left me. Even afterward, she’d clung to my hand like she never wanted to let go.

  But I was learning Bonnie Farraday was a complex girl.

  Even though she’d pushed me away, I couldn’t let her go. I’d wanted her here tonight. I didn’t know why, but I needed her here. I wanted her to see me in a real setting. I wanted her to hear my new mixes.