I bent down and pressed my forehead to hers. It only made her worse. Wracking sobs fell from her mouth. Mr. Farraday had said Easton had had an accident, but I was pretty sure that Bonnie knew the truth.
Easton, for whatever reason, felt displaced in this world. No one knew this better than his twin.
“Bonnie,” I whispered. I closed my eyes and just held her. Held her as she fell apart. The moment that was meant to be a celebration had turned into a tragedy in her eyes. In all of ours.
I held her that way as she cried so hard I worried something would go wrong. She’d just woken up from major surgery, but I was sure nothing but finding this had all been a nightmare would take away her pain.
Bonnie cried until she fell asleep. I didn’t go anywhere. I held her hand, just in case she woke up. Her parents went to the waiting room. They had things to handle with the police and the hospital. I couldn’t imagine having to cope with all of this at once. How did you celebrate one child being spared from death only to lose the other in such a devastating way?
Right now I felt numb. But I knew what would come. I couldn’t have all of these emotions warring within me and them not bubble to the surface. But for now, I pushed them down as far as I could.
I must have fallen asleep, because I woke to the feel of fingers in my hair. I blinked my eyes open and looked up.
Bonnie was looking at me. But just as before, her eyes were wet and her skin was pale and patchy from crying. “He took his life . . . didn’t he?” Her words were bullets to my heart.
I nodded. There was no point in lying to her. She’d known it from the minute she’d woken up. Bonnie held on to my hand. Even now, only a couple of days after surgery, her grip was stronger.
She was stronger.
I was sure, somewhere, Easton had a flicker of a smile on his face at that fact.
Bonnie breathed in deeply, her lungs filling with such a large amount of air that color immediately sprouted on her cheeks. Her hand took mine with it as it went to her chest. I heard the new heartbeat. The strong and rhythmic heartbeat under my palm.
It was magenta.
When I’d listened to Easton’s heart under the stethoscope, it had been magenta.
“I have his heart, don’t I?” Bonnie’s eyes were closed when she said it. But then they opened and her gaze fixed on me.
“Yes.”
Her face contorted with pain. Something seemed to change in Bonnie at that instant. It was as if I watched her happiness and her soul flee from her body. The color that surrounded her switched from purples and pinks into browns and grays. Even her hand, that had been holding mine so tightly, slackened and pulled away. I tried to take it back, but Bonnie shut down like the gate of a fort.
Impenetrable.
I stayed in her room for two more days. And with every passing second, the Bonnie I knew and loved pulled further and further away. I wanted to cry when I played some Mozart on my phone and she turned to me, eyes vacant, and said, “Could you please turn that off?”
Bonnie was healing, but her mind was broken. One night, I thought she’d come back to me. She’d awoken at three in the morning, put her hand in mine, and rolled to face me. “Bonnie . . . ?” I’d whispered.
Her bottom lip shook, her exhausted eyes barely open. “How can my heart be fixed, but already be broken?” I moved beside her and held her close. Just holding her while she fell apart. It was such a small thing, but in that moment, I’d never felt more useful to anyone in my life.
But the next morning she pulled away from me again. Back to the Bonnie that was trapped in her head, in her pain. The Bonnie that was shutting everyone out. Physically getting stronger, but emotionally falling apart.
The nurses gave me big smiles as I passed by their station on Bonnie’s new ward. So far, her body wasn’t rejecting the heart and she was doing well, well enough to leave intensive care. I took a deep breath as I approached her new room. Only when I got there, Mr. Farraday was standing outside. “Hi,” I said and moved to open the door.
He stepped into my path. I frowned. His face was pale and sad, filled with regret. “She’s refusing to see anyone, Cromwell.” I heard the words, but they didn’t sink in. I tried to move past her dad again. But he only blocked my path once more.
“Let me through.” My voice was low and threatening. I knew it. But I didn’t care. I just had to get in there to her.
Mr. Farraday shook his head. “I’m sorry, son. But she’s . . . she’s finding life real hard at the minute. She doesn’t want to see you. Any of us.” I saw the agony on his face. “I’m just trying to make things better for her, son. Any way I can.”
My jaw clenched and my hands started to shake. They curled into fists. “Bonnie!” I called, my voice loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the ward. “Bonnie!” I screamed. Mr. Farraday tried to usher me back. “BONNIE!” I dodged Mr. Farraday and burst through the door to her room.
Bonnie was sitting in bed, her back propped up against pillows. She was staring out of the window. Then she turned to me. “Bonnie,” I said and took a step forward. But I froze mid-step when Bonnie looked away. When she turned her back on me completely.
And then they came. The floodgates opened, and all the emotions of the past few weeks came hurtling forward like the heavy crescendo of a bass drum.
I stepped back and back again as I pictured Easton with his wrists slit. Bonnie having a heart attack in my arms. Easton on the gurney, the rope hanging from the tree. Then Bonnie . . . finding out Easton had gone, that his heart now beat as hers.
And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t fucking cope. I turned just as two security guards came toward me. I held up my hands. “I’m going. I’m going!” I risked a glance back at Bonnie, but her back was still to me. I started jogging down the corridor, but before I’d even made it out of the hospital I was at a full sprint. I made it to my truck, all the colors and emotions melding into one. My brain pulsed like a drum. My head ached, pressure behind my eyes so strong I could barely see.
Neon colors were fireworks in my brain, lighting up until I couldn’t take it. I slammed my truck into park and practically jumped from the car. I burst through the music building, no plan ahead, just following my feet. My fist pounded on a door.
The door flew open, and Lewis’s face was all I could see. I grabbed my head, then, not caring if anyone heard, said, “I want to do the gala.”
Lewis’s mouth fell open, and I saw the shock on his face. I brushed past him and entered his office. “Bonnie got the heart.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Easton killed himself . . .” My voice broke, and sadness crashed over me like a tidal wave. I choked on the memory of the rope, the gurney . . . of Bonnie.
“Cromwell.” Lewis stepped closer.
I pushed out my hand. “No.” He stopped dead. “I came to you because no one else understands.” I hit my head with the heel of my hand. “You see what I see, feel what I feel.” I sucked in a breath. “I need help.” My hands fell away from me, my body starting to lose energy. “I need your help with the music. It’s building up. The colors. The patterns.” I shook my head. “The music is too much, too much at once, the colors too bright.”
Lewis came closer again. Just as he reached me, as he held out his hand, I stepped back. I saw his face. I saw the desperation. I saw the need to talk. Then my eyes tracked their way to the hipflask on his desk. The liquor. The dark circles under his eyes. “I’m not here for anything else.” He froze, then he pushed his hand through his hair. Just like I did. That was another crowbar to my gut. I choked on my voice, but managed, “I’m here for the music. I don’t want to talk about anything else. Just please . . .” My eyes dripped with tears. Bonnie’s rejection was spurring me on. If she heard my music, if I played the gala, she’d hear the music was for her. She’d see that I loved her. She’d see she had a life to live for.
With me.
Beside me.
Forever.
I lifted my eyes to Lewis. “Please . . . hel
p me . . .” I tapped my head. “Help me put this down in music. Just . . . help me.”
“Okay.” Lewis ran his hand through his hair again. “But Cromwell, let me explain. Please, just hear me out—”
“I can’t,” I choked. “Not yet.” I shook my head, a cave tunneling in my chest. I tried to breathe, but it felt too hard. “I can’t cope with that too . . . not yet.”
Lewis looked like he wanted to reach for me. His hand was raised, but I couldn’t go there. Not yet. “Okay.” He met my eyes. “We have little to no time, Cromwell. You ready for this? It’ll be days and nights, endless days and nights, to get this where it needs to be.”
A sense of purpose so strong settled the storm within me. “I’m ready.” I sucked in a breath, and this time I could breathe. “I have it inside me, Professor. I always have.” I closed my eyes, thought of my dad, Bonnie, and the music that had tried to claw its way from my soul for too long. “I’m ready to compose.” A sudden shift in me seemed to calm my mind, my emotions. “I’m done with pushing it all away.”
“Then follow me.” Lewis led me to the music room he’d taken me to the night I’d found Easton, wrists slit, in our room. I moved straight to the piano and sat down. My fingers found their place on the keys, and I opened my soul and let the colors fly.
Reds and blues, purples and pinks swarmed around me, engulfing me in a cloud. And I let them fall where they lay, my fingers showing me the way.
Azure.
Peach.
Ochre.
And violet blue.
I would forever chase the violet blue.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bonnie
I stared at the letter in my hand. The letter I hadn’t been able to open for days now. My hands shook as I lifted the envelope to my nose. I inhaled the spiced scent that still clung to the paper. Easton. The familiar smell was a dagger to my heart.
His heart.
I pressed the letter to my chest and closed my eyes. The lump that had clogged my throat since I’d woken up swelled as I thought of Easton. His smile. His laugh. The way people were drawn to him like a magnet. Then that Easton washed away, leaving the sad version of my brother that sometimes took him over. The one who was bathed in black and gray paint, forlorn and so down not even the sunniest of days could raise his spirits.
“Easton,” I whispered as I ran my hand over my name on the envelope.
I glanced down at my black dress and black tights. I appealed to my soul to help me make it through, knowing what lay before me today. My first outing into the real world after my surgery.
The final goodbye to the brother who had saved my life. Who had been my life for so long, I wasn’t sure how to breathe without him. Music came from the nurses station beyond the door, and I heard the high-pitched notes of laughter.
I wanted to smile at the happiness in their voices. But when I looked down at the envelope, I didn’t know if I would ever be able to feel happy again.
I stayed that way for over an hour, just staring at the letter. Finally, when I had mustered up enough courage, I flipped it open and unveiled the letter inside.
My hands shook so hard I wasn’t sure I’d be able to read it. But I turned it over and opened it. The letter wasn’t long. And before I’d even read a single word, my vision blurred with tears.
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to breathe. My new heart beat like a drum in my chest. The feeling still shocked me. I wasn’t used to hearing such a rhythmic beat. But the beat was strong and loud, and it should have made me feel full of life.
Instead I felt empty.
I took a deep breath and looked down at the words written just for me . . .
Bonnie,
As I write this, I’m looking at the lake we love so much. Have you ever realized how blue it is in the sun? How peaceful? I don’t think I’ve ever looked at the Earth much and saw its beauty.
I’m writing this as you lie in your hospital bed. Papa has just called to let me know that you don’t have long left. I don’t know if you will ever get this letter. I don’t know if you’ll make it. And if that’s the case, then I’m sure we’re together somewhere, somewhere that isn’t this world. Somewhere better. Somewhere where there’s no pain.
But if by some miracle you get a heart at the last minute, then I wanted to write you this note. And I wanted you to know why I just couldn’t do it anymore.
I want you to know that it wasn’t because of you. I know you’ve blamed yourself for so many years, but none of this has ever been about you.
I want to explain how I feel, but I’m not you. I don’t have a way with words like you. I never lit up a room like you did. Instead, I always felt like I was on the outside looking in. Looking at everyone else happy and excited for life. But for me, it was the opposite.
I found life hard, Bonnie. Every day, when I took a breath, I felt like I was breathing in tar. Every step I took was like walking in quicksand. I had to keep moving or I would be pulled under.
I fought it. But the truth was, I wanted to sink. I wanted to close my eyes and disappear and stop the fight. The fight to want to live, when for as long as I could remember, all I’ve wanted is to let go.
When you got sick, it only made me realize the truth—that I just wanted to go. I wanted to fall asleep and never wake up. Because, Bonnie, what is a world if you aren’t in it? And if you got your heart, if someone saved your life by giving you what they could no longer use, then know that I’m happy. You might be angry at me. In fact, I know you are. You’re my twin. I feel what you feel. But I can’t do it anymore. Even as I sit here now, knowing I have only minutes left, I want to go. I’ve lost the fight to be here anymore.
And I refuse to say goodbye to you, Bonnie. I want to leave it this way. With me at our favorite place, knowing that I’ll see you again soon. After you’ve lived for us both. Lived a life I never could.
Some of us just weren’t meant for this world, Bonnie. And I’m one of them. I know you’ll mourn me, and if you survive, I’ll miss you every day until I see you again.
Because I will see you again, Bonnie. Look up, and I’ll always be there with you.
But I have to go now.
Keep strong, sis. Live a life that you love. And when it’s your time, I’ll be the one to come get you. You know I will.
I love you, Bonn.
Easton.
Wracking sobs tore at my chest, teardrops falling to the letter and smudging the writing. I quickly brushed it with my hand, needing to save every part of this letter. I pulled it closer to my chest, and I was sure, in that minute, that I felt Easton in my heart. Felt him smiling at me, trying to comfort me. I felt him smile at me. Smiling because, unknown to him, he became my miracle. He’d taken himself from this world and, unknowingly, had kept me in it.
I held his letter close to my chest until I had no tears left to cry. When my mama and papa came to get me for the funeral, as they wheeled me from the hospital, I kept his letter in my pocket. Close to me. I needed his strength to help me get through today.
The next hour was a blur. Being pushed into a car. Us following the car that held my brother’s casket. Lilies spelling out his name in white. When we arrived at the church, my eyes watched the casket as it was pulled from the car. Papa and my uncles surrounded it. And then I saw one person I hadn’t seen in days upon days.
Even numb, my heart managed to skip a beat when I caught sight of Cromwell. Cromwell, dressed in a black suit and black tie, his messy hair jet black in the sun. I tried to pull my eyes away from him, but I found that I couldn’t. He walked forward and shook my papa’s hand. I frowned, wondering where he was going. Then he took one point of the casket, lifting my brother onto his shoulders, taking the burden Easton couldn’t carry onto him.
A hand slipped into mine as they started carrying Easton into the church. My mama pushed me behind the procession. I saw people from college in the pews. Bryce, Matt, Sara, Kacey. But I couldn’t manage to acknowledge them. I was too busy sta
ring at Cromwell. He walked with such purpose that it broke my heart.
Because I’d pushed him away.
Kept him from me when all he wanted to do was show me how much he loved me.
Loved Easton.
As the service started, I stared blankly at the altar, at the cross hanging on the wall. The pastor spoke, but I didn’t listen. Instead, I stared at the casket and replayed Easton’s letter in my head. But I did listen when the pastor said, “And now, we have some music.” I had no idea what was happening, but then Cromwell got up from his seat on the opposite side of the church.
My heart was in my throat as he moved to the piano. I held my breath as his hands splayed on the keys. And then he crushed my heart when the pastor introduced the piece he was going to play . . . “Wings.”
A familiar melody fluttered out into the cavernous church. I closed my eyes as Cromwell’s version of my song began, angelic, and perfect in this moment. Unsung lyrics circled my head, so perfect next to Cromwell’s genius:
Some are not meant for this life for too long . . . Angels they come, it’s time to go . . .
No longer caged, now wings of a dove . . .
Tears in my eyes, I give one last glance . . . I lived, and I loved, and danced life’s sweet dance . . .
As the music played, a strange kind of contentment flowed through me. Cromwell’s complicated passages and chords brought Easton to my heart, letting me know he was at peace now. That he was finally free from the chains that held him captive in this life.
That he was finally happy, and no longer in pain.
When Cromwell stopped playing, I heard the whispers in the church, the shock that Cromwell Dean could play like he just did. Perfectly. And without error.
He played just like he loved.