by Tillie Cole
And she didn’t like me? I knew I’d been a dick at times. But she’d seen me. It wasn’t sitting well that she didn’t like me.
Because I was quickly realizing I kind of liked her.
The doors to the pub opened, ripping me from my thoughts, and a few girls walked through. Easton’s eyes set on them straight away. “Yes,” he said under his breath, light in his eyes. “Alex is here.” On cue, a girl with red hair came up to the table and stood before Easton.
“Easton Farraday. Fancy seeing you here.” She smiled, and I took that as my cue to leave.
I downed the rest of my Corona, shot back the new tequila, and put the new beer bottle in the pocket of my ripped jeans. I put the discarded top back on so it didn’t spill everywhere.
“You going?” Easton asked, one arm already around the redhead’s waist. He nudged his head in the direction of her two friends. One of them, a blonde, was already watching me, sizing me up.
“I’m going outside.” I held up my cigarette packet.
Easton nodded then took the redhead to the bar. I didn’t look at her friends as I stepped out into the street. I sparked up my smoke then just started walking. I wasn’t going back in. I wasn’t feeling the need for partying tonight.
I was confused. I didn’t want to stay in, but I didn’t want to go out. I wanted to climb out of my skin, just be someone else for a while.
I was sick of being me.
The street was getting busy, people out for dinner and drinks. I kept my head down as I passed some of the students from college.
Older people were walking toward the park. When I found myself on the edges of the park, I looked inside through the railings. Hundreds of people sat on the lawn, most on picnic blankets. I looked at what they were all facing. What looked like a fifty-piece orchestra was in the center of a stage. A burst of applause rang across the park. I squinted, trying to see through the trees blocking my view.
I could make out the conductor making his way onto the stage. My heart took off into a sprint as he brought his baton high and signaled the orchestra to prepare. Bows rested on strings, reeds were brought to mouths, and the pianist laid her hands on the keys.
A second later, they began, in perfect unison. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony started the show. I pressed closer to the railings. I knew I should leave. I needed to leave. But instead I saw myself walking to the entrance. A ticket booth was there, a “Sold Out” sign hitched on the main gate.
Go home, Cromwell. I forced myself to cut through the path that ran alongside the park and back to campus. But with every new movement, the colors grew brighter and brighter in my mind. I stopped dead and squeezed my eyes shut. Leaning against the fence, I pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes. But the colors didn’t go.
Reds danced into triangles, shimmering and gliding into forest greens. Bright yellows flicked and shifted into peach; long drawn-out sections of sunset oranges burst into the lightest of browns.
I dropped my hands, and my shoulders sagged in defeat. I turned and looked through the railings. The stage was in the distance now. I looked for security guards, but I didn’t find any. There was no one in sight. I hooked my feet into the fence and pulled myself over the top. I jumped to the floor, the branches from the bushes and trees scratching at my skin.
The dark that was building kept me hidden as I waded my way to the main area of the park. I slid through a gap in the trees and began walking toward where the music was playing. With every step the colors got brighter, until I did what I hadn’t done in three years, what I was too tired to fight anymore . . .
I let them free.
I tore off the leash that held them back, and let them fly.
My hands itched at my sides as I took in the music, eyes closed and just drinking it in.
When the fourth movement came to a close, I opened my eyes and walked to the edge of the audience. I saw a tree to my left and moved to sit at it. I looked out at the stage as the next piece began . . . and not a few feet in front of me was a familiar brunette. My heart stuttered. After a week of not seeing her, the pale pink and lavender colors surrounding her seemed brighter. More vivid.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
Bonnie had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and she sat on another, alone. It made me think of the blanket she’d put on me as I slept that night in Brighton.
She’d covered me with a blanket, even though I’d been a complete tosser to her. My heart squeezed again. I rocked on my feet to chase the feeling away.
I was over feeling so much.
Bonnie’s knees were bent, her arms resting on top. Even from here I could see that her eyes were fixed on the musicians. She wasn’t missing a single beat.
I stayed watching her as they switched to one of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos. My hands clenched at my sides. Then when she moved her hand and wiped a stray tear off her cheek, they relaxed and I found myself moving to where she sat. I slumped to the grass beside her.
I could feel her eyes on me the minute she could bear to tear them away from the orchestra. I sat forward, arms hanging over my legs. She was watching me, a surprised expression on her face.
My teeth ground together as my pulse started to race. I pulled my Corona from my pocket and took a sip. I could still feel her looking, so I met her gaze. “Farraday.”
Bonnie blinked, then her eyes snapped back to the orchestra. When the Bach finished, the interval began. The orchestra left the stage, and people moved toward the food and drink trucks. I lay back on the grass, resting on my elbow. I had no idea what I was doing here. Easton had just told me Bonnie didn’t even like me.
And I knew that was it. I shouldn’t care that she didn’t, should have encouraged it, in fact. But I couldn’t get it from my head. She’d seen me. She knew that I could play.
I didn’t have to pretend with her.
“I can’t believe you’re here.” Bonnie’s voice shook. She was nervous. I could see it on her face. In her brown eyes. I couldn’t believe I was here either. When I didn’t answer her back, Bonnie busied herself by reaching into the basket she had beside her. She was wearing a pink jumper—or “sweater,” as she would probably call it—and jeans. Her brown blanket now covered her legs. She pulled out a packet of sweets, opened them, and started chewing on a long piece of red licorice.
I brought a cigarette to my lips and went to light up. Her hand came down on my arm. “Please don’t, Cromwell.” I looked down at my arm. She was holding it in the same place as she’d held it that night in the music room. When she’d heard me. When she’d seen me playing the instruments.
When she’d seen me break.
I looked up at her. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wide. I wondered if she was remembering the same thing. I kept her stare, trying to read whatever was in her eyes. But when I couldn’t, I lowered my smoke and put it back in my pocket. Then she eventually breathed out. “Thank you.” She rubbed her chest. I wondered if her heart was beating fast too.
I didn’t know what to say around her. The last time I’d seen her, I’d cracked and amended her composition. I’d been short with her. Tried to push her from my head. But no matter how hard I tried, she would never go.
Bonnie looked everywhere but at me. “You were ill,” I blurted. It sounded more like an accusation than a question.
She must have thought that too, as she stared at me, then smirked. That smirk did funny things to my stomach. Made it pull tight. “I was ill.”
I sat up and looked out over the crowd, trying to push the feeling away.
“Did you miss me?”
I turned to Bonnie, firstly not knowing why the hell she asked that. And secondly, not knowing what the hell to say.
She was smiling. When I blinked, confused, she burst out laughing. She put her hand on my forearm. “I’m only joking, Cromwell.” She waved her hand in a calming gesture. “You can breathe now.”
I finished off my Corona, but all I kept hearing was her laugh. The pink of
her laugh. That and the fact it’d been aimed at me. I never thought she’d smile at me that way. Then again, I never thought I’d be here tonight. My body was taut as I waited for her to bring up the music room. To ask me questions. To push me about our composition project. But she didn’t.
“You want one?” Bonnie held out a piece of licorice. I shook my head. “What? You don’t like candy?”
“Not American candy, I don’t.”
“What?” she said on a single laugh. I turned my head back to the stage, to look at the set-up. I always did. Bonnie pulled on my arm, forcing me to look at her. “No, I have to hear this. You don’t like American candy?”
I shook my head.
“Why?”
“It’s shite,” I said honestly.
For a minute, Bonnie’s expression didn’t change from shocked. Until she dropped her mouth and burst out laughing. She pulled back the sweet box she was holding and held it to her chest.
That feeling was back in my stomach. Like a stab, which started moving to my chest until it had taken over my whole body. She wiped her eyes. When she could talk again, she asked, “Okay then, what British candy is good?”
“Just about any of it.” I shook my head at the memory of the first time I’d tried US chocolate. It was bloody rank. I hadn’t touched it since. I was waiting on a shipment of the good stuff from my mum.
Bonnie nodded. “I have to say, I tried it when I was over there this past summer. And I agree, it’s amazing.”
The orchestra started retaking their seats. People began rushing back to their spots on the grass. Bonnie watched the musicians with rapt attention, before shifting her gaze to me. “So you really do like classical music?” I froze. “I know we’re not allowed to talk about it. About you. That night.” Sympathy spread on her face. “And I have to respect that.” She shrugged. “But you’re here. At a classical concert.”
I was picking the label off the Corona, but I met her eyes. I didn’t speak, because the answer to her question was obvious. I was here. That said everything.
She must have got that I didn’t want to answer, as she pointed at the orchestra. “They’re incredible. I’ve seen them so many times.”
They were okay. Good at best.
“Well?” she said.
“What?”
Bonnie took in a deep breath. “You like classical music, don’t you? By now . . . after everything, you can admit that to me.” I heard the plea in her voice. A plea for me to just give her this.
Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries poured from the orchestra, the colors rushing through my head like the paint Easton had sloshed onto his canvas. I tried to push them from my head. But I found, sitting here with Bonnie, they weren’t going anywhere. She made them fly freer somehow.
“Cromwell—”
“Yes,” I said, exasperated. I sat up straighter. “I like it.” A long breath rushed out of me as I admitted it. “I like it.” The second admission was more to myself than to her.
I looked up at the crowd watching the orchestra, at the musicians on the stage, and felt completely at home. It had been a long time since I’d felt this. And as I stared up at the conductor, I saw myself in his place. Remembered how it felt to be in a tux, hearing the orchestra play your work back to you.
It was like nothing else.
“I haven’t been able to get your music from my head,” Bonnie said, pulling me from the orchestra and my thoughts. I met her eyes and felt my heart sink at the fact she was talking about this. “The few bars you left on the table last week at Jefferson Coffee.” My stomach tightened.
“Cromwell,” she whispered. I was surprised I even heard her voice over the music. But I did. Of course I did.
It was violet blue.
My hands balled into fists. I should have just got up and walked away. Christ knows I’d done it enough before. But I didn’t. I sat there and met her eyes. Bonnie swallowed. “I know you don’t want me mentioning this.” She shook her head. “But it was . . .” She paused, struggling for words, just as the string section took the lead. I didn’t give a shit about the violins, the cellos, and the double basses right now; I wanted to know what was going to come from her mouth. “I liked it, Cromwell.” She smiled. “More than liked it.” She shook her head. “How did you . . . Did you just think of that right then on the spot?”
I swallowed and put my hand in my pocket for my cigarette. I pulled it out and lit up. I saw a flash of disappointment from Bonnie, but I was on my feet before she could say anything else to me.
I went to the tree and leaned against the trunk. I only half watched the orchestra. Bonnie held the rest of my attention. Her focus was back on the musicians, but her slim body was slumped. She was dejected. And it had been my reluctance to talk that had made her this way. She chewed on her licorice, but I could see she was no longer lost to the music.
I’d robbed her of that joy.
I thought of how she looked when I arrived. She’d been enthralled by the orchestra. I wondered if I’d ever been like that. Just so caught up in it all. Not caring about anything else. Not letting anything else even enter my head while the music played. And I knew I had. Once upon a time. Before it all went wrong and this classical shit became the one thing I wanted to despise.
But as I stood there, letting the nicotine I needed so badly fill my lungs, I knew deep down I never could. For three years I’d been fighting a losing battle.
It’s what you were born to do, Cromwell. It’s who you were born to be. You have more talent in your little finger than anyone I’ve ever known. Including myself.
My throat clogged as I heard my dad’s voice in my head. When I looked down at my cigarette, my hand was shaking. I took one last drag, forcing myself to keep my shit together. But the usual stirring of red-hot anger and gutting devastation, so deep I couldn’t breathe, swirled in my stomach, like it did whenever I thought of him. Whenever I heard this music. Whenever I was around Bonnie.
I didn’t know what made her so different.
I threw my cigarette on the floor. I felt like hitting something as the pianist took the solo. But my feet were soldered to the ground. The sounds of the ivories made me listen. Made me watch. But all I saw was me on that stage. Me, performing the one piece I’ll never be able to finish. That one piece that had haunted me for too long.
The one I could never see in my head. The colors muted and lost to the dark. The one that made me walk away from my biggest love.
“Cromwell?” Bonnie’s voice cut over the roaring white noise that had filled my head, the piano that was bombarding my brain like the bombs that had rained down on my dad for most of his army life. I shut my eyes, palming my sockets again. A hand wrapped around my wrist. “Cromwell?” Bonnie pulled my arms down. Her big brown eyes were fixed on mine. “Are you okay?”
I needed to get away. I need to leave, to get gone, when—
The pianist took the floor again. Only this time it was . . . “Piano Concerto No. 6,” Bonnie said. “Mozart.”
I swallowed. It’s my favorite, son. That’s my favorite thing you play that isn’t yours.
I looked from left to right, lost. Bonnie’s hand tightened on my wrist. As I looked down at her fingers on my tattooed skin, I realized she hadn’t let go. “Come and sit down.” Her touch always seemed to cut through my darkness. And this time I let it happen. I didn’t fight it. Didn’t run away. I stayed. And I didn’t let myself worry about it.
Bonnie led me back to where we’d been sitting. A bottle of water appeared in my hand. I drank it, not even thinking about anything else. When Bonnie took the empty bottle from my hand, she put a long piece of red licorice there instead. She smirked as I met her eyes. I lay back on the grass, resting on my elbow. The orchestra had moved on to Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat Major, the night coming to a close.
We sat in silence. But when I took a bite of the licorice, I chewed on the tasteless sweet and muttered, “It still tastes like shite.”
Bonnie laughed.
>
And I could finally breathe.
Chapter Ten
Bonnie
I didn’t know what to think as I sat beside Cromwell.
The way he’d looked as he’d smoked next to the tree. Like he was trapped in some kind of nightmare. He’d been shaking. His face was pale as he stared at the pianist like she was a ghost. It mirrored how he was the night in the music room. The flash of fear I’d seen in him as he looked at my work in the coffee shop. As though just the sound, sight, and reading of musical notes pulled him into some horror he didn’t want to face.
It was at these times he acted the most cruel. The most harsh. But it was also when my heart cried out for him the most. Because I understood what fear could do to a person. I could see something held him in its thrall. But I just didn’t know what. I didn’t know how to help.
When the orchestra finished, I got to my feet and applauded with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. Cromwell stayed sitting on the grass. My heart beat loudly in my chest as I looked down at him. He was watching me. His blue eyes were fixed on me. His tattoos were like prized paintings on his bare arms. His piercings glittered in the stage lights. His muscular frame and tall height seemed to take up all of the grass and his presence to consume all the air in our vicinity.
I turned my head, focusing on the orchestra taking their bows. I could feel his eyes still on me. It made nervous shivers rattle down my spine. Because every time I saw Cromwell, every time we spoke, I heard the broken boy in his voice. And I saw him hunched over the piano, crying. And I heard the music he’d been playing so perfectly circling around my brain.
It was hard to dislike a person when you knew they were in pain.
When the orchestra left the stage, people began to disperse. I leaned down to pick up my things. I packed everything away into my basket and finally let myself look at Cromwell. He was staring straight forward, his arms around his bent knees. I thought he would have gone by now. That was his usual behavior. But then nothing about Cromwell was making sense to me anymore.
