A Wish for Us

by Tillie Cole

  “Well then,” East said, lying down next to me. “I’d better not hit him again.”

  I couldn’t help it. I had to laugh. Easton smiled, showing me a glimpse of the happy brother I loved. “He’s a good guy. He’s turned out to be a good friend.” Easton lowered his eyes. “I kind of lost it tonight, Bonn. About you.”

  “East . . .” I said softly, devastation stealing any other words I could offer as a comfort.

  “But he was there for me. He sat beside me and let me get it all out. He never moved, instead he sat by my side and told me how strong you were and how it was all gonna be all right.”

  “He did?”

  Easton nodded. “And he meant it, Bonn. I saw it on his face.” He stared at me, and I couldn’t read his expression. “He loves you.” It was the second time he’d uttered those words, and my heart still gave the same response. Miraculously, it raced. “I always worried about you, sis. You never had a social life. Never had a boyfriend. Christ, I didn’t even think you’d ever been kissed. Too busy fighting to stay alive.” I blushed. “But I’m glad you’ve found him now.” He held my hand, and he held on tight. “When it’s hardest. He’ll help you get through it.”

  “You all will,” I said. “You, Mama, Papa and Cromwell.” I brushed my hair from my face. “I feel like I can do it. I can hold on until a new heart saves me.” I didn’t let myself mention the chance of heart rejection or the million other things that could go wrong even if I was given a heart. I couldn’t think of that, or I wasn’t sure I could keep up the fight.

  Tiredness crept over me like a lulling wave. “Are you coming to the hospital with me tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” Easton said. My eyes began to close. But I still felt my brother beside me. He wouldn’t leave my side. As sleep took me, hope hung heavy in the air. It sounded like a cello and a violin. I wondered what Cromwell would see.

  Me, I hoped. I prayed that Cromwell would think of hope and see my face.

  Because I thought of him. Cromwell Dean brought with him hope. And right now, it was the most important thing in my world.

  *****

  “Accelerated failure . . .” The doctor’s voice faded in and out of my ears as he put the scan pictures from yesterday on a board for my parents to see.

  My attention drifted out of the window to the birds in the sky. I wondered where they were flying to. I wondered what it was like to fly. To soar through the sky, the air under your wings.

  “Bonnie?” Doctor Brennan’s voice cut through my musings. I rolled my head on the pillow to face him. I saw the sadness in my mama’s and papa’s faces. Easton stood, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed across his chest, his eyes lost as they stared at the floor.

  “Bonnie?” Doctor Brennan said. “Do you have any questions?”

  “How long before I can’t play music anymore?”

  I heard my mama’s soft cry, but I held the doctor’s stare. He had the answers.

  “It won’t be long, Bonnie. Your limb function is already compromised.” I looked down to my fingers and saw the swelling that had started to creep in weeks ago but was now here, inhibiting my ability to play. I breathed, my inhales and exhales choppy.

  About a month, I had heard Doctor Brennan say. Six weeks at most.

  It was strange, getting a timeframe on your life. To no longer count it in years, but in weeks, in days, and even hours.

  “Sweetheart?” Mama ran her hand over my head. I looked up at her. “They’re gonna be bringing some things to the house for you. Things to help you breathe and be more comfortable.”

  “Can we go home now?” I said, not even acknowledging what she’d said. I didn’t want to.

  “Yes.” My mama went to the closet to get my clothes. I dressed, and I sat in the wheelchair as they pushed me out of the hospital. I closed my eyes as the sun hit my face, feeling its rays on my skin.

  I wasn’t in it long enough before we were in the car and on the way home. The car was silent as we left Charleston and made our way back to Jefferson. I looked at my papa, his hands tightly holding the wheel. I glanced at my mama in front of me; she was looking out of the window.

  Easton was next to me. His eyes were downcast and every muscle was tight. I sighed, closing my eyes. I hated how this affected everyone I loved.

  Accelerated failure . . .

  The words spun around my head like bullets, but I was numb to their hits. I laid my hand over my chest and felt my heart against my palm. As always, it beat to its own drum, one of tiredness and exhaustion. One of trying to hold on when all it wanted to do was let go.

  But I couldn’t let go . . .

  When we pulled up to the house, my papa helped me out, and I walked slowly to the path. As I looked at the paved driveway, at the path I’d walked along since I was a child, it suddenly seemed like a green mile. I took a deep breath, ready to walk, when I saw Easton beside me.

  I looked at my brother, and I saw that he was losing it. “Easton,” I said quietly.

  “I need to get back to the dorm.” He kissed my cheek and backed away to his truck that was parked on the driveway.

  “East?” He turned, mid-step. I swallowed. “You’re okay, yeah?”

  He threw on a smile that I wasn’t sure was entirely real. “I am, Bonn. I swear. I just gotta get to school. I need . . .”

  “I get it.” He needed space. Easton smiled then got into his truck. I watched him drive away. He had sworn to me he was taking his meds. I had made him promise to tell me if it all—me, my illness—got too much.

  “You think he’s okay?” I asked my papa as we started walking slowly up the path.

  “I check in with him several times a day, Bonn. He’s doing the best he can. His therapist is happy with his progress.” My father’s voice grew husky as he said, “It’s just you, you know? He wants to fix you. And he can’t.” My papa pulled me close. “It’s hard for your brother, and your papa, to deal with. The fact that we can’t protect you. Can’t heal you.”

  “Papa . . .” I whispered, my throat thickening with sadness.

  “Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart. It’s been a long day.” My father led me down the path, each step like a marathon to my quickly tiring legs. I knew he couldn’t talk to me right then. And I didn’t know what to say in return.

  I slept for hours. When I woke, it was dark outside, the rain slashing off the windows. It was nearly midnight. Realizing I hadn’t texted Cromwell to let him know I was back, I sent him a quick message that I would see him tomorrow and went back to sleep.

  It felt like I’d barely closed my eyes when I heard a knock at my window. I squinted in the dark, trying to get my bearings. When the knock sounded again, I got up from my bed, using the frame to keep me steady. The clock on the side table said it was two thirty in the morning.

  I pulled back the curtains. At the window, drenched, black clothes slick to his body, was Cromwell. At just the sight of him, my heart seemed to try to leap from my chest as if it could break free and reside next to his. I reached up and flicked the lock. Before I’d even had a chance to lift the window, Cromwell had it open and was climbing inside.

  I stepped back as his tall frame came into my bedroom. I was breathless when he looked up. His intense blue eyes were on me, and his black hair was messy, strands sticking to his face. I went to speak, but before I could, Cromwell had stepped forward and taken me in his arms.

  His mouth took mine, a sigh slipping from my lips. He was wet, soaked through to the bone, but I didn’t care as his lips moved against mine, soft yet demanding. Rough, yet so caring it almost made me cry. He knew I was struggling to breathe lately, and he pulled back, leaving his hands framing my face.

  “I’ve missed you.”

  His words were a fire to a chill I didn’t even know I felt. His eyes never left mine, his stare intense.

  “I missed you too,” I whispered and watched his tense shoulders relax. His eyes ran down my pajamas.

  “You’re tired?”

>   I laughed, the sound weak. “I’m always tired.”

  Cromwell swallowed then scooped me up in his arms. The arms of his black sweater—the sweater I’d once worn—were wet, but I didn’t care. I would face the cold if it meant being in his arms like this.

  Cromwell laid me on the bed and sat down on the edge. His tattooed hand pushed back my hair before skimming softly down my cheek. I caught it in my hand before he pulled it away. I pressed it against my face and closed my eyes. I could smell the rain. I could smell him.

  But when I opened my eyes, I truly looked at his face. “Cromwell?” I asked, concern taking me in its grip. “What’s wrong?”

  Cromwell’s eyes looked haunted, his olive skin pale. He had dark circles under his eyes. He looked . . . sad.

  But before I could ask any more, Cromwell got to his feet and moved to the piano. For a few moments, I didn’t dare move, watching as he pulled out my piano stool and slowly sat down. His back was ramrod straight, his head hanging low.

  I could hear my short breaths echoing in my ears, only faintly catching the sound of the piano lid being opened and the volume being turned to its lowest setting. I sat up, wondering what Cromwell was doing. I hugged my pillow, keeping the chill from my now wet pajamas from me, and Cromwell started to play.

  I froze, every part of me captured in shock, as the piece he had once partially played drifted across the room. The time the touch of my hand on his shoulder had helped him to play. My eyes widened and my bottom lip trembled as the most beautiful composition I’d ever had the pleasure of hearing graced my ears. The notes sank into the marrow of my bones and spread throughout my body. They filled every part of me, until they filled my heart, infusing it with life.

  I sat mesmerized as Cromwell passed the point at which he’d once stopped, and blessed me with more. Notes I’d never heard so beautifully, perfectly placed together poured from him, his body moving to the rhythm like he was part of the song. Cromwell was the music he created. I was sure I was seeing through the walls he kept so high. I was seeing the darkness he kept hidden deep finally fleeing its prison.

  My shaking hand came to my mouth. I forgot to breathe, the power of the piece like a weight in my chest. Because it spoke of sorrow and loss. It spoke of anger and regret.

  It spoke of love.

  I recognized every feeling, because I had felt them too. Was feeling them now. Cromwell’s hands danced over the keys, perfectly, gracefully, and with such beauty that I was sure that if my heart gave out at that moment, it would be at peace after hearing this.

  Music so heavenly it almost didn’t feel real.

  I knew I was crying. I could feel the tears drenching my face. But there were no wracking sobs. No shuddering breaths, just a serenity that came with pure happiness. From being moved so profoundly that something shifted inside you. Something that made you understand what perfection truly looked like.

  As Cromwell brought the music to a close, I moved off my bed. I didn’t even know why; I just let my defective heart take the lead. And of course, it led me to Cromwell. It seemed I had been led to Cromwell since this summer in Brighton.

  Cromwell was still, his hands braced on the keys, on the final chords. And as I walked beside him, he looked up. His cheeks were wet, and I knew without asking that something had just broken within him.

  And he’d let me see it.

  Open.

  Vulnerable.

  Him.

  I stared at Cromwell’s beautiful face, at a genius so tortured that he pushed everyone away, had tried to push me . . . but his music had spoken to my soul. My voice his siren call.

  Cromwell’s eyes squeezed shut, and his head fell against me. I wrapped my arms around his head, keeping him close. I didn’t know what this piece of music was about. And I didn’t know what pain he harbored, but I knew I could be here for him right now.

  I thought of my journey ahead, and how in a matter of days, weeks if I was lucky, my ability to move and breathe would be taken from me. And I knew. I knew, as sure as I knew Cromwell was the most perfect musician I’d ever heard, that I wanted him.

  While I could.

  For us both.

  I steered Cromwell’s head back and cupped his cheeks. Cromwell looked up at me. I took a moment to savor him. To leave a photograph in my soul of the moment his walls fell down and he led me, hands grasped and fingers entwined, inside his heart. Where I would never leave.

  Where I forever wanted to stay.

  Leaning down, I pressed my lips to his. I tasted the salt from his tears and the cold left by the rain. Taking his hand, I guided him off the stool and toward the bed.

  No words were needed. I wouldn’t tarnish the perfect melody that still lingered in the air. Right now there was just me and him and silence. Right now there was nothing but healing and this.

  My hands shook as I stepped toward Cromwell and lifted his sweater. I pulled the hem over his stomach, baring a beautiful canvas of ink. I brought it over his chest, thankful for Cromwell’s help as he lifted it the rest of the way and discarded it on the floor. His chest rose and fell as my hands flattened to his cold tanned skin. The expression in his eyes made my legs weak.

  Adoration.

  I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his skin, hearing the hitch of his breath. He let me lead. My British boy who had just shown me his impenetrable heart.

  I moved my hands to the shirt of my pajamas. I started unbuttoning it, but my fingers were already too weak. Cromwell stepped closer to me and gently took hold of my hands. He brought them to his lips and kissed each finger. My bottom lip trembled at the sight. At the action. Then he placed my hands on his waist as he leaned in and took my mouth. He kissed me softly, so softly it felt like our lips barely touched. And I felt his hands undoing my buttons.

  I held on to his waist, feeling his skin go from cold to warm under my touch. I traced the swirls of quarter notes dancing on a curved bar. The shield that took pride of place on his torso, “Dad” written on a red ribbon underneath.

  My heart clenched at the sight, then as my shirt fell to my elbows, I breathed in and out, knowing what he’d be seeing. I had nothing underneath my shirt, nothing but my skin and my scar and my true self.

  I held my breath as Cromwell saw the result of years of fighting. I worried it would disgust him. I worried it would be too ugly. I worried that—

  A quiet sob slipped from my throat when he leaned forward and pressed his lips over the raised skin. He kissed the scar from the tip to the bottom. Every inch that told the world I had a broken heart. My entire body shook.

  Cromwell took my face in his hands. My shirt fell to the floor, leaving us both exposed. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, those words, and his voice, like a symphony to my ears.

  I smiled. It was the only response I could give, Words were absent, taken away by the gentle touch of his soft kiss. Cromwell kissed me as the rest of our clothes fell away. He kissed me as we crawled into the bed and he moved over me.

  Cromwell kissed and kissed me, making me feel so cherished that I didn’t think I ever wanted this night to end. And as we made love, his eyes locked on mine and his kisses so sweet, he felt heaven-sent. Sent into my life exactly when I needed him. When the true fight would begin, when I would need an ally by my side.

  I pushed the dark hair from his face, our breathing labored. My hands trailed down his cheek, only for him to catch my fingers and kiss them again. Like he was worshipping me. Like he was thanking me. For what, I didn’t know. But I wanted him to feel so cherished too.

  We hadn’t been together long, but when your time is finite, love is felt stronger, faster, deeper. My eyes widened when that thought hit me. Because . . . “I’m falling in love with you,” I whispered, letting my soul take the lead and speak its truth unguarded. Cromwell stilled, and his blue eyes fixed on me. My hand lay on his cheek. I swallowed. “I’m falling in love with you, Cromwell Dean. So very deeply in love.”

  Cromwell crushed his mouth to mine,
my eyes closing as he told me without speaking how much he needed those words. I smiled against his lips when I felt his heart beating next to mine. It was a strong beat, one that my heart tried desperately to chase.

  Cromwell pressed his forehead to mine. “I’m falling in love with you too,” he said, his deep voice broken and hoarse. Broken or not, my heart absorbed those words like a flower drinking in the rays of the sun. It expanded in my chest and beat with wild abandon.

  “Cromwell . . .” I kissed him again. I kissed and kissed him as we built up speed and then broke apart into a million tiny pieces.

  Cromwell moved beside me and pulled me to him. I watched him from my pillow and wondered how he had fallen so perfectly into my life. How I’d been so lucky. How God had heard my whispered prayers.

  Cromwell took my hand. But when his grip tightened and his eyes closed, I knew he was going to speak.

  “All he ever wanted for me was to play music. He knew that I loved it. Needed it . . . but I let him down.” Cromwell’s face crumpled. “And I shattered his heart.” I shifted closer, holding him tighter. Cromwell looked up at me. “Then he never came home.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cromwell

  My voice hung in the air, the confession like feathers stuck to tar. I held on to Bonnie like she was my lifeline, keeping me from falling apart.

  I swallowed. “My . . . dad.” Just the mention of that word caused ice to cut down my spine and my stomach to fall.

  Bonnie didn’t say anything, She just let the silence keep me calm. I stared over her shoulder at the piano across the room. It made me think of the old wooden piano he’d gotten for me on my twelfth birthday.

  “Keep your eyes closed, Crom,” he said as he led me along the hallway in our home.