A Wish for Us by Tillie Cole
Bonnie disappeared into the park. I rushed over the road and followed her path. She was standing under a streetlight just before the pavilion in the middle of the grass.
My foot snapped a fallen twig, and Bonnie looked up, her brown eyes huge. Her shoulders sagged. She brought her guitar over her chest as if it would protect her. Protect her from me.
“Cromwell . . .” Her voice was tired and strained. It was because of me, because of last night. What I did. What I’d done too many times. I didn’t like how sad I’d made her sound. “Why did you come here tonight?”
I stared at her, not saying a word. I couldn’t. Now that I was here, I couldn’t say a thing. I just kept seeing the imprint of her colors in my mind. Heard those lyrics playing on loop, stabbing me in the chest.
How did I make her understand? I froze at that thought. Because I wanted her to understand.
Bonnie sighed loudly. She turned her back to me and started walking away. My pulse fired off. She was leaving.
My mind raced, my lips opened, and I shouted, “Your bridge was weak.”
Bonnie froze mid-step. She turned to face me. I edged closer. Only a few feet. “My bridge is weak?” Her voice was husky and exhausted . . . exasperated.
“Yes.” I put my hands in my pockets.
“Why, Cromwell? Why was it weak?” I could see she was expecting me to shut down. To not explain myself. To run.
“Because the bridge was navy blue.” My face set on fire.
“What?” Bonnie said. I looked around me. I couldn’t believe that I’d even said those words. “Cromwell, what—?”
“The bridge was navy blue. Navy blue tells me it’s weak.” She was a statue in front of me. Her face was full of confusion. I fought the tightness in my chest and cleared my throat. “The rest was olive green and pinks . . . all but the bridge.” I shook my head to get the image of the navy blue from it. I tapped my temple. “It was navy blue. It didn’t fit. Navy doesn’t belong in good compositions.”
Her mouth dropped open, and the excitement I saw the night I played the piano with her next to me flared in her eyes. “Synesthesia,” she whispered, and I heard the awe in her voice. “You’re a synesthete.” She didn’t put it to me as a question. Bonnie stepped closer, and I wanted to run again. Because it was all on me this time. But I fought it. I refused to run from her again.
I blew out a breath. I’d told her. She hadn’t forced me to say it. She’d just played, somehow got beneath my walls, and the truth came pouring out.
“Cromwell . . .” She looked at me in a way she never had before. I realized in this moment that she’d always approached me with caution. Her face had always been somewhat closed around me.
But now it was open.
It was wide open.
“What type?” She stopped, and her feet met mine. She was so close. The smell of her peach and vanilla perfume drifted up my nose, and I tasted the sweet taste on my tongue. Everything was more around her. My senses were so overwhelmed that I almost couldn’t breathe. I saw color and fireworks. Tasted sweetness, smelled her scent, and breathed in who she was. It was lines and shapes and tones and colors, metallic and mattes. It all slammed into me like a flood. And I let it in. Like a dam bursting, I let her in.
I gasped at the force of the emotions. “Cromwell?” Bonnie took hold of my arm. I froze, looking down at her hand on me. She went to pull it back. But I reached out and covered her fingers with my own.
Bonnie stilled. Her eyes fell from my face to our hands. I waited for her to pull away, but she didn’t. I heard her labored breathing. I saw her chest rise and fall. She blinked, her long black lashes hiding what I knew would be huge, shocked brown eyes.
I’d finally let her in.
“Chromesthesia,” I said. Bonnie looked up, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion. I inhaled through my nose and resigned myself to admitting it. “The type of synesthesia I have. Mainly chromesthesia.”
“You see sound.” A small smile pulled on her lips. “You see color when music plays.” I nodded. A quick breath left her mouth. “What else?”
“Hmm?”
“You said it was mainly chromesthesia. What else happens to you? I didn’t know you can have more than one type.”
“I don’t know much about it all,” I admitted. “I have it. Apart from what my da—” I swallowed and forced myself to keep going. “Apart from what my dad told me when he researched it, that’s all I know.” I shrugged. “It’s normal for me. It’s everyday life.”
Bonnie was staring at me like she’d never seen me before. “I’ve read so much about it,” she said. “But I’ve never met anyone with it.” Her fingers tightened on mine. I’d forgotten I was even holding her hand. I looked at the entwined fingers. Something calmed in me. It always did around her. The constant anger inside me faded to almost nothing. It only ever happened with Bonnie. “Your senses mix together, hearing and sight and taste.” She shook her head. “It’s incredible.”
“Yeah.”
“And my bridge was navy blue?” I nodded. “Why?” she asked, sounding almost breathless, she was trying to talk so fast. “How?”
“Come with me.” I started leading Bonnie by the hand through the park. She followed. I didn’t know if she would. If she’d forgiven me for hurting her this past week.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
When she lagged behind, I slowed. She didn’t move any faster. Her breath was coming in pants. I stared at her flushed face and damp forehead. Reaching over her, I took the guitar from her hand.
Red burst on her cheeks. “You okay?” I asked. I had no idea why she was so out of breath.
She pushed some fallen hair from her face. “Just unfit.” She laughed, but it sounded off to my ears. It wasn’t pink. “Need to start on some cardio.”
I kept a slow pace as Bonnie walked beside me. I kept waiting for her to pull her hand away, but she didn’t. I liked holding her hand.
I was holding a girl’s hand.
I kept holding on.
When we arrived at the music department, I could feel the air thicken around us. I paused at the door.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
I gripped the guitar tighter, then finally pulled my hand from hers so I could get out my ID to swipe us inside. My jaw was clenched when I pulled away. Bonnie’s eyes were wide on mine, and I knew why I’d hesitated.
I hadn’t wanted to let her go.
It sounded like there were a couple of people in the building. Lines of crimson red floated in front of my eyes as an oboe played in one of the rooms. Bonnie looked up at me, lips parted, about to say something.
“Crimson-red lines.”
Bonnie stopped dead. “How did you know I was going to ask that?”
I stared down at her face. She had freckles on her nose and cheeks. I hadn’t noticed them before. Her nose was small, but her eyes and lips were big. Her lashes were the longest I’d ever seen.
“Cromwell?” Bonnie’s voice was hoarse. I realized I’d been staring. My pulse had kicked up a notch, and I could feel my heartbeat thumping in my chest. The beats brought me strobing flashes of sunset orange.
“You have freckles.”
Bonnie stared at me, not moving and not making a sound. But then her face reddened. I opened the door to the practice room and walked through. I turned on the light and put down her guitar.
Bonnie shut the door. The room was silent. I put my hands in my pockets. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do now.
Bonnie came forward. I couldn’t take my eyes from the shoulder that her white jumper hung off. At her pale skin. “Why are we here, Cromwell?” Her voice was shaking. When I really looked at her, I could see she was nervous. I’d made her nervous around me. I hated myself for that.
I took her guitar from its case. I handed it to her and pointed at a stool. Bonnie hesitated, but she took the guitar from me and sat down. Her hands ran down the neck, just feeling it.
Bonnie shook her head. “I don’t think I can.” Her hand tightened on her guitar’s neck, and she licked her lips. She was nervous to sing.
“Sing. Play,” I said again. I shifted in my seat, feeling like a dick. But for the first time in years, I found myself actually wanting to help someone. In the only way I knew how.
Bonnie took a deep breath and strummed the opening notes. I closed my eyes. I could see the color better when I did. Like before, I saw olive greens. I saw the shapes and lines and tones. Only with her this close, they were . . . more.
They were brighter. They were more vivid.
My body twitched as it tried to slam up the walls to block them out. It had been my MO for three years. It was rote. My body trying to shut out the colors. It never really worked. Not once in three years had I been able to fully block them out. They only settled for being somewhat dulled.
But not right now. Right now they were so bright that they were almost too much to cope with. But as Bonnie started singing, the violet blue took over everything. The jagged line at the forefront, the color that refused to be dimmed.
My heart raced as I let my brain do what it had been born to do. Bring color to sound and spark like Guy Fawkes’ Night in my head. My muscles unwound and the music seeped into the fibers, giving every one of them life. With every barrier I let fall, my body relaxed, the tension I’d carried for so long fading away on Bonnie’s voice.
My head nodded in time to the beat, until she changed the tune, and a jagged navy blue line, shaped like a lightning fork, sliced through the violet blue, greens and pinks.
“There.” I opened my eyes.
Bonnie stopped playing, hand frozen on the guitar’s neck. I leaned forward, seeing the still photograph of the colors in my mind. Capturing the moment the canvas was ruined.
Bonnie was watching me, breath held. Her hands were tense on the guitar as if she didn’t dare move. I edged forward, taking my stool with me, until I was in front of her. I couldn’t get close enough to the guitar. So I moved forward even closer, Bonnie’s legs between mine. She looked up at me. I could smell mint on her breath from the chewing gum she always chewed.
“Go back a few bars.” I never took my gaze from hers. Bonnie placed her fingers and played. I was frozen as the color washed over me like a shower. My chest felt so warm.
When the navy blue sliced through my brain, I stopped her hand with my palm. Eyes closed, I moved her hand on the neck of the guitar. I knew where I wanted her fingers to be and what notes she needed to play. “Strum,” I ordered. Bonnie did. I moved her hand again. “Again.” I moved to another chord. “Again.” I did it again and again, following the color pattern in my mind. Painting the colors in advance and following their lead. I mentally painted the notes until they meshed back into the ones Bonnie had created.
My hands lifted off the guitar and Bonnie kept playing. I felt her breath as it moved past my ear, as her voice sang the words of the song so softly. I moved in closer, needing to see the violet blue dance before my eyes. I listened until the last note rang out and took the finished canvas in my mind with it.
Bonnie’s breathing was shallow. It was shaking. I slowly opened my eyes. When I did, I realized just how close I’d gotten. My cheek was next to hers, the ends of my stubble touching her skin. My ear was near her mouth.
I’d moved closer to hear her sing.
To hear that perfect violet blue.
Bonnie’s breath stuttered. I hung close, not wanting to move away. Slowly, I pulled my head back until I faced her, her nose only a centimeter away from mine. Her eyes were huge, and filled with something I hadn’t seen in her before. And I wished I knew what it was.
“What . . .” I swallowed. My knee knocked against her thigh. “What did you think?”
“Cromwell,” she whispered, a slight tremor of vibrato in her voice. “I haven’t . . . I couldn’t ever write anything like that.” Her cheeks blushed. “Not without you.”
My heart slammed against my ribcage. “I just followed the colors.” I nudged my chin in her direction. “Colors you created.”
Bonnie searched my eyes like she could see through them. Like she was trying to see inside of me. “This is why he brought you here. He knew it still lived inside you. Lewis. It’s what he saw in you.” Her brown eyebrows knitted together, a sympathetic expression on her pretty face. “Why, Cromwell? Why do you fight it?”
Her words were like a bucket of ice poured over my head. I moved back, my defense mechanism to flee, to verbally knock her down kicking in. But Bonnie’s hand moved off the guitar and lay on my cheek. I froze. Her touch kept me rooted to the spot.
I fought the need to run. The lump that choked my throat clawing up from my chest. But when I looked at her eyes, I didn’t move. Instead, my lips opened and I said, “Because I don’t want it anymore.”
Her hand was warm on my face. Her fingers soft. “Why?” Tears filled her eyes when I didn’t answer. I wondered if she’d seen something in my face. I wondered if she’d heard something in my voice.
But I couldn’t answer her.
Bonnie’s hand slipped from mine, and I felt like I’d been plunged back into the middle of an English winter. Everything was suddenly cold and dull, stripped of warmth. Bonnie smiled. She put her hand back on the guitar. Lines wrinkled on her forehead. “I can’t remember the new chords.”
I lifted off the stool and moved behind her. “Budge forward.” Bonnie looked over her shoulder at me. Her pupils dilated, but she did as I asked. I sat behind her. She wasn’t close enough, so I threaded my arms around her waist and moved her back. Bonnie let out a surprised sigh as her back moved flush against my chest.
My arms wrapped around her, shadowing hers. The tattoos on my bare arms stood out like lights in the dark against her white sleeves. My chin came just above her shoulder. I caught her sharp inhale.
It was a burst of russet in my mind.
“Hands ready,” I said. I glanced down at her bare shoulder beneath my mouth. Her skin bumped, her ears turned red, and I saw her lips part. I felt the corner of my mouth hook up into a smile.
“Play. When we get to the bridge, I’ll step in and help.” So she did. Bonnie’s words washed over me. But the lyrics were again like a dagger to the heart. The sadness in them as she sang. The violet-blue line of her voice that ran through me like a heart monitor swelled with her emotion. With the words that resonated with her the most.
As the bridge came up, I put my hands over hers. I felt her shudder against me. But I kept going, letting her strum as I placed her hands on the chords that were in sync with the rest of the song. We played it three more times before her hands fell from the strings.
“You got it?” I asked, my voice sounding husky even to my ears. It was being this close to her. Her small body fitting against mine like a piece of a jigsaw.
“Yeah, I think so.”
But neither of us moved. I didn’t know why. But I sat there on the stool with Bonnie Farraday leaning against me. Until . . . “Cromwell?” Bonnie’s voice cut through the silent comfort. “You can play anything, can’t you? Without lessons or practice. You can just see the music, and you have the skill to play whatever you want.” Her head turned, her lips almost brushing past mine. Her eyes studied me. “The colors show you the way.”
I thought back to the first time I picked up and instrument. It had felt as natural to me as breathing. The colors that danced before my eyes were like a path. I just had to follow them and I could play. I found myself nodding my head. Bonnie sighed. “Can you . . . could you play my song?”
“Yes.”
Without taking her eyes off me, Bonnie found my hands that were resting over the guitar and moved them into position. She settled back against my chest. “Please play for me.”
She seemed tired, her body leaning against me and her voice quiet. My fingers flexed. The guitar wasn’t an instrument I usu
My hands simply understood its language.
Closing my eyes, I started playing the chords. No words accompanied the piece this time. Bonnie stayed silent as she listened. She didn’t move a muscle as the music she’d created poured from my fingers. On the instrument she clearly loved.
When the song finished, the silence broke into the room. I felt Bonnie against me. I smelled her peach scent and I saw her bared skin. I hadn’t even realized my fingers had started moving again until the colors showed me the way. And I let them. No fighting it this time. No hiding it from Bonnie. I just thought of her and us and right now, and used the guitar she loved so much to tell her without words what I was feeling.
Like muscle memory, my body reacted to being able to create. Real, pure instruments in my hands. Not laptop keys and synthetic beats, but wood and string and the colors that led. Peach and vanilla, milk-colored skin and brown hair pushing me on, inspiring notes.
I wasn’t sure how long I played for. It could have been two minutes or two hours. I let my fingers loose, let them free from the shackles I’d forced on them three years ago. And with every note played, a part of the anger I fueled each day with my refusal to play, to compose, fell away until it was nothing but vapor, flying away with all of my reluctance to finally feel this.
This addictive, soaring feeling that only music could give. My body reacted like it had taken a deep breath after years of shutting down my lungs. I breathed. My heart beat. My blood pumped through my veins. And I composed music. It was part of me, not something I did. Part of my makeup.
And after this, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to go back.
My hands came to a stop. My fingers felt numb from playing. But it was a good kind of numbness. Addicting. I blinked, clearing my eyes, and saw the piano looking at me from across the room. The violin. The cello. The drums. Adrenaline rushed through me, urging me to play them all. Now I’d had a hit, I was like a junkie. Needing more and more.