A Wish for Us by Tillie Cole
“You okay?” I asked, and he looked up at me, eyes still glazed and lost.
Cromwell nodded, then silently stood and fell into step beside me as we walked toward the exit. He reached over and took my basket from my hands. My heart melted a little at that.
I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling freezing cold. “I thought you’d be out tonight. At the bar. Or the Barn. Playing your music.”
“No.” He didn’t elaborate further.
When we reached the main gates, I heard the sound of a horn. I looked over the road to see my mama in her car. “I’m over there,” I said, turning to Cromwell. His eyebrows were furrowed. “It’s my mama.” I ducked my head, cheeks on fire. “I’ve been staying with them this week while I’ve been sick.” Damn. I sounded like a kid who had to run home to her mama at the littlest thing that was wrong.
I was nineteen. I knew what it looked like. I hated to think that Cromwell would think me pathetic. But by the way he was looking at me, I didn’t think he did. In fact, the way he was looking at me made me breathless. It was intense, and open. Cromwell was always guarded, an island unto himself. But tonight there was a shift, where before I’d only seen glimpses.
There was one thing I was sure my heart couldn’t take, and that was Cromwell Dean being sweet to me. I wasn’t equipped for the kind of emotion it inspired.
I took the basket from his hands and rocked on my feet. “Thank you Cromwell. For carrying the basket.”
Cromwell nodded, then looked over his shoulder as a group of people spilled out of Wood Knocks. I sighed. I knew that was where he’d be going after this. That was his life.
It wasn’t mine. I’d do right to remember that before my head ran away with its thoughts.
“Night.” I turned and started walking to my mama’s car.
“Are you going to be in class again this week?” I stopped dead. Cromwell Dean was asking me about class?
I looked over my shoulder at him. “Should be,” I said, then couldn’t help but ask, “Why?”
Cromwell rubbed the back of his tattooed neck with his hand. His jaw clenched. “Just asking.”
“We have that project to get started on, remember?” He nodded his head. It seemed as though he wanted to say something. But he didn’t. He just stood there, switching between awkwardly watching me or watching the road. As I roved my eyes over the people milling about, Cromwell stood out like a sore thumb. His tattoos, his piercings, his clothes, his dark hair and dark blue eyes.
“Should we meet Wednesday?” I said, and his shoulders stiffened.
Cromwell rolled his tongue ring in his mouth. I’d noticed he did that whenever he was faced with something he wasn’t sure he should do. When he was conflicted, especially when it came to music. I watched him fight that simple question, before he met my eyes and gave me a single nod. “Night, Cromwell,” I said again.
Cromwell didn’t say it back. He turned away in the direction of the bar. I didn’t go to my mama’s car until he had pushed through the door, a blast of music escaping as it opened. I turned and got into the car.
My mama was watching the bar too. “Who was that?” she asked as she pulled out onto the street.
“Cromwell Dean.”
My mama’s eyes widened. “Your brother’s new roommate?”
“Yeah. And my partner in composition class.” And the boy who was pretty much in every waking thought I’d had since I’d seen him in the music room. Since he’d amended my music in minutes into something breathless. And since he sat beside me at a classical concert and carried my basket.
Cromwell Dean was an enigma.
“Well . . .” my mama said. “He’s interesting.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“So, how was the concert?”
“Amazing.” I took a deep breath. It was labored. I rubbed my chest.
“You okay?” Mama asked, concern on her face. “You still feeling tired? You’re not pushing too hard, are you?”
I smiled. “I’m fine. Just tired. This week has been long.” Mama didn’t say anything to that. She just put her hand in mine and squeezed it tight.
“Maybe you should stay at home next week too.”
I knew I should. But, “I’ll go back for Wednesday.” There wasn’t a chance I was missing working with Cromwell. I was already further behind in school work than I’d ever been in my life. But the real reason was that I wanted to see if he would open up with his music any more. I was forever on a precipice, waiting to hear whatever glimpse of his genius he would offer.
“Okay, honey. But don’t push yourself too hard.”
“I won’t.”
Mama pulled into the driveway, and in ten minutes I was in my room. I was exhausted. My bed called my name, but I found myself sitting at my electric piano. The sheet of music Cromwell had amended was on the stand. I plugged in my headphones and placed my hands on the keys. And like I’d been doing all week, I followed the messily drawn notes. And like every time, my chest filled with the most amazing feeling of beauty. My hands danced over the keys as if they had no other choice but to put sound to the pen marks Cromwell had so easily jotted down.
Too soon the short burst of music was over. So I played it again. I played it six times before my tiredness became too much. I ran my hand over the manuscript paper. I couldn’t help but shake my head. This had been so natural for Cromwell. He thought I hadn’t seen him reworking my opening bars, but I had. I’d watched him war with himself over touching it.
His hands had twitched and his eyes had rocked back and forth from me to the sheet until some desperate need within him had won out. The same one I saw that night in the music room. An expression I couldn’t explain came over his face as he scribbled. Then he threw the pen and sheet to the table as if they were a naked flame in his hand.
Taking off my headphones, I went to my bed. I replayed the orchestra’s performance in my head. Then I thought of Cromwell next to me on the grass. I shook my head. It was surreal.
I replayed the look in his eyes as he had watched the pianist.
The shaking of his hand.
The foreign look of peace I’d seen on his face.
The revulsion over the Twizzler I’d put in his hand.
And I smiled.
*****
“No coffee shop today?” Cromwell appeared confused as I led us to the music department practice rooms. It was time we started getting something done.
I swiped my ID and led us to the room I’d booked. Cromwell hovered near the door as I moved to the table in the center. A piano sat in the corner.
I pulled out my notepad, blank manuscript paper, and my pens, trying to ignore the ache in my head. I got a bottle of water from my bag and took a few huge mouthfuls.
Cromwell dropped into the chair beside me. By looking at him you would think he was in an execution chamber. He had his laptop with him. I pulled out the music he worked on at the coffee place last week. He took one look at it and sighed in frustration.
“I like it.” I ran my hand over it. I met Cromwell’s eyes. “It’s beautiful. And it’s only a few bars.” I didn’t hide that I was in awe of his talent. He knew. My reaction to him a couple of weeks ago spoke that without words. It was a few bars scribbled down in a hurry. Yet it was breathtaking. I smiled, trying to cover the thoughts in my head. “I think it’s a great start.” Cromwell stared blankly at the tabletop. “What were you thinking of?” I asked, tapping the sheet. “When you wrote these notes?”
“I wasn’t,” he said. Back was the Cromwell from before, the one who struggled to open up. Though there was an approachability that had been gradually building since I heard him play.
“You just read my notes, and what?” I pushed.
He put his hands behind his head. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t?” I asked. He shook his head, but I could see that he was lying.
“You look pale,” he said, completely off subject.
“I’m always pale.”
“I’ve been sick, Cromwell. Kinda comes with the territory.”
“Your composition was nothing new,” he blurted. It took me a second to catch up with his snap change in conversation. My mouth opened to speak, but the swift stab in my stomach prevented any words from slipping out. “It lacked intensity.” He delivered the blows through gritted teeth, a soft voice making the harsh critique slightly easier to take. Like he wanted to be anywhere but here ripping my hard work to shreds. Like he didn’t want to give me this assessment at all. “The notes didn’t complement each other as well as they could have.”
“So basically it was bad,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh. It was either that or show how upset I was.
“Not bad just . . . not special.” He winced as he said it.
I stared at him, trying to not be a total baby about his criticism. I was failing hard. I sucked in a breath. “Okay.” I looked about me then got up. I needed a minute. I found myself at the piano. I sat down on the stool and lifted the lid.
My fingers dragged over the keys. I closed my eyes and played whatever came from my heart. The notes of the bars I’d created spilled out, drifting into my ears. When they ended, another set began.
Those that Cromwell wrote.
And I heard it. I heard it as clear as day. The difference. The comparison of quality. His were a vibrant dream. Mine, a mild nap in the afternoon. I sighed and closed my eyes. My hands fell from the piano.
“How do you do it?” I whispered, more to myself than to Cromwell. He was watching me, lazing back on his seat. I couldn’t read the look in his eyes.
“You . . .” He paused, clearly struggling with how to explain what he wanted to say. “You don’t play with meaning.”
“What?” I hadn’t expected him to say that.
Cromwell nudged his chin in the direction of the piano. “The way you sit, you’re too rigid. Your body is too uptight. It makes the playing uncomfortable. If it makes the playing uncomfortable, the sound will be uncomfortable.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know how to play in any other way.” I hated the way my eyes filled with tears. Hated the way my voice shook. Hated the way my heart plummeted. My dream was to play the piano well. I’d settle for being a fraction as good as Cromwell was.
Cromwell was silent. I could hear the distant sound of people practicing their instruments in other rooms. I inhaled deeply, then exhaled. My eyes closed. Suddenly, I felt someone beside me. I darted my eyes open. Cromwell stood to my right.
“Budge over, Farraday.” My heart thumped like a drum in my chest as his tall frame towered over me. Because I wanted Cromwell sitting at this piano beside me. I wanted to see what he would do.
I didn’t dare let myself hope that he would play.
My stomach flipped at his proximity. But I did as he said and shuffled over on the stool. Cromwell wavered. I wondered if he was having second thoughts, but a moment later he dropped beside me.
He smelled good. Of spice. And although I hated smoking, I couldn’t deny that the linger of tobacco that clung to his clothes only made his scent more appealing. “Your hands are too stiff.” Cromwell didn’t look at me as he spoke. Ironically, his hands were rigid too. His posture was ramrod straight. “You need to relax more.”
I laughed. “You’re not exactly the picture of relaxation, Buddha.” Cromwell glanced at me from the side of his eye. I thought I saw his lip twitch. But it was too quick to confirm if it’d actually happened.
Cromwell reached for my hands, shocking me half to hell. I held my breath as his hands took my fingers and laid them on the keys. His hands were warm, but his fingers were rough. I wondered if that was from his years of playing so many instruments. I didn’t ask him. I knew I’d only lose this curious side of him if I did.
“Play,” he ordered.
I frowned. “Play what?”
He looked at me like I’d spoken another language he didn’t understand. “Whatever you need to.”
“Need to?” My head shook. I was so confused.
“Play.” His eyebrows were furrowed. “Just play.”
I closed my eyes and began. I swallowed when I realized I was playing the bars Cromwell had written. When I stopped, I took a deep breath then met his gaze. His black eyebrows were pulled down in confusion. Then it dawned on me . . . “You just play what’s in your heart, don’t you? You don’t need music? You simply just . . . play.”
His blank face told me everything. He had no clue that other people didn’t do that. Couldn’t do that. I felt dizzy. Dizzy from the knowledge that Cromwell must look at a piano and just play something that was his and his alone.
His hands ghosted over the keys. I watched his tattooed fingers. The inked skulls and the numbers were a stark contrast to the purity of the keys. Yet they meshed seamlessly like they were long-lost soulmates.
My chest was tight. Had been all the while I’d been sick and showed no sign of letting up. But it was nothing to the taut string that pulled in me as the most beautiful music poured from the instrument. I felt like I was listening from outside of myself. I remembered that night when I’d seen him play a piece so sad it brought me to tears. Now, I was watching him up close, experiencing this beside him. And it felt like a taste of the divine. There was no other way to put it.
I risked a glance at his face. His eyes were closed. That look . . . that look of pure peace was etched on his normally lined and pinched face. My heart stuttered. My eyes widened.
Cromwell Dean was so beautiful.
My stomach stirred, and flutters I couldn’t explain swarmed in my chest. Panic set in. I wanted to rub my chest. Shift on my seat and run from what was working its way into my brain. No, no, no, no . . . I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t let myself go there—
Cromwell pulled my attention from my freaked-out thoughts with a swift change in tempo. His body swayed to the rhythm, and I knew he had no idea he was even doing it.
This—playing, creating—was as natural to him as breathing.
I didn’t dare breathe in case I broke the spell he was under. If I could have, I would have chosen to sit here on this stool until Cromwell tired of playing completely. I only let myself exhale when his hands stopped playing, the piece I’d never heard before fading to nothing but an echo in the silent room.
When the final note hung in the air, Cromwell’s eyes fluttered open. His jaw clenched a few moments later, and a thick wave of sadness eroded the happy serenity that had possessed him as he played. He was once again conscious that he was back in this room with me and not wherever his music had just taken him. Tormented again. The expression on his face seemed hurt.
This close, witnessing his playing, I realized it actually pained him to play.
“Cromwell . . .” I whispered, fighting the need to hold him in my arms. In this moment he looked so alone. So completely alone with his pain.
“That was . . . there are no words . . . How . . . ?”
“It was the concert,” he said, so low I could barely hear him.
“What?”
Cromwell ducked his head. He ran his fingers down his stubbled cheeks. “I was thinking . . .” He sighed. I wasn’t sure he was going to finish his sentence, but thankfully, he did. “I was thinking of the concert.” His lips tightened like they were fighting back whatever it was he was trying to say . . . No. Had to say. “Of that night . . . the music . . .” He focused on the bare white wall in front of us. “Of . . .”
I swallowed hard when he didn’t finish. Me? I wanted to ask. But that question would never come from my mouth. Especially now. Especially after this. I needed to end this session. I needed to get away from Cromwell. When I’d first met him and he was rude, when he was unfriendly in the first days of the semester, it had been easy not to see his good looks. It was easy to ignore the way his muscles flexed in his arms, turning his tattoos into living, breathing pieces of art.
But seeing the real him at the piano that night, his struggle
To see how handsome he truly was.
“I . . .” He cleared his throat. It was the push I needed to clear the Cromwell-induced fog that had clouded my mind. I looked at him from under my lashes, hoping they would offer a layer of protection from whatever I was feeling right now. But he paused when he met my eyes. His cheeks were bursting with red.
“You what?” I whispered. It sounded like a scream in the silent room.
“I’ve got more,” he admitted, as if it was the worst kind of confession.
“More?”
He pointed at the sheet at the piano. My stomach rolled in excitement. “The composition?”
Cromwell nodded once, tightly.
“Can I hear it?” Cromwell looked to the side. His wide shoulders were stiff. I held my breath. I didn’t dare breathe as he looked about the room, darting his eyes to everything but me, the piano, and the truth—that he was born to do this.
My eyes watered as I watched him. Because whatever it was that held him back from giving this to himself, from embracing who he was, was all-encompassing. It was smothering him.
It seemed like it was destroying him.
In that moment, I felt a kinship with him. He would never know, but he and I . . . we weren’t so different.
It wasn’t intentional. My hand lifted and landed on his bare shoulder, a familial crest painted in bright colors on his olive skin. It was instinctive. It was the need to help this closed-off boy and show him without words or explanation that I understood.
Cromwell froze under my touch. I kept my eyes on my hand. Goosebumps spread along his skin like wildfire. A red rose in the eye socket of a skull twitched under my fingers.
Cromwell closed his eyes and took a long inhale. I didn’t move my hand, in case it was the energy he needed to show me this. To give himself this. His hands moved to the keys, fingers in position. He didn’t need to see where he positioned them; he knew exactly where each key was, a comfort you only got from years and years of practice.