Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 124135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
“You…you must do it.” Because if I didn’t make it, then I would be looking down from the heavens, beside his father, watching as the boy we loved captivated the hearts and minds of everyone in the room.
Cromwell looked at the canoeist. The man nodded his head and silently passed us by. Cromwell watched him go. “And you?” he asked. “What do you want to do with your life?”
Cromwell moved my hair from my face. I thought it was just an excuse to touch me, and that brought warmth to my chilly bones. “Writing is my passion…I always thought I would perhaps do something with that.” I exhaled a difficult breath. “Hear my words sung back to me.” It wasn’t an overly complex dream. And it had already come true. I held his hands tighter. “You have already given me that.”
But I had a greater dream in my mind, and it was only now I understood just how unreachable it was. Some might think it simple, or nothing of great importance, but to me, it was the world.
“Bonnie?”
“To be…married,” I said. “To have children.” My bottom lip wavered. Because even if a heart came, it could be difficult to have a family. Carrying babies post-surgery brought even more risks, but I knew I would chance it. I felt my lashes grow wet. “To be forever in love…and to be forever loved.” I gave a watery smile. “That is now my dream.” When the threat of death hangs over you, you realize that your true dreams aren’t so grand. And they all come down to one thing—love. Material possessions and idealistic goals fade away like a dying star. Love is what remains. Life’s purpose is to love.
Cromwell brought me to his lap. I melted into his chest, and we drifted that way for a while. “Crom.”
“Yeah?”
“You have to play the gala.”
Cromwell tensed. It was a few moments before he said, “I’ll do it, if you make me a promise in return.” I looked up into his eyes. Cromwell was waiting for me. “If you promise you’ll be there, watching.” I didn’t want to promise that, because the chances of it being possible were slim. And it terrified me to think of it. But when I thought back to Cromwell, slumped at the piano all those weeks ago, tortured over his father, needing to play the music in his heart but pushing it away so it didn’t hurt, I knew I couldn’t do it to him.
“I promise,” I said, voice shaking. Cromwell blew out a breath I didn’t even know he was holding. “I promise.” He took my fingers and kissed each one. He brought his lips to my mouth, then my cheeks, my forehead, my nose. He held on to me as if I’d slip through his hands and drift down the stream if he didn’t.
“Cromwell?” I asked when a bird sang again. “Who has synesthesia? Your mama or your papa?”
Cromwell’s dark eyebrows pinched. “What do you mean?”
“It’s genetic…isn’t it?”
Surprise washed over Cromwell’s face. He shook his head. “It can’t be.” He glanced away to the water. “Mum hasn’t got it, and Dad definitely didn’t.”
I frowned, suddenly feeling off. “I must have gotten it wrong.” I was sure I hadn’t, but in that case I had no idea how to explain Cromwell.
Cromwell didn’t say much after that. He appeared deep in thought. I stayed in his arms, listening to Mozart and picturing him up on that stage. I rubbed at my chest when a pain started to build there. Cromwell put me back on the seat and started making our way back to the dock. But with every stroke of the oars, I felt less and less okay.
Panic rushed through me when my left arm started to go numb. “Bonnie?” Cromwell said as we reached the dock. He threw the rope around the post on the dock just as pain so great it winded me seized control of my left side. I reached over to hold my arm as the ability to breathe was ripped away.
“Bonnie!” Cromwell’s voice filtered into my ears as the world tipped on its side. My eyes snapped up, and I saw the sun spearing through the gaps in the trees. The sound of the rustling leaves grew louder, and the birds singing sounded like an opera. Then Cromwell was over me, his blue eyes wide and panicked. “Bonnie! Baby!”
“Cromwell,” I tried to say. But my energy drained from my body, the world fading into muted tones of gray. Then worst of all, everything went quiet; the music of Cromwell’s voice and the living world plunged into silence. I wanted to speak, I wanted to tell him that I loved him. But my world faded to black before I could.
And then a heavy silence took me in its hold.