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)
My fingertip dipped into something wet as I placed my hands. It was a fallen tear from Cromwell’s eyes.
I didn’t wipe it away.
Repositioning my hands, I began to play something I had written myself. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth, letting my biggest joy fly free. The answered prayer that was lyrics to a melody. A sung poem. Delivered from the heart yet sung from the soul.
I sang softly, a song I’d written just for me. One that was as timely as it was meaningful. One that had become my anthem. One that kept me strong.
It was meant to be sung with an acoustic guitar, yet something made me sit here, at this beautiful instrument. My hands moved along the ivories with practiced skill. But when the song came to a close and I shut the piano’s lid, I knew my playing hadn’t been worthy of this instrument after what Cromwell had brought to life from its keys.
I looked up at the door, the ghost of Cromwell’s broken voice and haunted eyes still lingering in the air. I took in a deep inhale and tried to find the dislike for him that had settled upon me from our very first meeting.
Only now it wasn’t there. Even with the rudeness and the arrogance that I saw from him most days. I now knew there was a pain behind his blue eyes, tattoos, and dark hair. In an instant, it made it impossible for me to think of him as I once did.
A tear dropped down my cheek. Cromwell Dean was in so much pain that it took away his joy to play music that he’d once loved. Pain that caused him to shed tears.
I ached. Because I knew what that kind of pain felt like.
In the most unlikely of places, at the most unlikely of times, I’d found common ground with Cromwell Dean. But would we ever share those secrets…?
I sighed.
Probably not.
Chapter Eight
Cromwell
The breeze slapped my skin as I rushed through the quad, past some old alumnus memorialized in a cast-iron statue in the center. My eyes darted around me, at the darkened edge of the grass and the illuminated benches under vintage streetlamps.
I breathed in my cigarette smoke, forcing it into my lungs, waiting for the rush of nicotine to calm me down. But it didn’t work. I let my feet lead me wherever they wanted me to go. But it didn’t stop the shaking of my hands. It didn’t stop the erratic beat of my heart and the tears that just wouldn’t fucking stop.
My fingers ached as I clutched the metal in my hands so tightly I wondered if they would ever get the feeling back in them again. I walked and walked until I found myself at the lake. It was silent, no sign of life but the docked boats and the dim lights from the far-off lakeside bar that sat on the edge. My feet led me to the end of a dock before they gave out and I dropped to my knees.
The sound of the lake lapping against the dock’s wooden posts hit my ears. Pale purples lit up my eyes, and the taste of cinnamon burst in my mouth. I groaned low, not wanting any of it. Not wanting the colors or the tastes or the feels…
“Son,” he whispered, his eyes shining. “How…how did you play like that?”
I shrugged, dropping my hands from the piano. Dad’s hand came on my head, and he crouched beside me. “Has someone taught you that?”
I shook my head. “I—” I quickly shut my mouth.
“You what?” He smiled. “Come on, buddy. I promise I’m not angry.” I didn’t want to make him angry. He’d been away with the army for months and months and he’d just got back. I wanted to make him proud, not angry.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and ran my fingertips over the keys. They didn’t make a sound. “I can just play,” I whispered. I glanced up at Dad. I lifted my hands. “They just know what to do.” I pointed to my head. “I just follow the colors. The tastes.” I pointed at my chest, my stomach. “How they make me feel.”
My dad blinked then suddenly hugged me to his chest. I missed him when he was away. It wasn’t the same when he was gone. When he pulled back, he said, “Play again, Cromwell. Let me listen.”
So I did.
It was the first time in my life I’d ever seen my dad cry.
So I played some more…
I gasped, sucking in the humid air. I moved my feet, my back hitting the wooden post. A man was canoeing in the distance. I wondered why the hell he was here at night. But then I thought maybe he was like me. Maybe when he closed his eyes, he never got rest. Instead, he only saw the memory of what destroyed him. As I looked at the water rippling beneath the oars, I wished I were him right now. Just going. No destination in mind. Just bloody going.