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)
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 elicited.
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?” he asked. 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 and 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 instead I said, “I’ll go back for Wednesday.” There wasn’t a chance I was missing working with Cromwell. I was already further behind in schoolwork 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 just as I’d been doing all week, I followed the messily drawn notes. And just as with 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 won out. The same one I’d seen 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.