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)
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’d have thought he was in an execution chamber. He had his laptop with him. I pulled out the music he’d 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. But 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.”
“No. Not like this.”
“I’ve been sick, Cromwell. Kinda comes with the territory.”
“Your composition was nothing new,” he blurted out. 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.