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)
I could hear my short breaths echoing in my ears, only faintly catching the sound of the piano lid being opened and the volume being turned to its lowest setting. I sat up, wondering what Cromwell was doing. I hugged my pillow, keeping the chill from my now wet pajamas from me, and Cromwell started to play.
I froze, every part of me captured in shock as the piece he had once partially played drifted across the room. The time the touch of my hand on his shoulder had helped him to play. My eyes widened and my bottom lip trembled as the most beautiful composition I’d ever had the pleasure of hearing graced my ears. The notes sank into the marrow of my bones and spread throughout my body. They filled every part of me, until they filled my heart, infusing it with life.
I sat mesmerized as Cromwell passed the point at which he’d once stopped, and he now blessed me with more. Notes I’d never heard so beautifully, perfectly placed together poured from him, his body moving to the rhythm like he was part of the song. Cromwell was the music he created. I was sure I was seeing through the walls he kept so high. I was seeing the darkness he kept hidden deep finally fleeing its prison.
My shaking hand came to my mouth. I forgot to breathe, the power of the piece like a weight in my chest. Because it spoke of sorrow and loss. It spoke of anger and regret.
It spoke of love.
I recognized every feeling, because I had felt them too. Was feeling them now. Cromwell’s hands danced over the keys, perfectly, gracefully, and with such beauty that I was sure that if my heart gave out at that moment, it would be at peace after hearing this.
Music so heavenly it almost didn’t feel real.
I knew I was crying. I could feel the tears drenching my face. But there were no wracking sobs. No shuddering breaths, just a serenity that comes with pure happiness. From being moved so profoundly that something shifted inside you. Something that made you understand what perfection truly looked like.
As Cromwell brought the music to a close, I moved off my bed. I didn’t even know why; I just let my heart take the lead. And of course, it led me to Cromwell. It seemed I had been led to Cromwell since this summer in Brighton.
Cromwell was still, his hands braced on the keys, on the final chords. And as I walked beside him, he looked up. His cheeks were wet, and I knew without asking that something had just broken within him.
And he’d let me see it.
Open.
Vulnerable.
Him.
I stared at Cromwell’s beautiful face, at a genius so tortured that he pushed everyone away, had tried to push me…but his music had spoken to my soul. My voice his siren call.
Cromwell’s eyes squeezed shut, and his head fell against me. I wrapped my arms around his head, keeping him close. I didn’t know what this piece of music was about. And I didn’t know what pain he harbored, but I knew I could be here for him right now.
I thought of my journey ahead, and how in a matter of days, weeks if I was lucky, my ability to move and breathe would be taken from me. And I knew. I knew, as sure as I knew Cromwell was the most perfect musician I’d ever heard, that I wanted him.
While I could.
For us both.
I steered Cromwell’s head back and cupped his cheeks. Cromwell looked up at me. I took a moment to savor him. To leave a photograph in my soul of the moment his walls fell down and he led me, hands grasped and fingers entwined, inside his heart. Where I would never leave.
Where I forever wanted to stay.
Leaning down, I pressed my lips to his. I tasted the salt from his tears and the cold left by the rain. Taking his hand, I guided him off the stool and toward the bed.
No words were needed. I wouldn’t tarnish the perfect melody that still lingered in the air. Right now there was just me and him and silence. Right now there was nothing but healing and this.
My hands shook as I stepped toward Cromwell and lifted his sweater. I pulled the hem over his stomach, baring a beautiful canvas of ink. I brought it over his chest, thankful for Cromwell’s help as he lifted it the rest of the way and discarded it on the floor. His chest rose and fell as my hands flattened to his cold, tanned skin. The expression in his eyes made my legs weak.
Adoration.
I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his skin, hearing the hitch of his breath. He let me lead. My British boy who had just shown me his impenetrable heart.