Chapter Twenty-One Bonnie

Chapter Twenty-One

Bonnie

Two weeks later…

“I like it…” I said as Cromwell played the violin at the end of the bed. I watched his bow work, mesmerized at how somebody could play such an array of instruments so well.

My stomach tensed as I tried to breathe through my tight chest. But it didn’t help. Cromwell closed his eyes and played the passage we had just written again. I said “we,” but in reality it was all him. I couldn’t fool myself when it came to composing with someone like Cromwell. He took the lead. How could he not, when all he had to do was follow his heart?

And I was tired. I was so tired. In the last ten days, I hadn’t left my bed once. I glanced down at my legs. They were thin on the bed. I was unable to move. Yet Cromwell came every day. He kissed me as much as he could, held me against him when I was cold.

I sometimes wondered if my heart felt it too. Felt what my soul felt when he whispered in my ear how much he loved me. How much he adored me. And how I was going to get through this.

I wanted to believe that. I did. But I’d never realized I would get this tired. I’d never realized I would feel so much pain. But when I looked into Cromwell’s eyes, my mama’s and papa’s eyes, and when I thought of Easton, I knew I had to hold on.

I couldn’t lose them.

The sound of a car door opening came from outside. Cromwell paused in jotting down notes on our sheet music. My fingers tingled, knowing who it would be. Easton was coming home today. He had been at a rehab center just outside of Charleston that his therapist recommended. One that could help him get back to a safe place. One that could equip him with the tools he needed to battle his darker thoughts. And I’d missed him. I hadn’t seen him except that first night at the hospital.

Cromwell stood when the front door opened. My heart seemed to pound in my chest, but it must have been a phantom beat. I knew it didn’t have that kind of strength.

Cromwell sat beside me on my bed, holding my hand as the door to my room opened. Easton’s head was bowed, and his wrists were bound in bandages. But he was my brother. And he looked just the same as always.

Tears fell down my cheeks as he stood awkwardly in the doorway. He didn’t look up. Cromwell released my hand and crossed the room. Easton flicked his gaze up at him, and Cromwell pulled him into his arms. I couldn’t help it then. Seeing the two of them there, the victim and his savior, I fell apart. Easton’s back shook as Cromwell held him close.

They stayed that way for a few minutes, until Easton lifted his head and his eyes collided with mine. “Bonn,” he whispered, and his face contorted seeing me in the bed. It was like he couldn’t move. So I lifted my hand and held it out for him to take. He wavered, until Cromwell put a hand on his shoulder.

“She’s missed you, East,” Cromwell said. I loved that boy so much. So impossibly much.

Easton came slowly, but when he sank to the edge of the bed and took my hand, I pulled him close. Easton hugged me, and I held on, just having him back in my arms. In my world.

“I love you, East.”

“Love you, Bonn.”

I held him for as long as I could. Then my IV beeped and Clara came back into the room. She gave Easton a smile and quickly changed my IV bag. I had to get fluids. But on top of that, I also now had a PICC line in my arm. I could no longer eat, so I needed to get nutrition this way. Easton watched, his eyes still sad. When Clara left, he sat on the seat beside my bed. And like he did every day, brazen as he was, Cromwell climbed on my bed beside me and took hold of my hand.

“How are you?” I asked, a lump in my throat.

Easton’s eyes shone. His head dropped. “I’m sorry.” He looked at Cromwell. “Sorry, Crom.”

I went to speak, but Easton said, “I just couldn’t do it anymore.” He sucked in a breath. I would have taken one in too if I could. “I’d stopped taking my meds. And it all got on top of me…”

I held out my other hand and he took it. “I…I need you,” I whispered.

Easton met my eyes and finally nodded his head. “I know you do, Bonn.” He gave me a weak smile. “I’ll be here. I promise.”

I exhaled and tried to read his face. He seemed tired, withdrawn. But he was here. Easton leaned forward. “How are you?” His eyes scanned the machines that had been brought into my room.

“Holding on,” I said, and his face fell. Cromwell kissed my shoulder, his hand gripping mine tighter.

I cast my eyes out of the window. “What’s it like…out there?” I never knew a person could miss the sun so much. Miss the wind, and even the rain.

“Nice,” Easton said. I smiled to myself at my brother’s one-word answer. I would never have described it that way. I wanted to know what color the leaves on the trees were. If it was cooler than ten days ago. What the lake looked like in the evening now that the nights were growing darker.

“Nice,” I said, and Easton smirked.

“So?” Easton asked, a hint of my happy brother shining through his voice. “What have you been composing?” I didn’t think he actually cared, but I loved him for trying.

Cromwell reached into his pocket and pulled out his audio recorder. He always recorded what we played and then transferred it to my cell so I could listen to it. He played the parts we’d created and even the rough mixes of how all the instrument sections would flow together.

Easton’s mouth hung open. “Was that you playing all those instruments?” he asked Cromwell.

Cromwell’s face burst into flames. “Yes,” I answered for him.

Easton frowned. “Who wrote the music?”

“Both—”

“Cromwell,” I interrupted. Cromwell looked at me, eyes narrowed. I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s true…” This was his work. This was all him.

Easton sat back in his seat and shook his head. “So the EDM star is into classical music.”

Cromwell’s mouth twitched. “It’s all right.”

Easton laughed, taking Cromwell’s lips from hooked to a full smile. The sound and sight of the happiness lit up my world.

It wasn’t long before I fell asleep. When I woke, it was to Clara checking my heartbeat with her stethoscope. “Still beating?” I asked, our usual joke slipping from my lips.

Clara smiled. “Still holding on.”

Cromwell and Easton sat across the room. They were talking in low voices, heads close together. Cromwell turned, as if he’d sensed I was awake.

He came over and kissed me. Clara laughed and left the room. He sat on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling, baby?”

Baby. He’d just started calling me that. I loved it about as much as I loved him.

“Okay.” I rubbed my hand across my chest.

Cromwell lifted the stethoscope from the side table. “Can I listen?”

I nodded. Cromwell put the cold stethoscope against my chest and closed his eyes. I watched as they flickered underneath his closed lids. I wondered what he was seeing. What colors and shapes. Then he reached into his pocket and put the small microphone attached to the recorder under the edge of the stethoscope. He stayed that way for a few minutes; then he opened his eyes, moving his head back. Without my having to ask, he played the recording. I breathed in through my nose, taking in a deep lungful of oxygen as the stuttered, labored sound of my failing heart echoed around the room.

It was practically singing that it was giving up.

“Do Easton’s,” I said. Cromwell looked confused, but he did as I asked. The beat was strong. I knew it would be.

“Now yours. I want to hear yours.”

Cromwell put the stethoscope over his heart, but this time he gave me the earbuds. The sound of his beating heart pounded into my ears. And I smiled.

This was the music of his heart.

“Beautiful,” I said.

I could have listened to it all day.

* * *

Three days later…

“Where are we going?” I asked as Cromwell helped me into my wheelchair. Clara had come into my room an hour ago and had taken me off my food bag from my PICC line. She had attached the small oxygen tank onto my pipe and helped me get dressed.

Cromwell pushed me to the door. My pulse seemed to build up speed as I passed my mama and papa. “Not too long, okay?” Mama told Cromwell.

“I know. I won’t push it.”

“What’s happening?”

Cromwell bent down in front of me and laid his palm softly on my cheek. “We’re getting you some fresh air.”

My lips parted as the door opened, revealing a sunny day. I was wrapped up in Cromwell’s thick black sweater, a coat, and blankets. But I didn’t care if I looked ridiculous. I was going outside. I didn’t care where.

I was going outside .

Cromwell pushed me out onto the path. He paused. I wondered if he knew I just wanted to feel the light breeze on my face. That I wanted to hear the birds singing in the trees.

His mouth came to my ear. “You ready?”

“Mmm.”

Cromwell led me to his truck and settled me into the passenger seat. As his face moved past mine, he paused and pressed a single gentle kiss to my lips.

They tingled as he shut the door and got into the driver’s seat. He threaded his hand through mine. He never let go as he drove slowly out of my street and onto the country roads.

I stared out of the window, watching the world pass us by. I loved this world. I loved my life. I wasn’t sure many people thought that on a day-to-day basis. But it was often my most poignant thought.

I wanted to live. I wanted the possibilities that lay ahead. I wanted to see the countries I’d only ever dreamed of visiting. Cromwell squeezed my hand. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. I wanted to hear the music Cromwell would create. I wanted to be beside him, seeing his work come to life.

Cromwell took a right down a country road. The lake was this way. As his truck entered the parking area, I saw a small wooden boat, two oars ready at its side, waiting at the end of the wooden dock.

My blood warmed with affection. I turned to Cromwell. “A boat…”

Cromwell nodded, putting his hooded leather jacket on over his thick black sweater. He looked so handsome like this. “You said you like to be on the lake.” Half of me melted at the sweetness this gesture held. But the other stilled. Cromwell had said we would do this after my heart came. When I was better.

I wasn’t a fool. And nor was he.

The days kept passing. And with every fading minute, I grew weaker and weaker.

The heart may never come. Which meant that this ride would never come. My lip trembled as he looked at me, a sudden rush of fear taking me in its grip.

Cromwell quickly leaned in and pressed his forehead to mine. “I still believe you’ll get the heart, baby. I just wanted to give you this now. Get you out of the house. I’m not giving up.”

The tension in me drained away on hearing the sincerity in his voice. “Okay,” I whispered back. Cromwell kissed me again and got out of the truck. I was sure I’d never get sick of his kisses. When he opened my door and the cool breeze drifted through, I closed my eyes and just breathed. I could smell the green of the leaves. The freshness of the lake.

And of course I could smell Cromwell. His leather jacket. The musk of the cologne he wore and the faint smell of cigarette smoke.

“You ready?”

I smiled and nodded my head. Cromwell lifted me out of the truck and picked up my oxygen tank. As we walked slowly down the dock, I neglected looking at the lake for just a few minutes. Instead I stared at Cromwell. At his olive skin. At the stubble on his cheeks. At the blue of his eyes and the long, black lashes that framed their unique color.

Despite its weakness, in this moment my heart felt strong. And I was sure that if someone were to look into its depths, Cromwell was who they would see. Cromwell must have felt me looking as he peeked down at me. I wasn’t even embarrassed about it. “You’re so handsome…” I said, my voice swept away by the breeze.

Cromwell stopped dead. His eyes closed for a moment. Then he leaned down and kissed me again. Butterfly wings fluttered in my chest. When he pulled back, I slipped my hand from around his neck and placed it on his cheek. Telling him without words how I felt.

After all, love was beyond words.

Cromwell stepped into the boat. It rocked slightly as he lowered me onto the seat. I leaned back and took a deep breath. Cromwell laid a blanket around me then took the oars in his hands. “Do…do you know what you’re doing?” I asked.

His wide smile took away the small amount of breath I had in my lungs. “Just thought I’d wing it.” We pulled off onto the lake, and Cromwell quickly got the hang of using the oars. I smiled as we glided along the still water, the oars rippling the water around us. Cromwell met my eyes and winked. I couldn’t help but laugh. The sound came out as a wheeze, but even that didn’t stop me from cherishing the moment.

I decided I liked this side of Cromwell best. The one where he was free. Where he was funny, no walls guarding his heart. He looked off to the side of the lake, where the trees were thicker, as if they were cocooning us into a private world just for us. And I was struck. Struck that this boy from England, the prince of EDM, was here with me right now. The boy who was born with a melody in his heart and a symphony in his soul was on this, my favorite lake, rowing us along the water like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I hadn’t wanted anyone else in my life for fear of what would happen if I lost this fight. But now that I was here, with Cromwell, him becoming my oar, helping me sail across this lake, I knew it could never have been any other way.

We moved in silence, just the singing birds and the rustling leaves as our soundtrack. As a bird sang, I looked up and then at Cromwell. “Mustard yellow,” he said. I smiled, then looked at the leaves almost touching the lake from an overhanging branch. “Bronze.”

I pulled the blanket higher over me when a chill started building at my toes. I closed my eyes and listened to the mustard-yellow and bronze notes.

I opened my eyes when I heard the sound of Mozart’s Fourth Symphony. Cromwell had stopped rowing and had placed his cell next to him.

I was transported back to our first meeting. When I’d left the club and walked down to the beach in Brighton. I’d always loved the water, and there was something so majestic about the thrashing waves of the sea in Britain. Even in summer it was turbulent and cold.

The calm of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Major had been playing beside me, a stark contrast to what I’d been watching. Then, as turbulent as the waves, Cromwell Dean had staggered down to the beach, Jack Daniels in hand. His troubled eyes had snapped to mine as he heard the music from my phone.

And now, “Mozart?” I asked and smiled. He must have remembered that meeting too.

“Amadeus and I have reached an understanding.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded. “We’re friends again.”

“Good,” I said in response. But there was more to that word. Because Cromwell was in love with classical music again. He was playing again. I tipped my head to the side as he sat back in his seat. I waited until there was a dip in the symphony to ask, “What do you want to do with your life, Crom?”

Cromwell sat forward and took my hand. It was as if it gave him strength. A man in a vintage canoe paddled past. Cromwell watched him. “I always see him here,” he said absently. He shrugged. “I want it all.” He squeezed my hand tighter. “I want to create music. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.” He smirked. “I don’t have any other talent.”

I wished I had the ability to speak more than a few breathless words. Because I would have told him that he needed no other talent. Because how he created music, his ability, was like nothing I’d ever seen or heard. It was above sheer talent. It was divine. And it was exactly what he was meant to do.

“I like EDM, but I need to compose classical too.” He rubbed his lips together. “I just want to play. Create. For whoever, wherever, as long as I have music in my life. I love EDM, but I suppose nothing quite gives me the same feeling as classical.” He nodded his head in my direction. “You were right. Through classical, you tell a story without words. Move people. Inspire them.” He sighed like he had found a glimmer of peace in his tortured soul. “When I play classical, when I compose…it means something. It gives meaning to my life.” He looked at me and paused, as if stopping himself from saying something.

“What?” I tugged on his hand.

He searched my eyes, then said, “Lewis has offered me his place in the show that’s coming to Charleston soon. To compose and show my work.” My eyes widened. If my heart could have raced, it would have kicked into a sprint. Cromwell ducked his head, like he was embarrassed. “A symphony.” He inhaled, and I saw the weight of what he had carried for three years, with his father, shine in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have long. To compose. But…” He could do it. I was sure he already had a symphony in his heart just waiting to burst out.

“You need to do it.” I thought back on all the videos I had seen of him playing as a child. The music that had come to him as naturally as breathing then. What was an even stronger need now. “You must do it.” I used the little energy I had to lean forward and cup his cheek.

Cromwell looked at me. “I don’t want to leave you.” In case this is all the time we’ll ever have. I saw the words in his head as vibrantly as he saw color when he heard a simple noise. I thought of the gala—to me, so far away. And I knew that if a heart didn’t come, I wouldn’t be there to see it.

It was funny. My heart was dying, yet I never felt any pain from it alone. But in that moment, I was sure it was crying at the fact that it might not see Cromwell Dean in his element, on the stage he was born to stand on.

“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.