Chapter Seven Bonnie

Chapter Seven

Bonnie

“Bonnie, Cromwell, I need to see you after class.” My head lifted from my notes as Lewis spoke. I glanced back at Cromwell.

He hadn’t so much as looked at me since last week at the coffee shop. In fact, he seemed to be outright avoiding me. However, now he even avoided my stare. He leaned back on his chair, not even acknowledging that the professor had spoken.

Class was dismissed and I gathered my things. “You okay?” Bryce asked, casting an accusing glance back at Cromwell.

“Yeah.” I knew it must have been about the piece we had to compose. Even I knew when I submitted it that it was weak. I gave Bryce a tight smile and a hug. “I’ll see you later, okay?” He eyed Cromwell again. “I’ll be fine,” I insisted.

“Mr. McCarthy, this is a private chat,” Lewis said.

Bryce nodded at Lewis and left the room. I walked down to the professor’s table, where two seats waited. I sat down on one. I heard Cromwell’s heavy footsteps slowly walking down the stairs. A minute later, he slumped into the seat beside me. His cologne sailed into my nose.

It was deep, infused with a strong hint of spice.

This was the first time I’d had a close chat with the professor. Our private sessions wouldn’t start for another week. Lewis took out the outline I’d submitted and laid it on the table before us. “I just wanted to talk to you both about your potential composition.” I swallowed, nerves swarming in my stomach. “The premise is good. The outline is well written.” He looked at me, clearly knowing I was the one who wrote it. “But the whole thing just lacked…for want of a better word, feeling .” I took in a long, sharp breath as Lewis delivered that blow. I didn’t look at Cromwell. It was the same line I had delivered about his music in Brighton.

Lewis dragged a hand down his face and turned to Cromwell. He was staring at the floor. Anger built inside me. This boy never seemed to care about anything. How he was picked to come here, with his current attitude to music, and study under Lewis was beyond me.

“Vivaldi’s most famous work was The Four Seasons .” He read some of the proposal. “I want my students to be original. I want you to explore self-expression in your creations. I don’t want a re-creation of another artist’s work.” He leaned forward, and I could see the passion for the subject reflected in his eyes. “I want this to be your work. From your heart. Put into music what makes you tick. Trials and tribulations you’ve faced.” He sat back. “Tell me who you are. Put everything you are into the piece.”

“We’ll do better,” I said. “Right, Cromwell?” When he didn’t say anything in response, I felt like screaming in frustration.

Lewis got up from his seat. “Take the room. There’s no one in it until this afternoon. See if you can come up with anything else.”

Lewis left, and the room plunged into a deafening silence. I dropped my face into my hands and took a deep breath. It did nothing to calm me down. But when I looked up at Cromwell and his zero-shits attitude, my heart broke for the musician I’d thought he was. The one who apparently no longer lived within him. “Do you really not care?” I whispered.

He met my eyes. His seemed lifeless. Cold. “Not really, no.” His accent made his reply feel mocking and patronizing.

“Why are you even here?” I got up from my seat and had to rub my chest when my heart thudded and flipped around from the frustration that was building inside me. “You don’t play instruments. You don’t care about composition. I’ve seen you in our other classes, and you seem to enjoy them as much as you do this one.” Now I was on a roll I couldn’t stop. I paced, but I had to stop and put my hands on my hips when a sudden anger stole my breath. “I’ve asked you to meet me three times this week. You said you couldn’t do any of them. Yet I know you’ve been going out with my brother, getting trashed and screwing half the female student body.”

Cromwell’s eyebrow rose. His lip kicked up into a ghost of a smile. It was a big mistake. It broke me. “I’ve heard you spin, Cromwell. Don’t forget that.” I laughed. What else was there to do? I could see my dreams for this year slipping away like sand in an hourglass. “I took a train to Brighton to watch you, and all I got was disappointment.” I grabbed my bag. “From what I can tell, you have no desire. No passion for music, and you’ve been squeezed onto an already full program for God knows what reason. I have no idea what Lewis sees in you, but whatever it is, he will be sorely disappointed when it fails to materialize.” I made sure he was looking right into my eyes. “I know I am.”

Calmer now that I’d exorcised my anger, I stood in front of him and said, “Meet me tonight at Jefferson Coffee. We can try to fix this and make sure we both get a passing grade. Meet me there at seven.”

I didn’t even stop to get a response. Nobody had ever gotten under my skin the way he did. I burst out into the warm day; the summer’s blistering weather was starting to gradually cool. I propped my hand against the wall and made myself breathe, moving only when I heard voices coming from behind me. Slowly, trying to calm my racing heart, I walked to my dorm and lay down on the bed. I closed my eyes, but all my brain wanted me to see was Cromwell.

I thought of the video I had seen of him all those years ago. Where had that boy gone? What had happened to him to make him lose his passion? The boy I had seen on the many clips I’d sought out over the years had all but died. He’d once played with such meaning, such purpose and soul. Now, everything about him was cold. He played music that meant nothing. Made me feel nothing. Told the world nothing.

And my dream of doing well in this course was now firmly in his hands.

* * *

“Another one, Bonn?” I looked up from staring out of the window to Sam, who was standing beside me with a nearly empty coffee carafe.

“No.” I gave him a tight smile. “I think I’ve been stood up…again.”

“Cromwell?”

“How did you guess?”

“Just a hunch.” Sam smiled. “At least you drink decaf. You’d be up all night if it was caffeinated.”

I smiled again, but I was sure he could see the sadness in my face. “I’ll just get my things and go. What time is it anyway?” A quick glance around the coffee shop showed me they were closing. Chairs were upside down on tables, and the floor was partially mopped. “I’m sorry, Sam. You should have told me sooner to go.”

“Not a problem. You seemed deep into your work. I didn’t wanna disturb you.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s eleven thirty, by the way. Just in case you were still wondering.”

I gave him another tight smile, then threw my bag over my shoulder. I pulled my sweater on. I was cold. And tired. I’d walked here from the dorm, needing the fresh air and exercise.

I made my way down Main Street and stopped when I passed Wood Knocks. It was the bar most people went to. They had a small club underneath when it hit midnight. If the Barn wasn’t on, then it was Wood Knocks that everyone went to. The dancing, cheap beer, and the casual attitude toward the mass of fake IDs were just a prelude to getting laid, really.

“Shots, motherfuckers!” I recognized my brother’s voice in an instant. I peered through the window and saw Easton standing on the table, his loud voice ricocheting off the walls. I couldn’t believe he was so drunk again. Just another thing that was worrying me. He was partying too much.

“Cromwell, get your ‘arse,’” he said in a terrible English accent, “here right now, boy!” He searched the crowd. “Where is he?”

A disbelieving laugh spilled from my lips. I walked away, leaving my brother searching the packed crowd, before I could see Cromwell’s face. If I did, I didn’t trust I wouldn’t make a fool of myself by storming in there and ripping into him for leaving me in that coffee shop for nearly five hours doing our joint work on my own.

I picked up my pace as I made my way back to campus, pushing myself more than was wise. I arrived at my dorm, but as my hand hovered above the doorknob, I changed my mind and headed for the music department instead. Even before Lewis had arrived at the college, the rooms were open to students around the clock. The faculty understood that the time of day wasn’t a factor when inspiration hit. Most artistic people were night people. At least the ones I knew.

I swiped my card and made my way down the hallway to a practice room. I had just dropped my purse to the floor when I heard the sound of a piano drifting down the hall.

I stood near the door and closed my eyes, a smile etched on my lips. It was always the same. Whenever I heard music, something happened inside me. Music always seeped into me like damp drizzle on a cold day. I could feel it down to my bones.

Nothing in my life made me as happy as hearing an instrument being played as perfectly as the piano was now. I loved all kinds of instruments. But there was just something about a piano that simply made me feel more. Maybe it was because I would never play it as beautifully as the person playing it now. I didn’t know. All I knew was that the sound gripped hold of my heart and made it so I never wanted to let it go.

The piano stopped. I opened my eyes. I moved to go to the piano in my own room, but then the sound of a violin began. I stopped dead in my tracks and exhaled a short puff of air. It was perfect. Every movement of the bow. I listened harder, trying to place the piece, or even the composer. But I couldn’t…

And then somehow I knew—it was an original piece.

When the violin stopped and the sound of a clarinet floated down the hallway, I realized that the sounds were coming from the largest room, where the loan instruments for the music education majors were stored. I closed my eyes and listened as whoever was in there played them all in turn.

I wasn’t sure how long I listened. But when a silence rang out, my ears mourning the absence of the most breathtaking music I had ever heard, I let out a deep exhale. It felt as though I hadn’t breathed through the tour of each instrument.

I stared at the closed door. The window panel was covered with a shutter. I stood, gathering my thoughts, and the piano played again. But unlike the other piece the musician had played, this one was different. It felt different. The slow notes were somber, the deeper tones the principal of the show. My throat clogged with the sadness the music evoked.

My eyes shone as the piece kept playing. Before I knew it, my feet were moving. My hand softly lay upon the doorknob, but it didn’t turn.

It didn’t turn because I could see the piano through a gap between the shutter and the door. My lungs forgot how to breathe as I looked at the pianist, the creator of those beautiful sounds.

I had seen so many performances in my lifetime, yet none had compared to the rawness of what I had heard tonight. I followed the fingers dancing like birds on a lake. My eyes tracked up a pair of tattooed arms, over a white sleeveless shirt, over stubble-dark cheeks and silver piercings.

Then they locked on a single teardrop. A falling drop that rolled down the tanned cheek to splash on the ivory keys that were pouring with sounds of pain and hurt and regret.

My chest was stricken, reacting to the wordless story the music was telling. As I stared at Cromwell’s face, it was like seeing it for the first time. Gone were the arrogance and the anger he wore like a shield. The shield was lowered, and a boy I didn’t recognize was laid bare.

I’d never seen anyone so beautiful.

I stayed there, heart in my throat, as he played, face stoic but traitorous tears displaying his pain. His fingers never hit a wrong note. He was perfect as he told me a story I would never know yet completely understood.

His fingers slowed, and as I looked closer, I saw they were shaking. His hands danced their way to the finale, a long, haunting note drawing the beautiful melody to a close.

Cromwell’s head bowed, and his shoulders shook. My lip trembled as I felt the depths of his despair. He wiped at his eyes and tipped back his head.

I watched him breathe. I watched him in his silence. I watched in reverie as I let it sink in—Cromwell Dean was the hope I had always dreamed him to be.

Cromwell took a deep breath. My heart beat faster than I thought possible at the sight. The doorknob moved under my hand, and the door crept open, exposing where I stood.

Cromwell looked up at the noise, the creak of wood like a thunderclap in the silent aftermath of his sorrow. His beautiful face drained of blood when he met my eyes.

I stepped forward. “Cromwell, I—”

He stood from the piano stool; the abrupt movement sent it crashing to the floor. He swung around, hands clenched by his sides and dark blue eyes lost. Cromwell’s mouth opened like he would speak, but nothing came out. He glanced about the room, at the instruments he had played, as if they were betraying his secret.

“I heard you.” I stepped further into the room. My bottom lip shook with fear. Not fear of him, but fear of what this all meant. Of who Cromwell Dean truly was. Of what he possessed inside of him.

Of who he could be.

“Your talent…” I shook my head. “Cromwell…I never imagined…”

Cromwell turned away from me and edged around the room like he was trying to escape. I held out my hand, wanting to touch him, to offer him comfort as he breathed too quickly, as his lost eyes searched desperately for what to do next. Cromwell darted across the room toward where I stood, to the only exit. His eyes were wide and his face was pale. He stopped only a couple feet in front of me, shoulders sagging and body exhausted.

He appeared completely broken.

Cromwell’s piercings glinted in the one dim light he had been playing under. A reluctant spotlight. Not daring to shine too brightly on an artist who didn’t want his gift to be seen.

This close I could see his skin was mottled, the wet residue of his tears kissing his cheeks. He stepped closer again, edging his way to the exit. I’d never seen him this way. Gone was the arrogance. Gone was the attitude.

This was Cromwell Dean laid bare.

His breath blew across my face. Mint and tobacco and something sweet. “Bonnie,” he whispered. My name from his lips cut me. His raspy voice sounded like it was crying out for help.

“I heard you.” I met his watery stare. My heart thudded in my chest. The silence in the room was so profound I could hear the two very different beats of our hearts slamming between us.

Cromwell stumbled away until his back hit the wall. His blue stare focused on the piano across the room. I wasn’t sure from the look in his eyes if he saw it as an enemy or a savior.

Cromwell suddenly pushed off the wall and rushed to pick something off the top of the piano. He tried to get past me. As his arm brushed past mine, I acted on instinct and took hold of him. He stopped dead and bowed his head. His wide shoulders were slumped. I blinked away tears seeing him so undone. So tortured.

So exposed.

“Please…let me go,” he said.

My heart lurched at the desperation in his voice. I should have done what he asked, but I kept tight hold. I couldn’t let him leave so upset. In this moment, I found I didn’t want to let him go.

“The way you can play…” I shook my head, speechless.

Cromwell sighed, his breath shaking, then brought something over his heart. I stepped back so I could see what it was. A set of dog tags was clenched in his trembling hands. He held them so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Cromwell screwed his eyes shut, and my body tensed with sympathy as a tear fell from his eye. I wanted to smooth it from his face, but I held back. I wasn’t sure he would let me go that far. When he opened his eyes, the look on his face was nothing but tortured. “Bonnie…” he whispered, his accent thick as he met my eyes. I’d always thought his accent was patronizing. Right now, broken and hoarse, it was only endearing.

Then he pulled from me and fled to the door, footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. “Cromwell!” I called after him. He paused in the doorway, but he didn’t turn. I wanted him to stay. I didn’t know what I would say, but I didn’t want him to leave. It felt like I waited a lifetime, heart in my throat, for him to decide what to do, whether to turn and come to me. But then the door opened and closed, and he left me alone.

I tried to catch my breath. I tried to make my feet work to go after him. But I was grounded, unable to process the memory of Cromwell so destroyed at the piano. It was ten long breaths before I could move.

I walked to the piano and picked up the stool from where it had fallen. Sitting down, I ran my fingers along the keys. They still held a flicker of heat from where he played.

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.