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)
“You see Bonnie? She’s always there weekends. The Barn’s not her scene.”
I shook my head, not meeting his eyes. “Nah. Didn’t see her.”
“She’ll have probably gone home. The open mic night’s tomorrow.” He made the comment so casually that I almost missed it.
“Open mic?”
Easton peeled off his shirt and got into his bed. He got his tablet and loaded up the next episode of whatever box set he was watching.
“She goes and watches it?” I asked, bringing up my music.
“She plays there.” Easton lifted his headphones. “I’m about to go dark.” I nodded as he put the headphones on and zoned out. I frowned, wondering what the hell Bonnie was doing at an open mic night. I thought her deal was classical composition? I started finishing off the mixes, but my head wasn’t in it. I couldn’t stop thinking of Bonnie. The kiss. Her eyes. The way I’d completely lost it when she’d told me to leave her alone with Bryce. And how she’d looked after the kiss. The way her brown eyes had locked on mine.
I closed my mixing program and brought up the coffee shop’s website. Open mic night. Started at eight tomorrow.
I shut my laptop, closing my eyes. All I saw was Bonnie’s pretty face, the sight making that tether inside me slacken.
“Cromwell?” Easton’s voice woke me from almost-sleep.
I cracked one eye open. “What?”
“Barn’s on tomorrow. You good for the decks?”
I opened my mouth to say yes, but instead I paused, then said, “Can’t. Busy.”
“Hot date, huh?”
I blew out a slow breath. “Just got somewhere to be.”
“Great. Stuck with Bryce again.” Easton returned to his tablet.
I lay awake until the sun rose.
I blamed it on the peach taste lingering on my lips.
Chapter Thirteen
Cromwell
The place was packed.
People spilled out onto the path to smoke or to move on to the bar across the street. I looked through the window, but I couldn’t see a thing. I ducked my head and walked through the door. There was no sign of Bonnie. The lights were low, except for the spotlight shining on the stage.
As I squeezed through the mass of people toward the side of the room, a table in the dark became free. I slid onto the seat before anyone else could take it. It was ten minutes before the barista came to me to take my order. When Sam saw me, his face frosted over.
He looked behind him and then faced me again, looking panicked. “I can’t believe you’d—”
I held my hand up. “I’m just here for coffee.”
Sam’s face told me he doubted that, but he asked, “The usual?” I nodded, and he disappeared. I wasn’t sure if he’d tell Bonnie I was here or not. So I just sat and listened to three singers. One of them was good. I stared at the tabletop the whole time, seeing colors as they played and sang. I rubbed my head. My temples throbbed, making me feel like I was in the middle of a migraine. My head ached and my neck was stiff. It was because I was fighting them—the colors, the emotions, the tastes. I was fighting them all, when all my body wanted to do was embrace them.
“You can’t stop them,” my dad’s voice said, echoing in my head. “It’s part of who you are, son. Embrace them.” He smiled. “I wish I saw and felt them too. What a gift…”
I squeezed my eyes shut, about to just leave, when the manager of the place came to the mic. “And now, a good friend of Jefferson Coffee—our hometown girl, Bonnie Farraday.”
I had a clear view of the stage from my seat. So I saw the minute Bonnie stepped onto the stage with the help of Sam. He passed up an acoustic guitar. It looked battered and worn. But she held it like it was an extension of her arm.
Bonnie didn’t look up at the crowd. Not once. She kept her eyes on the guitar, on her stool when she sat down. She was dressed in skinny blue jeans and a white jumper that hung off one shoulder, showing her pale skin. Her hair was off her face in an intricate plait. She had pearl earrings in her ears, and some kind of charm bracelet hung on her wrist.
“Hey, y’all. This one’s called ‘Wings.’”
Bonnie shut her eyes as her hand found the neck of the guitar. I held my breath as she started playing. Olive greens danced in my mind, the slow strumming of the strings. And then she opened her mouth, and the most vibrant violet blue I’d ever seen flashed like a firework in my head, making my breath catch in my throat. And then the lyrics hit my ears, and my chest ripped apart as the words registered and sliced right to my heart.
Some are not meant for this life for too long.