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 tilted my head to the side. “So y’all hear colors differently?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Cromwell lay back on the beanbag. They were put here, I guessed, for this reason. So you could lie back and see the colors colliding with the music. A full sensory experience. I watched Cromwell. Watched as he caught the dying embers of the colored lines. This was how he lived. This was his norm.
“You said before that you didn’t just see colors when music played…” I left the sentence hanging there.
Cromwell put his arms behind his head. He rolled his head to me. “No.” He became lost in thought. “I can taste it too. It’s not strong. Certain sounds or scents leave tastes in my mouth. Not really specific, but sweet or sour. Bitterness. Metallic.” He laid one hand on his chest. “Music…it makes me feel things. Certain types of music make my emotions more heightened.” His voice was clipped as he said the last part, and I knew without asking that there was something more behind that.
Then I wondered if it was classical that made his emotions heightened. Maybe too heightened to cope with. Or if it somehow reminded him of something painful. I wondered if that’s why he ran from it.
Cromwell rolled over to face me. I lost my breath as he studied me. I had just opened my mouth to ask him what he was thinking when he said, “Sing.”
“What?” My heart began its unmelodic beat.
“Sing.” He pointed up at the ceiling, at the black walls, at small microphones planted in the ceiling’s crevices. “The song you sang at the coffee house.”
I felt my face light with fire. Because the last time we sang, Cromwell had been behind me, his chest to my back. “Sing,” he said again.
“I don’t have my guitar.”
“You don’t need it.”
I stared into Cromwell’s eyes and saw the pleading there. I had no idea why he wanted me to sing it. I had sung as much as I could of late. It was getting harder and harder, my breathing robbing me of my greatest joy. My voice had lost strength, yet I hadn’t lost passion.
“Sing,” he said again. There was a desperation on his face. One that made me melt. In this moment, begging me to sing, he looked beautiful.
Even though I was scared, I pushed through. It was the way I lived. I always tried to face my fears head-on. Closing my eyes, needing to escape Cromwell’s stare, I opened my mouth and let the song free. I heard my voice, weakened and strained, sail out around the room. I heard Cromwell’s breathing beside me. And I felt him when he moved closer to my side.
“Open your eyes,” he whispered into my ear. “See your song.”
I let go and just let Cromwell lead. I opened my eyes and lost my rhythm when I was bathed in a cocoon of pinks and purples. Cromwell’s fingers ran across mine. “Keep going.”
With my eyes locked on the ceiling, I sang. Tears sprang to my eyes as my words brought forth colors so beautiful I felt them down to my soul. As my voice sang the final word, I blinked the tears away. I watched the final line of pink fade to white, then nothing.
The silence in the aftermath was thick. My breathing was labored. It was labored as I felt the heavy stare of Cromwell’s blue eyes on me. I took three deep breaths then turned his way.
I didn’t get time to look into his eyes. I didn’t get time to see his dimple in his left cheek. I didn’t get time to ask him if he saw the pinks and purples of my voice, because the second I turned, his hands cupped my face and his lips pressed to mine. A shocked cry sounded in my throat when I felt him against my mouth. His hands were hot against my face. His chest was pressed flush against mine. But as his lips started to move, I melted into him. Cromwell’s taste of mint, chocolate, and tobacco slipped into my mouth. My hands reached out and clutched his sweater. His musky scent filled my nose, and I let his soft lips work against mine.
Cromwell kissed me. He kissed me and kissed me in soft, slow kisses, until his tongue pushed against the seams and slid into my mouth. He groaned as his tongue met mine. He was everywhere. I felt him everywhere, my body and senses swept away by the hurricane that was Cromwell Dean.
I moved my tongue with his. Then I felt the cold metal of his tongue ring and sank into him further. Cromwell Dean kissed like he played music—completely and with every ounce of his soul.
He kissed me and kissed me until I had no breath left in my body. I broke away, gasping. But Cromwell wasn’t finished. As I searched for air, for any way to fill my lungs and calm my pounding heart, he moved down my neck. My eyes fluttered closed, and I held on to his sweater like it was my lifeline from being swept away by everything that was Cromwell. His warm breath drifted down my neck and caused goose bumps to spread over my skin.