A Wish For Us

by Tillie Cole

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.

Especially not the southern accent of Bonnie Farraday, and the look in her eyes. The way you can play . . . Her voice was violet blue.

I closed my eyes. It was my favorite color to hear.

Her laughter was pale pink.

Now I’d played the instruments I’d once loved so much, everything seemed lifeless in comparison.

I had to forget it ever happened. But when my eyes wandered to Bonnie again, to her pretty face and thick dark hair, I felt like I was back in that room, with Bonnie’s hand on my arm.

the shade of lavender that surrounded her told me she meant every word.

I saw the hope in her pretty face.

Because I was quickly realizing I kind of liked her.

It was violet blue.

It would never have worked. Bonnie Farraday was cemented into my brain.

But before she could, my lips smashed onto hers. The minute I tasted her on my tongue, my heart started slamming in my chest.

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.

My body locked at pale pinks and lilac purples. The violet blue kept a shimmering circle with every new bar.

I was holding a girl’s hand. I kept holding on.

But as Bonnie started singing, the violet blue took over everything.

I’d moved closer to hear her sing. To hear that perfect violet blue.

“Violet blue.”

I looked up, and I saw bright greens and lilac purples dancing around us—the color of our kisses.

“Cromwell,” I whispered. Orange flashed over the ceiling. “Cromwell,” I repeated, smiling when the same color returned.

It illuminated the room.

It illuminated the room . . .

“What color is my voice?”

“Violet blue.”

“Cromwell?” I asked, and he turned my way. “What’s your favorite? Your favorite color to see?” “Violet blue,” he said in an instant.

If my failing heart hadn’t let him in before, it did just then.

One I’d made just for her.

She looked so damn cute. “Farraday.” She looked over. “Get your arse over here.”

“For Christ’s sake, Farraday, I had my tongue down your throat twenty-four hours ago. I think you can sit down beside me. It’s not like there isn’t room. You must weigh all of eight stone.”

“Farraday.” I inched closer and pressed my forehead to hers. “If you don’t want me to take your mouth right now, I’d stop looking at me like that.”

“Like you want to feel my tongue ring in your mouth again.”

Her eyes melted at that.

Silver.

Happiness.

“You’re beautiful.” Because she was. She so bloody was.

Perfection with an imperfect heart.

Since the second I arrived in Jefferson, everybody had been the same. All except one, a girl called Bonnie Farraday.

She was my God-given gift. The girl that brought me back life.

I just needed her, full stop.

. but his music had spoken to my soul. My voice his siren call.

My British boy who had just shown me his impenetrable heart.

I didn’t want to be dark and empty inside anymore. I no longer wanted the anger. I wanted to live.

“I love you, Cromwell. I’m sorry.”

I stared at the moon and its reflection on the water. And I found myself doing something I’d never done before. I prayed. I prayed to a God I’d never spoken to before.

I flicked on the light and stopped dead as the smell of paint smacked me in the face.

What the hell had happened? And then I saw a pair of feet around the side of the wardrobe. I stepped closer, a deep thud starting to slam into my chest. Then I saw blood.

I love you.

Simple. Yet, to me, it meant the world.

“How are you feeling, baby?”