Page 47 of The Love Dose
I set Rezy on the rug and sit in one of the chairs, grabbing hold of my guitar and softly play one of my favorite songs.
The last time I strummed my vintage Gibson was 1990. I know that because I put it away the day I walked from the band. The same day Jenny turned down my marriage proposal. It sparked a whole lot of wild pivots in my life.
The song, I’ve heard, is about a strained father-son relationship. I choose to interpret the lyrics as a ballad of paternal love.
Is it possible to love a child I barely know? My heart is full just thinking about Chacha. He will be arriving in a few weeks. I can't wait.
It occurs to me that this environment would be much easier for Chacha to adapt to than a bustling metropolitan city. He’s lived in a tiny village his entire short life. But living here isn't in the cards. My life is in New York.
Rezy stops licking his paws and begins twirling in circles. I think he likes the music. He’s proving worthy of the name Caroline bestowed on him.
The creak of the wooden stairs draws my attention and I stop playing. The sight of bare legs and pedicured toes makes me catch my breath. As Caroline descends, I notice her plaid shirt. It reaches her thighs. It’s showstopping.
I realize it’s a pajama top and my pulse kicks into overdrive. The way the soft fabric clings to her curves has me struggling to remember how to breathe. There’s something incredibly sexy about seeing her like this, out of her usual city-perfect, high-maintenance armor. She still radiates a controlled elegance, but here, in this moment, there’s an undeniable earthiness that makes it impossible to look away.
“Why did you stop?” she asks, coming to stand before me. It takes every ounce of restraint to look anywhere but at her shapely legs.
I clear my throat and continue playing, this time adding vocals. It’s been a while since I’ve played for other people. It’s been a lifetime since I serenaded a woman.
Caroline sits on the floor, beaming at Rezy who is back in the throes of tail chasing.
“That was lovely. You are so talented. Is there anything you don’t do well?”
I chuckle. “Lots of things but none that I’ll share with you. I prefer to keep the illusion alive.”
She smiles. “Seriously, though. How did you get so accomplished at music?”
“Well, before I decided on medicine I wanted to be the next Bob Dylan.”
She raises a brow. “Lofty goals.”
I shrug.
“Why the switch to medicine?”
No point in beating around the bush. Despite the many stages that contributed to the shift, I answer in a nutshell. “Got my heart broken.”
I don’t think I’ve ever admitted that aloud. You know how people say they are open books? Well, I’m a closed one. Not intentionally so. It’s how I’m wired.
“Oh, sorry to hear it,” Caroline says, her frown indicating her sincerity.
I put the guitar aside. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”
“For what?”
I glance at the sofa. “Passing out on you. Not very classy.”
“It’s okay. You dodged a bullet out there.” We both instinctively look outside. The flakes are as thick as ever.
The room turns silent, a strange atmosphere taking its place.
“How about something a bit livelier?” Caroline asks, gesturing to the guitar.
“Any requests?”
She thinks a minute. “How aboutUptown Girl?”
I chuckle at the choice of Billy Joel’s ode to Christie Brinkley. I pick up the guitar, think a moment and begin to strum the chords.
