Page 47 of Carver’s Craving

He shrugged. “I have dinner with the crew. Some have a beer or two. I choose not to. Once I’ve eaten, I head back here.”

“Oh.” I cut a piece of asparagus and dipped it in cheese sauce. “That still sounds…better than nothing.”

“It’s about as much socializing as I can manage.”

“You used to join us after shows.” I gazed upward, trying to access the memory. “But you never drank much.”

Carver cleared his throat. “I’d say you guys drank enough for all of us.” He winced. “Sorry. I just…I’m not much of a drinker. And I always had to drive myself home. Often long distances since I lived in Toronto and you guys mainly played around Oshawa. Well, in the beginning.”

“Yeah, we were starting to play bigger venues.” A wave of nostalgia washed over me. “I sort of miss that. Sometimes.”

“Really? I guess I can see that.” He cut a piece of ham.

“You ever try your hand at songwriting?” I held my breath.

He laughed. “Hell no. I’m good with scaffolding, lights, and production shit. I leave the melodies, lyrics, and all that other stuff to the professionals. Like yourself.” He shoved the ham in his mouth.

Okay. One riddle solved. About a million more to go.

Chapter Thirteen

Carver

To tell him or not to tell him —that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to—

Yep. Nothing. Shakespeare had never been my strong suit, and Hamlet had been especially confusing. Still, I’d done well in the class and headed off to university with a scholarship. Studying theatrical production—along with the dramaturgical electives—had been fun. Real life had proved way tougher…but I’d done okay.

Well, at least that was the lie I told myself.

I bit my lower lip—something I never did.

“Hey, what’s up?” Styx, who sat across from me, frowned. “Something wrong with the food? I can make something—”

“No.” Said a little sharply. “No, it’s fine. Actually, the food’s great. Just…I sort of have something to do after work tomorrow. And I need to ask you for a favor.”

“Of course. Whatever you need.” His blue eyes lit with what I saw as compassion. Perhaps even…excitement? At the prospect of doing me a favor? That didn’t make sense. I cleared my throat. “I have an appointment after work. I don’t have time to come home. So if you could—”

“The dogs are totally taken care of. I can walk them and feed them. Do you want me to give them their meds?”

I shook my head. “An hour or so later isn’t a big deal. But maybe make certain I remember? When our routine gets disrupted, I sometimes forget.”

“Yeah. Of course.” His gaze narrowed. “Is everything okay?”

To tell him or not to— “Yes and no.”

He put his fork down.

“No, keep eating. I don’t want your food to get cold.”

“Yours will.”

“Nuking in the microwave is a perfectly acceptable alternative to eating cold food.” I gestured. “Please eat.”

With clear reluctance, he picked up his fork and speared a potato.

“This food really is divine.”

He shrugged. “Frank didn’t cook. Baxter sure as shit didn’t. If I wanted decent grub—and to not have to pay for takeout all the time—I had to do it myself. I thought Arlene might cook. Uh, no. I mean, not that I expected her to. Then she and Baxter moved out, and I didn’t enjoy cooking for just Frank and me. But I did it. I’ll give him this—he was always appreciative.” He put the potato into his mouth.