Page 84 of Carver’s Craving

Simeon stood as well. “B-best. So good.”

Chia rose—clearly curious.

Poppin tried to stick her nose onto Styx’s plate.

I clicked my tongue. “Peanut butter.”

She shot over to me, and Walter sat up. He yawned. Then resettled.

Simeon laughed. “N-nice life if you can g-get it.” He petted the dog, who gazed up with adoration.

Styx organized leftovers to send with our friends while I doled out meds to my two little ones. By the time I was finished, everyone was bundled and ready to go. Styx got the dogs into their coats while I donned mine. We planned to walk Chia, Ryan, and Simeon to the end of the driveway.

Easy conversation continued as Chia and Poppin sniffed everything and Walter snoozed.

I’m not going to have him forever. I need to prepare myself. Somehow, knowing I wasn’t facing that alone helped. I grasped Styx’s hand.

He squeezed. He couldn’t know the direction my thoughts veered—he was just offering unconditional support.

We bade our friends goodnight, and they headed down the road.

Styx and I turned back and walked in silence—holding hands—until we got to the grass before the house. I scooped Walter out. He sniffed, waddled, then squatted.

“Go you.” Styx grinned. “He’s so cute.” He held Poppin’s leash as she continued to sniff. “And she’s adorable. You really lucked out.”

“I did.” Easy to agree. “When you rescue, you just don’t know—” I swallowed. “Yeah. All good.”

Styx wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Together? Right?”

“Yeah.”

When the time came to go inside, we did so quietly. We finished cleaning the kitchen, we put the dogs to bed, and we made quiet love.

Falling asleep in his arms was heavenly.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Styx

Karina Michaels was both a genius and a clearly tortured soul.

My heart ached for Carver as I made my way through his mother’s writings. The brilliance of her mind shone through all the time. As did the depth of her despair. I saw pain over and over again.

I strummed a series of chords she’d written. If she had any kind of structured musical training, I couldn’t see it. More like she understood music and what it should sound like without having the refinement that came from formal education.

After organizing the bits and pieces of words into something cohesive—which had taken me nearly three weeks—I had something. I just didn’t know what. We were a week away from Christmas. December twentieth, to be exact. Carver was at his third appointment with Justin, spaghetti sauce simmered on the stove, and Walter and Poppin were keeping me company in the great room.

Or perhaps I was keeping them company? They lounged together on the couch while I was perched on the recliner with my new guitar on my knee and the music I’d composed on song sheets spread out on the coffee table.

I’d taken one of Karina’s more upbeat poems and was adding music. If I could say so myself, I believed this would speak to listeners. That said, some of her stuff was just too depressing for me to turn into songs. I toyed with several ideas in my mind, but nothing had solidified yet.

The sound of Carver’s shoes crunching the gravel walkway caught my attention.

After giving him a moment to compose himself—something he often did—I went to the front door. As expected, he stood there with his lunch bag in his hand.

“Welcome home.” Words I’d never tire of speaking.

He stepped into the house and, as soon as I closed the door, his lips met mine.