Page 47 of Love Songs

“And?” Ryan prompted when I hadn’t replied.

“And nothing,” I said with a flap of my hand. “I’m here and he’s there.”

“But you want there to be something?” Haider asked, his voice soft and understanding.

“There’s no point.” I sighed. “His life is completely different from mine. How could it ever work?”

“You could travel with him,” Sam offered, but there was a hollow note in his voice. He didn’t want me to leave as much I didn’t want to, but he’d support me if I did. They all would.

“I love you guys. You know that right?” Three heads bobbed. “But I’m not giving up my job and I’m not leaving Caldwell Crossing. Not for any man. Besides,” I added with a grin. “You three would be lost without me.”

They all snorted and guffawed at that, but we’d all be lost without each other.

“Well, then. Dallas will just have to move here,” Haider said, like it was the most obvious answer in the world.

“If only it could be that easy,” I muttered.

“YOUR THROAT HAShealed nicely,” Dr. Okamoto said as he leaned back in his chair. “But the damage to your vocal cords was extensive so you’ll have to make some permanent lifestyle changes.”

“Does that—” Ice slid into my veins, and I felt the blood drain from my face. “Does that mean I won’t be able to sing again?”

“Yes. I mean, no,” he amended quickly, holding up a hand. “You can still sing, but I can’t guarantee your voice will hold up to the demands of touring.”

“What kind of rock band doesn’t tour?” I complained even as relief dulled the edge of panic that I could lose my voice. I mean, the chances were slim. Tons of singers had had vocal surgery and continued their careers with great success, so there was no reason to think I’d be any different.

Except Julie Andrews was never able to sing again, my ever so thoughtful inner voice countered.

Dr. Okamoto shrugged. “You could play pre-recorded songs.”

My mouth dropped open, and I stared at him in disbelief.Did he just suggest. . .?

“Please don’t tell me you mean I should lip sync to my own music?”

“Sure, why not? A lot of artists do that.” He was far too nonchalant in suggesting I deceive my fans with a career-ending move like that.

“Not this one.” I snorted. “Not in a million years. It’s the real deal or it’s no deal.”

“Unfortunately, then,” he said, “I’ll see you back here for another surgery. But you should be aware that any surgery comes with risks, and each subsequent procedure may be less effective.”

I glared at him from my raised viewpoint where I sat on the bed in his small exam office.

“And if I continue taking voice therapy, diligently do my vocal exercises, and stop touring, I can keep singing?”

“Yes,” he said with a nod. “And avoid irritating your vocal cords with spicy foods, alcohol, and smoking and inhaling other pollutants.”

Other pollutantsimmediately sent my mind back to Caldwell Crossing and the stage fire—where I’d met Conor. I could still smell the slightly bitter odor of smoke on his silky, tanned skin, and the sweet maple-vanilla aroma in the air as we’d walked the trail at the syrup farm.

After wrapping up and scheduling another follow up appointment, I left Okamoto’s office and called a band meeting at my condo as I climbed into a waiting town car. None of them were going to be happy with this news, but I really didn’t want to go through another surgery and months of recovery, so something would have to give.

Unfortunately, that something was me.

Part of me wanted to say screw it and keep going. If I followed all the prevention and care protocols, I should befine. But what if everything wasn’t fine? What if I permanently destroyed my voice and could never sing again at all?

No, the risk of never singing again wasn’t worth it.

Towering buildings and bustling sidewalks of a city that never stopped passed by my window in an abstract slideshow as I replayed my career to this point.

I was thirty-five years old now and had spent the last seventeen years living my dream and rolling through life with little in the way of responsibility. Always on the move, always another album to record, always another tour, another hotel, faces upon faces of people whose names I’d never had time to learn. I’d never owned a home of my own. My Greenwich Village condo was a lease. The house in Lake Placid where I’d recovered from my last surgery was a short-term rental. The only permanence in my life had been music and my best friend, Kirk.

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