Page 56 of Holiday Star
I have to restrain myself from jumping up and down. It’s not much, but this is the first time I’ve heard Caleb even consider a music career.
“Could you transfer to a different residency?” He pushes himself up on the pillow. “We have hospitals in L.A., you know.”
“Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how hard it was to get into my ER residency? I’m lucky to have that spot.” I think back to all those long days in the library studying. All the time I spent doing research in the labs. The hundreds of hours volunteering in the hospital.
“I know, I know.” Caleb reaches out to run his hand down my arm. “Have I told you how proud I am of you? How amazing it is that my girlfriend is a doctor.” His eyes shine, full of admiration. “Smart and sexy as hell, that’s what you are. The complete package.”
Right now, I could float away. Caleb Freaking Lawson just called me his girlfriendandsexy all in the same sentence. My heart might burst. There’s too much happiness for it to hold.
“I’ve already given up my career.” He grows wistful. “I could stay with you in New York. Do your laundry, cook for you, and take out the trash.”
He feels so good, lying naked next to me, that I almost take him up on the offer. “Do you really think you could be happy doing that?” I ask him. “I mean realistically.”
He runs his hand through his sweat-tangled hair. “No, probably not.”
Around and around, we go. Trying to fit our lives together like the puzzle pieces on the kitchen table. No matter which way we turn them, the edges bump up against each other, not sliding easily into place.
We’re too involved with our careers. Both of us have worked too hard, put in too many years. I’m not Gwen without medicine. He’s not Caleb without acting. They’re a part of our identity. To rip that away from either of us would remove something essential. Would we still be falling for each other if those parts ceased to exist? If we were different people without those titles, would we still be attracted to each other?
Finally, I ask, “Is it hopeless? You and me together? Should we just give up now?” I choke on the sob that’s trying to claw its way up my throat. Life without Caleb is the very worst thing I can imagine.
He pulls me close and kisses me. “No. No,” he repeats in my ear, his hand rubbing small circles on my back. “It’s okay if you’re scared or if this gets hard, but I’m never giving up on us, Gwen. Never.”
32
Tired of getting nowhere with our future plans, I decide to focus on the present. Which to me means Caleb’s music.
“Please,” I beg. “Sing for me. I’ll be the only one who hears, and I’ll love it no matter how you sound.”
Just like I love you.
I say the words in my head but not out loud, worried it’ll scare him away.
As for the music, he makes lots of excuses. He’s not ready. He wants more time to perfect this song he’s working on. His throat is scratchy. He needs his guitar.
“Guitar?” I perk up. “How did I not know that you play guitar?”
“Not many people do. I have a couple at my place downtown. Acoustic and electric, too. Started lessons when I was fourteen.” We’re in the bedroom. He’s lounging, legs splayed, a book loosely clasped in his hand and Pip curled up by his feet.
“You must be pretty good, then?”
He shrugs. “I guess.”
Excited now, I jump up from the bed. “I’ll be right back.”
I rush downstairs. There’s a storage space under the staircase, full of cobwebs and dusty boxes. The door that leads in is a tiny square, like it was made for elves, cut out of the wall and hung on silver hinges. I open it with a creak and crawl in on my hands and knees. The scent of dry paper and mothballs assaults my nose, making me sneeze.
Deep in the space, I find what I’m looking for. It’s in the corner, the case coated gray with dust. I drag it out and return to Caleb.
“Ta-da!” I announce proudly and shove it into his arms.
He stares at it, perplexed. “A guitar? Where did you get this?”
“It was my dad’s. He played for us, mostly on holidays. He was pretty talented.” I can almost hear it. Frosty the Snowman strummed in front of the fireplace on Christmas Eve while we all sang along. My voice, tiny and young, with the lisp of early childhood. My brothers’ voices not yet deepened from puberty.
“I can’t use this. Not your dad’s guitar.” Caleb tries to hand it back, but I cross my arms over my chest, tucking my hands away, and shake my head firmly. “He’d want someone to play it, not have it stuck forever in a dark closet.”
There’s a tightening in my throat. Voice shaking, I say, “I wish you could have met him, Caleb. He would have loved you.”
