Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Caleb adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “My sister is bringing my mom’s ashes for us to scatter on the lake. So, we’ll definitely go off to do that alone. I might also want to go for a walk or run on my own, now and again, without needing to worry about your short little legs keeping up with me.” He stifles a grin. “But if I’m being honest, I don’t feel the need or desire to change our living arrangement at all.”
My heart flutters. “Oh.”
“Yeah, we’ll no longer be required to be stuck like glue after tonight . . .” Caleb’s green eyes fine mine. “But, honestly, I don’t feel the urge to get myself. . . unstuck . . . any time soon.”
Elation floods me. “I don’t feel the urge to get myself unstuck, either. I like being stuck to you. I’d miss you, if you were gone too long.”
A smile splits Caleb’s rugged face. “Yeah?”
I blush. “Yeah.”
“Okay, then, sounds like we’re in agreement to keep everything pretty much the same.”
“Sounds like it,” I agree, even though I want to squeal and hoot with glee.
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
We share a huge, goofy, blushing smile, and then ride in thick, electrified, giddy silence for the next several minutes.
Two uneventful songs pass on Caleb’s “Songs Aubrey Needs to Hear” Playlist, but when the third one begins, and the lead singer starts singing, I gasp out, “Led Zeppelin!”
“Look at you! You’re getting good at recognizing them now. This is a top favorite of theirs.”
I pause to listen. “What’s it called?”
A deep crimson overtakes Caleb’s face. “‘All of my Love.’” After the words leave his mouth, he returns to the road ahead of him in a way that feels forced and unnatural. Like he’s actively not looking at me. Am I imagining that . . . and also the blush that’s still consuming his features?
“I can see why you love this band so much,” I say. “Every song slays.”
“They’re the best band, ever.”
“Not RCR?”
Caleb scoffs. “My band isn’t even in the top 100 of the best bands, ever.”
“I’m sure a large segment of your fanbase would disagree.”
“If so, they haven’t educated themselves on the history of rock ‘n’ roll.”
I smile to myself. After weeks under Caleb’s passionate tutelage about music, I’ve got a whole new appreciation for rock; and to his credit, Caleb’s learned to appreciate my pop-girlie favorites, too. Most of them, anyway.
As the song blares, I glance out my side of the truck and notice a minivan in the next lane. Its back is stuffed to the gills with little kids; its front is occupied by a young, nerdy man and a cute woman in glasses.
All of a sudden, I find myself imagining Caleb and me sitting in the front of that minivan, driving a car-full of kids. Caleb and me, living the rest of our lives, exactly as we’ve been doing these past weeks. Together. As a real family.
That’s not what we’ve been calling ourselves, obviously. A family. But isn’t that what we’ve become? I’d say yes, without a doubt, if only we didn’t have the uncertainty of the custody hearing looming.
Depending on what happens in court, this fairytale family we’ve been creating—cosplaying?—might disappear in the blink of an eye. The truth is, no matter how real this all feels, or how intense my feelings for Caleb have grown, it’s still distinctly possible Caleb might blame me—and therefore drop me like a hot potato—if things don’t wind up going his way at the hearing. I take a deep breath and remind myself to remember that.
Chapter 25
Caleb
Abanner hangs above the front door of my house, imprinted, in all caps, with: “CONGRATULATIONS, CALEB!” Strings of white lights twinkle above our heads. Outdoor speakers I installed last week are currently pumping out a playlist of Aubrey’s pop favorites at low volume. Most of which, I’ve honestly learned to like. It’s my “rehab is my bitch!” party on my new deck, attended by the people I now consider my family: Aubrey, her parents, my sister, and Raine.
After eating a dinner that was cooked to perfection on my new barbeque, we’re now sitting at the patio table I picked up in Billings the other day, finishing up the delicious dessert—apple pie with homemade vanilla ice cream—made by Barbara. And every single time I look around the table at the chatty, happy faces around me, I can’t stop thinking the same thing on a running loop: Man, I love these people.
“It sounds straight out of a Hallmark movie,” my sister says, referring to Prairie Springs’ Summer Festival. At my sister’s urging, Barbara’s been telling Miranda all about the festival for the past several minutes.
“That’s a perfect description,” Barbara agrees. “That’s what everyone loves about it. We keep it simple and old fashioned and lean into our small-town vibe.”