Page 61 of Spark

RUBY

Five years later

“ T his is . . . unexpected,” Kendrick says, as he looks around C-Bomb’s bumping, family-friendly Fourth of July party on the shore of his lake house in Prairie Springs, Montana, of all places.

“I wouldn’t have imagined Caleb’s life turning out like this in a million guesses,” I reply in a murmur.

“A billion,” Kendrick replies.

“A trillion. Did Aubrey give him a lobotomy?”

“We stay here,” our two-year-old son, Kyrie, who’s standing next to Kendrick, murmurs, right before smashing his sweet little face into his daddy’s muscular thigh.

“Yep, we’ll stay here till you’re ready,” Kendrick coos to him. “We’ll hang back and get a lay of the land, okay? We’ve got you, cutie. Take your time.”

We’ve just stepped foot into Mr. and Mrs. Caleb and Aubrey Baumgarten’s outdoor, lakeside summer bash that’s mostly taking place behind C-Bomb’s beautiful, rustic home on Lake Lucille.

And as per our custom when introducing our shy, easily over-stimulated two-year-old to new places and people, we’re letting him acclimate for a minute before entering the fray.

Frankly, I’m glad for the chance to get my bearings, too, Kyrie notwithstanding.

This party is incredible. Right out of a movie.

And genuinely shocking, because it’s C-Bomb’s happy, family party—a visual representation of where Caleb Baumgarten has unexpectedly landed in his life, thanks to his saint of a wife, Aubrey, and their beautiful preschooler, Raine.

Truly, I couldn’t be happier for Caleb and the way he’s taken control of his sobriety to become the man he is today.

Aubrey helped him get here, no doubt about that.

In fact, that incredible woman saved Caleb’s life—literally, if you ask me.

But still, nobody could do it for him. He had to want it.

To fight for it. And to his credit, that’s exactly what he did.

As I look around the loud, happy, chaotic party at all the familiar faces, it’s plain to see nobody’s noticed our arrival yet.

If they had, we’d surely be mobbed by now, since half the people here are our closest friends.

If not for the guest list, I doubt we would have made the trip—frankly because, no offense, but why would we fly to Prairie Springs, Montana for a lakeside Fourth of July party, when we could conveniently party at our friends’ beachside house in our hometown?

Especially with my morning sickness lately, traveling feels like a very big deal.

Now that we’re here, however, I can easily see the trip was well worth it.

Although, come to think of it, Savage and Laila are here, too, so I guess we would have needed another beachside house to party at in my hypothetical scenario.

Indeed, it was Savage and Laila who invited us to fly with them on their private jet, along with their sassy, almost-five- year-old, Valentina.

So, it was a no-brainer for us to join them—even to Prairie Springs, Montana.

“Looks like we’re the last ones to arrive,” Kendrick murmurs, scanning all the familiar faces whooping it up in the summer sun.

“Sorry about that.” We’re late because of me.

Because the little girl in my belly demanded an epic barf-o-rama in her honor, much like pagan gods might demand a nice smattering of goat blood, right before we were supposed to leave our room at the tiny hotel in town.

After that, I had to lie down and nibble on crackers for a bit before I felt human enough to face the sunshine, let alone a loud party filled with all my favorite people.

“No need to apologize for cooking our baby, baby. You know that.”

Kyrie gasps and points. “Look!” he shouts. “My fwends!”

We follow his gesture and discover three kids Kyrie knows and loves, hunkered down and playing with sand toys together right at the edge of the lake: Valentina, who dotes on our boy like a big sister; three-year-old, Winston “Wi-Fi” Fishberger, Fish and Ally’s sweet little cutie, and Rocco Beretta, Colin and Amy’s four-year-old Mack truck of a boy.

“See? I told you there’d be lots of friends and fun stuff for you to do here, buddy,” Kendrick says. “Looks like they’re having lots and lots of fun.”

“And there are lots of other new friends around here for you to meet, too,” I add.

Not that Kyrie cares about that. Our son doesn’t love meeting new people, for some reason.

He does fine, once he’s gotten comfortable.

Once he’s acclimated. But he’s the kid who sits to the side at birthday parties, feeling shy, while everyone else screams out their demands to the balloon animal clown without hesitation.

The kid who’s too scared to ask if he can have a piece of candy from the bowl after he sat through his entire haircut crying his eyes out because the lady looked him in the eyes.

“Can I play with dem?” Kyrie asks, his cherubic face upturned excitedly toward his daddy and his blue eyes wide with excitement.

“Absolutely.”

“As long as you’re wearing sunscreen,” I quickly add.

“I already slathered him liked a greased pig at the hotel,” Kendrick says.

“Okay, but you still need to wait, Ky. I want you to wear a hat, too. It’s bright out here.

” As Kyrie dances from foot to foot with eagerness and impatience—that’s new—I fish around in the large bag on my shoulder for his bright blue bucket hat with a dinosaur on it—the one that matches our son’s gorgeous blue eyes.

Lucky boy, Kyrie inherited Kendrick’s everything, basically, in the DNA lottery.

In fact, the second that kid popped out of me and the nurse laid him onto my sobbing chest, I could instantly surmise the person Kendrick and I had created from scratch together, supposedly, bore zero resemblance to me.

On the contrary, even from minute one, I knew our baby was Kendrick’s cookie cutter.

His mini-me. Which is why, in my hospital room a minute later, I suggested we carry on the Cook family tradition of giving boys a name that starts with K, rather than the one we’d originally picked out.

Thankfully, Kendrick loved the name idea. Apparently, there’s some famous basketball player named Kyrie. Who knew? Not me. I’d only heard the name in connection with a Canadian singer-songwriter. But, whatever, Kendrick was sold on it, and so was I, so our baby officially became Kyrie Adrian Cook.

I find the hat and place it onto Kyrie’s blonde head. His hair is platinum blonde for now, just like Kendrick’s was at his age. “Now, listen,” I say to my son, who’s looking up at me like I walk on water. “You’re not allowed to take that hat off, no matter what, okay?”

“Okay, Mommy. I go now?”

“Not yet. You’re also not allowed to step a single toe into that water without Mommy or Daddy being there to say yes and hold your hand, okay? Not even a toe, Ky.”

“But I can put in dis lake shoe ?” Kyrie asks innocently. He lifts up one of his tiny feet, clad in a bright green rubber shoe, and Kendrick and I both burst out laughing at his adorableness.

Thank goodness for those “lake shoes,” or who knows how today might have gone for all of us.

Also, for the “beach shoes” that came before them to lead the way—the ones that had to be replaced right before we made this trip.

If we hadn’t figured out Kyrie’s sensory tantrums and shrieks of “no!” and “icky!,” every time we went to the beach at Savage and Laila’s house were caused by our boy freaking out over the sensation of sand between his tiny toes, we might not have made this trip today out of sheer embarrassment.

All’s well that ends well, though. Once we figured it all out and got our sensory king his first pair of “beach shoes” for our next day with Uncle Savage, Auntie Laila, and Valentina, the kid spent half the day blissfully making sandcastles with his honorary big sister, while the rest of us sat nearby in beach chairs, chatting happily.

Apparently, it’s only Kyrie’s toes and soles that react badly to sand.

The rest of his body parts don’t mind getting a granular massage.

In fact, after that first successful visit with those “beach shoes” on his feet, Kyrie ended the happy, exhausting day covered in sand—everywhere except his mercifully protected feet.

“No, buddy,” Kendrick explains, laughing at our son’s misunderstanding.

“You can’t put anything into the lake at all.

Not even your lake shoes. But don’t worry, Mommy and I will be sitting right there, right next to you with all our friends, so if you want to go into the lake, one of us will be there to take you. ”

“That would be Daddy,” I murmur. “He’ll be the one to take you.”

Kendrick laughs. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Good, because you’re definitely taking him.”

Laughing, Kendrick gestures to a large group sitting in beach chairs next to where the boys and Valentina are blissfully playing in the sand: Savage and Laila, Fish and Ally, Colin and Amy, Violet and Dax, Miranda and whoever she’s currently dating.

They never last, so we don’t bother getting to know them too well. And on and on.

I scan and locate Kai and Titus nearby, too, talking in another group that includes Aloha Carmichael and her adorable husband, Zander.

Kendrick nudges my arm. “Aloha’s here.”

“I just noticed that. I didn’t know she was coming.”

Kendrick grins. “Maybe you two will get some inspiration while you’re here for your next big hit. A country tune called ‘Under the Big Montana Sky,’ perhaps?”