Page 62 of Spark

I laugh—partly because writing a country song isn’t on the menu for me, for one thing.

Especially not for a popstar like Aloha Carmichael.

But mostly because I can’t believe this is my life.

Being married to the love of my life and having the cutest little boy with him, with a baby girl on the way, is enough good fortune for ten lifetimes.

But professionally speaking, I’ve also hit the jackpot these past five years; in fact, I’ve never felt happier or more fulfilled in my career.

Fugitive Summer is still going as strong as ever, though our touring schedule has morphed and slowed down quite a bit since our early days. Once Valentina, and then Kyrie, came along, we all put the kids first. We’re a family, after all. And we all love those two like our own.

In addition to all the fun stuff I still get to do with Fugitive Summer, however, my songwriting career has really taken off over the past few years.

Especially since Aloha invited me to write with her about four years ago.

It happened right after Kendrick and I got back from our honeymoon, and I practically crapped my pants when her personal text landed on my phone.

The woman’s been my idol since middle school, since the days when I’d watch her Disney show, It’s Aloha!

, so, honestly, her invitation to write with her felt even bigger to me than my own band’s Grammy win.

Thankfully, the song I wound up creating with Aloha became one of her biggest hits, ever.

Almost as big as “Pretty Girl,” which, let’s face it, is impossible to beat.

It’s a once-in-a-generation song. And after that, Aloha and I continued writing together several more times, always to fantastic success—and even better, we became close friends along the way.

Sure, I would have probably become friends with Aloha regardless, since she’s close friends with all my close friends.

But I think, if it hadn’t been for our writing sessions together, I would have always been “Laila’s close friend, Ruby” to her.

Rather than “ my close friend, Ruby,” as I’ve become.

“Okay, okay, you can go now,” Kendrick says, laughing, after Kyrie begs to be let loose. And off our boy goes, straight to his favorite three people, where he practically dives onto the sand next to them, gleefully shrieking his hellos.

“That’s new,” I say excitedly. “I’ve never seen him run away so confidently like that.”

“Or so quickly, after arriving in a new place.”

“Progress.”

“I’d say so.”

We share a smile. Thankfully, Kendrick’s parenting style is the same as mine.

We both want Kyrie to learn to be independent, of course.

We both want him to stretch himself, whenever he can.

But we also both agree the kid is two. Which means we’re going to envelop him in safety and soft landings, every which way we can.

“KC!” C-Bomb booms from his shallow spot in the lake, where his tiny daughter is swimming circles around him, and a whole bunch of people turn their heads and notice us standing on the fringes of the party.

Apparently, Kyrie’s mad dash to his friends attracted attention.

And since Kyrie looks exactly like a miniature version of his daddy, that made everyone start looking around for the kid’s larger, much beloved doppelganger.

“C-Bomb, hey!” Kendrick replies, waving to our host.

“Hi, Caleb!” I join in. “This is quite the party! Wow!”

Kendrick takes my hand, and we stride toward the shore, as C-Bomb scoops up his little waterlogged daughter and begins trudging out of the lake, accompanied by Reed, his trajectory suggesting he’s planning to meet us at our friend group.

As I walk with Kendrick, I can’t help peeking at Reed.

I already knew C-Bomb is sporting eye-popping tattoos and muscles.

So, his physique in a bathing suit wasn’t a surprise to me.

But I don’t get to see the Big Boss in a bathing suit very often.

In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him this way.

And I must admit, it’s now clear to me why Georgina puts up with at least some of Reed’s shit.

He’s a striking figure over there. A truly gorgeous man.

Plus, he keeps getting nicer and nicer with each passing year of his marriage.

At this rate, he might even be one-tenth as nice as my husband as early as next year.

We reach our friend group and receive exuberant hugs and greetings from everyone, with all of them commenting excitedly about my baby bump, how much Kyrie’s grown, and how fit and happy Kendrick looks, and on and on.

All the usual stuff, when it’s been too long since we’ve all gotten together, all at once.

And of course, we return all the exuberant compliments and good vibes .

C-Bomb and Reed reach the group, sans the former’s little daughter, Raine. Apparently, C-Bomb dropped her off to play in the sand with the other kids, including Kyrie, before heading to our group to chat.

After a moment, we’re joined by Aubrey and Georgina, and exuberant conversation ensues, punctuated by frequent belly laughter and boisterous storytelling.

Another group comes over to mingle, one that includes Miranda and Aloha, and we launch into yet another round of happy hellos, conversation, and catching up.

Someone asks Caleb his plans for his beautiful lake house.

Apparently, he’s trying to decide if he should expand his existing home or perhaps buy the place next door and expand his empire that way.

As Caleb discusses the two possibilities, Reed sidles up to me with a grin on his face and nudges my shoulder.

“Hey, Ruby Duby. How’s it going? It’s great to see you and the fam looking so well.” He already greeted me, briefly, a moment ago, when everyone else did. But this is our first chance to chat, one-on-one.

“You, too.”

“Congrats on that.” He points to my belly.

I pat my baby bump. “Thanks. This one makes me barf up a lung at least twice a day, but other than that, I couldn’t be happier.”

Reed’s gaze lingers on my belly a beat too long. And that’s when I remember something Miranda recently told me about him and Georgina.

Nobody talks about it to Reed’s face, simply because it feels too awkward to do that with someone who’s not prone to opening up about his personal life and feelings, to put it mildly—but we all know, thanks to the grapevine, that Mr. and Mrs. Rivers have been trying for a baby for a few years now.

Indeed, from what Miranda told me, Reed and Georgina have recently decided to go the IVF route.

God willing, that will do the trick for them, because I know Georgina, especially, has baby fever.

Of course, if that doesn’t work, I’m sure Reed will do whatever it takes to give his wife the baby she’s yearning for.

That’s a perk of having money in situations such as these: a person can explore every conceivable option.

But even if they get where they want to go in the end, I want the smoothest, easiest road for them both, because, truthfully, I like them so much, I consider them family, whether they realize it or not.

It’s hard to believe I feel that way about Reed sometimes, given how I used to join in on calling him “The Prick” at every turn.

Still do, sometimes. Just for yucks. But I don’t think Reed is a prick anymore, but, rather, a softie who’s covered himself in about a hundred layers of armor.

“So, are you finally ready to do it now?” Reed asks with a smirk.

I look at him funny. “Do what?”

“Admit me not pulling Cooper’s song?—”

“This again?”

“—was a blessing in disguise.”

“Give it a rest, Reed.”

“Admit it. That song was the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

I burst out laughing, and Reed joins me. In fact, he laughs so damned hard, he gets tears in his eyes to match mine.

I haven’t thought about Cooper Constantino in years.

I mean, yes, whenever his song comes on while I’m at the grocery store or in a bank or whatever, he pops into my mind, briefly.

That can’t be helped. But it’s like remembering a movie or a silly story someone once told me.

A memory that’s not even my own. That’s how removed I feel from Cooper’s song, at this point; how removed I feel from the woman who wailed and screamed about being called Ruby Tuesday in a pop-punk song that would soon become known as a one-hit wonder, when all APM’s next offerings fell flat and quickly disappeared.

Looking back, I truly can’t believe I let the whole fiasco bother me in the slightest.

“What’s so funny?” Kendrick asks, coming to a stop next to me.

“Once again, Reed is insisting I admit Cooper’s song is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. A blessing in disguise.”

To my surprise, Kendrick doesn’t laugh like Reed and I did a moment ago. On the contrary, my husband simply shrugs and says, “I’d say so. Fuck yeah, it is.”

I’m shocked. He said that like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

But before either Reed or I can react to Kendrick’s nonchalance, he adds, “Frankly, I thank Cooper Constantino every day of my life for calling me the brother she wanted to fuck. God knows where I’d be today if he hadn’t gotten the ball rolling for us like that.”

For us.

He means for him and me.

As in, our marriage.

Our life together.

I gasp and instinctively clutch my baby bump, having an epiphany.

I’ve never looked at things that way. I’ve always thought about Reed’s “blessing in disguise” comment in terms of my professional aspirations and opportunities.

Me getting onto Sing Your Heart Out , for example.

Which then propelled sales of our next single and put me in mind when a whole bunch of artists sat down to write their next hit song.