Page 106 of Finding Home

Bob opens the floor for bidding, and the moment he does, the crowd reacts like ants pouncing on a runaway drop of maple syrup, which makes both Caleb and me belly laugh with glee.

“I’m surprised you threw in drum lessons. You seemed skittish about that, when Miranda suggested it.”

Caleb shrugs. “I’m home now and not going anywhere, so why not?”

I suddenly remember Trent’s text and show it to him. And, thankfully, Caleb guffaws while reading it.

“I told you Trent knew he had it coming,” Caleb says. He returns the phone to me and taps his temple. “I’ve got a sixth sense about that kind of thing. If they skitter away like a cockroach, you’re golden.”

His words make me think about Ralph Beaumont, since he was a man who probably never once skittered away like a cockroach in his entire life. As it’s turned out, Caleb hasn’t lost a moment of sleep over what he did a week ago, and neither have I. On the contrary, the only after-effect from the shooting, as far as I can tell, is our bond has only deepened and strengthened.

“I can’t wait to marry you,” Caleb whispers, touching my cheek.

“Let’s do it really soon,” I say.

“How about tomorrow? I can’t wait to call you my wife.”

I laugh. “Tomorrow is ourengagementparty, remember? Not our wedding. But, yes, I agree we should do it, as soon as we can arrange it.”

“Or we could turn our engagement party into a wedding.”

I laugh, thinking Caleb is joking. And when he doesn’tlaugh, I shrug my shoulders and say, “Okay, fuck it. Why not? Let’s do it.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

He whoops.

Granted, I could spend lots of time picking out the perfect dress and flowers and the rest. But as long as my parents and Raine are there—and Caleb’s sister and closest friends—the details really don’t matter to me. We can throw a big party to celebrate in LA later, whenever we return there for a visit. For now, the most important thing, above everything else, is I’ll get to call Caleb Baumgarten my husband, as soon as possible.

We kiss to seal the deal.

“God, I love you, A-Bomb.”

“I love you, too, Caleb.”

“And I promise I always will.”

Epilogue

AUBREY

Music is blaring. It’s my playlist, this time. As the czar of our seventh annual Fourth of July party, I always get to pick the music, along with planning the food and everybody’s accommodations. Caleb and all the other rock lovers in attendance needn’t worry, though: I always make sure there’s something for everyone on my party playlist, given the wide age ranges and musical preferences of those in attendance every year.

There’s a whole lot of star power at this party, as usual, but someone passing by on a boat wouldn’t realize that, thanks to the downhome, family-friendly vibe. Also, thanks to the gaggle of kids splashing around in the lake and running around on our extra-long stretch of shoreline.

Thanks to Caleb buying the house next door three years ago, our shoreline feels like a private beach club these days. I thought it was excessive when Caleb bought the adjacent house for family and friends to have an easy, convenient to place to stay while visiting. But I must admit, the idea turned out to be a great one. In fact, between our visitingfriends, family, and my parents, the guest house, as we now call it, is rarely empty.

“A-Bomb!” Caleb calls out from the lake. My husband is standing in waist-deep water with our two-year-old son, Bonham, in one arm, while our four-year-old daughter, Page, uses Caleb’s body as her own personal jungle gym. Somehow, even in the midst of the chaos wrought by the children clinging to him, Caleb is managing to calmly chat with the two men standing near him in the lake: Dax Morgan and Reed Rivers.

“Babe!” Caleb calls to me again. “Bonzo’s had a huge blowout in his swim diaper, and Page the Maniac won’t let me leave to change it!”

“A likely story,” I call to him, and Caleb laughs. He’s changed more than his fair share of diapers over the years, first with Raine back in the day, and then with Page and Bonham in rapid succession. But that doesn’t mean my husbandlikesto do it, especially when he’s happily catching up with close friends.

I motion to Caleb that I’m coming and then strip off my cover-up and wade toward him through the water in my bikini. “You owe me one,” I tease, when I reach Caleb. By now, it’s a running gag between us: taking on the task of changing a diaper and then claiming to be “owed one,” even though neither of us ever collects on the purported debt. As we’ve come to learn, our imaginary balance sheet always corrects itself, without either of us ever needing to keep score in earnest.

“How can I owe you ‘one,’ when I already owe youeverything?” Caleb quips, as I take our poopie son from him with rigid arms and a scrunched nose.

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