Page 20 of Finding Home

“I can’t do that. As my sobriety coach, you’ll need to submit a form certifying my sobriety, starting tonight.”

My jaw hangs open. “What?But, Caleb?—”

“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t bother. Like I keep saying, it’s non-negotiable.” He smirks at whatever he’s seeing on my face. “Go on, Aubrey. Go pack a bag and say goodbye to Raine and your parents. Whether you like it or not, you’re coming home with me.”

Chapter 8

Caleb

Iglance over at Aubrey’s stunning profile in my passenger seat again. Same as before, she’s silently staring out the windshield of my rental car like an annoyed, kidnapped robot. Although come to think of it, I doubt a robot could be programmed to pout that much. Or look that fucking hot.

Man, it’s too bad Aubrey hates my guts. Given that we’re going to be stuck under one roof for the next three weeks and two days, it would have been an unexpected silver lining of our forced living arrangement to partake in a little carnal fun every night after Raine’s bedtime.

With a sigh over what could have been, I shift my eyes off Aubrey’s pouting profile and take the next curve on the winding road leading to my family’s cabin on the lake. After a bit, I get to the next curve, the one with the big fir tree at its apex that got slightly singed in a fire when I was ten or so. My stomach flutters with butterflies at my destination’s proximity. Only this time, unlike when I was a kid, those butterflies bring with them nostalgia and uncertainty, rather than unadulterated excitement.

When I used to come here as a kid, the sight of that big fir tree meant imminent independence. A carefree escape from homework, chores, and all the screaming back home. Now, as an adult, however, I understandwhyMom sometimes abruptly packed up the car without warning to come here in the middle of the night.WhyGrandpa would give Mom such a big bear hug when we arrived on his doorstep.WhyMom always shed those big, soggy tears into her father’s chest. So much so, they’d soak Grandpa’s flannel shirt. And most of all, I now understand the happy smile Mom wore for Miranda and me was a mother’s gift to her children. A ruse that allowed us to cluelessly enjoy our little vacation and conveniently forget about the latest bruises on our mother’s arms and neck.

Thankfully, Dad knew he wasn’t welcome at Grandpa’s cabin. Grandpa once told my father, “I’ve got a locker full of rifles, Greg, and I know exactly how to make anything look like a hunting accident.” We all knew he wasn’t kidding.

After another turn in the winding road, I spot the two black cottonwoods that mark the small dirt road leading to our family’s cabin, and a moment later, there it is. The small house on the lake I used to visit frequently as a kid, although it looks quite a bit bigger nowadays. Also, much nicer than I remember it, thanks to some massive, modern windows installed on its front facade. Did Grandpa renovate the crap out of this place before putting it up on that short-term rental site?

I slowly drive my car across some noisy gravel on the side of the house and park the car, and Aubrey immediately unbuckles her seatbelt. Without a word or even a glance toward me, she grabs her overnight bag and exits the car. When I don’t follow because I’m studying the new, modernized look of the house, Aubrey stands near the frontof the car and awaits me, her arms crossed and her body language bursting with impatience and disdain.

By my late teens, I’d become too obsessed with my band and chasing girls to come along whenever Mom came here. And once I successfully started flaking on coming here, my sister, Miranda, four years my junior, took it as her cue to start following suit, since she never liked coming here, anyway.Too many bugs, Miranda always said.Nothing to do.

All of a sudden, Miranda started sleeping at her best friend Violet’s place, whenever Mom came here. And a few years after that, Grandpa got himself a girlfriend from Kansas—a pretty widow with a cool house and some kids she didn’t want to uproot. And that was that. Mom started visiting her dad in Kansas without Miranda and me, since we’d become “too busy” for family outings like that; and I lost access to this magical place in Montana, without ever knowing my final visit here had been my last.

Aubrey’s arm waving at me in my peripheral vision catches my attention, and I slowly turn my head to stare at her in a daze.

“Are you coming?” she mouths on the other side of my windshield, her eyebrows raised with annoyance.

With a long exhale, I unbuckle my seatbelt, grab my backpack from the backseat, and amble toward Aubrey at the front of the car. As I approach, a crease splits her otherwise smooth forehead.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “You look pissed off.”

“That’s just my face, sweetheart. I’ve got resting ‘pissed off’ face.”

The slightest twitch of a smile plays at Aubrey’s pouty lips, but she manages to suppress it before returning her attention to the house. “You kept calling this place a cabin,so I pictured a little log cabin in the woods. But this is a proper lake house, Caleb. A vacation home.”

I shrug. “It started out as a little cabin in the woods, so that’s what we’ve always called it. My grandpa must have expanded and renovated the place over the years, without me knowing it.” I point. “Those big windows there are new to me. And that whole side of the house is an addition. A third bedroom, maybe?”

“Cool.” She’s practically tapping her toe. “Can we go inside now? I need to pee.”

I shift the backpack slung over my shoulder and lead the way. But as we walk toward the front of the house, I remember something I want to see along the side of it. I don’t say a word to Aubrey about my divergence from the route to the front door, but she follows me, anyway, probably figuring there’s some preferred side entry into the house.

When I get to my destination—the big black cottonwood my grandpa planted to mark my birth over thirty-five years ago—I run my fingers over the ridged, rough bark, searching for the symbol I carved into it during my childhood: a letter “C” for “Caleb” with a lit fuse attached to its top for “Bomb.”Baum-garten.

“Did you carve that?” Aubrey asks, leaning in close to peer at the symbol. Surely, the design is self-explanatory to her, since she knows my full name.

I nod. “When I was twelve or thirteen.”

“I didn’t realize you’ve been C-Bomb for so long. I thought you adopted that as a one-name celebrity thing. You know, like Prince or Shakira.”

I shake my head. “Dean started calling me C-Bomb in middle school, when we first learned about the A-bomb.” I can’tfathom I need to explain the identity of Dean to her. Surely, Aubrey knows I’m talking about Dean Masterson, the insanely talented lead singer of my band who’s easily ten times more famous than me. “Once the band took off,” I add, “the nickname took on a life of its own in pop culture; but before that, I was always Caleb and C-Bomb, interchangeably, with my closest friends. Still am. Some of my best friends still call me C-Bomb, as often as they call me Caleb.”

“I noticed that on your neck earlier.” Aubrey points at the side of my neck. Specifically, to the spot where I have this exact same “C-Bomb” symbol inked into my flesh.

“Mm hmm.” Now that she’s brought up one of my tattoos, I’m fully expecting the conversation to take the usual course. Namely, for Aubrey to ask me the meaning of this or that other tattoo. Or maybe to compliment her favorite design. But to my surprise, Aubrey doesn’t follow the usual script.

---