Page 66 of Finding Home

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 activelynotlooking 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 imaginingCaleb 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 mysister’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.”

“What, exactly, happens at this adorable festival?” Miranda persists, placing her elbow onto the table. “Are there, like, events and games, or . . .?”

“Oh, yes,” Barbara says. “We have all kinds of fun stuff, culminating in a live auction at the end that raises money for the school and various local causes.”

My sister nudges me. “You’ve donated to the auction already, right?”

“I’m going to. I haven’t figured out my exact donation yet.”

“There’s still plenty of time,” Barbara assures me with a wink.

“Come on, you loser-procrastinator,” Miranda says. “Let’s figure out your donation now, so Barbara can run with it.” She taps a manicured finger onto the wooden table. “Four tickets to your next show with backstage passes? That’s a no-brainer. Also, a bunch of signed merch.” She drums her fingers. “What else? It needs to be something people can’t get on the open market.”

I shift in my seat. “The thing is, my band doesn’t know when we’ll be playing next. We had to cancel our tour when I . . . messed up in New York.” I glance at Aubrey and she smiles sympathetically. I’ve already told her about how I epically trashed my hotel suite in New York after finding out about my mother’s passing three thousand miles away.

“How about a one-on-one drum lesson taught by you, here in Prairie Springs?” Miranda suggests. “I bet that would bring in big money.”

I shift in my seat again. Doesn’t Miranda realize I can’t commit to anything, especially not in Prairie Springs, until I know the outcome of the fucking custody hearing? The closer it gets, the more nervous I become that the judge is going to destroy the happiness I’ve found with Aubrey and Raine. Have I done enough to win custody, or is my entire life about to get decimated in that courtroom in LA? My insomnia has been coming back to haunt me the past few nights, as the custody hearing draws ever closer.

---