Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
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’t fathom 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.
With her fingers brushing over the carving in the tree, she murmurs, “Seems like there’s a lot of memories in this place for you, huh?”
My chest tightens. It’s an understatement. Being here is like visiting a ghost of my prior self: a younger version of Caleb Baumgarten who loved coming here to escape and forget about the stress caused by my turbulent father back home. “Yeah, lots of memories,” I mutter vaguely. I shift my backpack and clear my throat. “Come on, babysitter. You need to pee, right?” I stride away from the tree without looking back. “We’ll go in through the back door. We’ve probably got mud on our shoes now.”
“Love the rustic vibe,” Aubrey murmurs, looking around the living room. She motions toward the ceiling. “Those exposed beams are gorgeous.”
“They’re new from when I was here last.”
She motions across the room. “Love that stone fireplace, too.”
“When I was a little kid, we used to make s’mores in that fireplace.”
“Ooooh, we should do that with Raine.”
Raine. My heart rate quickens at the mention of my daughter’s name. I can’t believe her little feet are going to pad across the same wooden planks my own two-year-old feet traversed thirty-plus years ago. “Great idea. Before we pick her up tomorrow, let’s stop by the grocery store for supplies.”
For the first time since our eyes connected over that wooden fence, Aubrey looks semi-tolerant of me. At least, she doesn’t look nearly as much like she wants to slide her hands around my neck and squeeze.
“Should we take a look around the place?” I ask.
“Let’s do it.”
We wander through the house and confirm my grandfather did, indeed, add a third bedroom on the west side, as well as all new windows and several upgrades to the cabin’s only bathroom.
“Do you have any thoughts, in terms of upgrades and fixes?” I ask, as we return to the living room.
“It depends on what you plan to do with the place. If you want to spend the money to make this place your own personal haven, you’d probably want to do more than if you’re aiming to turn a maximum profit on a sale, you know?”
I look around, my mind buffering. If I wind up with full custody of Raine, I’d likely want to keep this place, so I can bring my daughter here, now and again, the same way I used to come as a kid. If I don’t get custody of Raine, however, I’m certain my sister will want to sell the place and split the proceeds, since she’s never liked coming here, anyway. If that scenario faces me, I think it’s possible coming here will feel too painful for me to fight my sister’s wishes on the matter.