Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 121916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
As I look around the loud, happy, chaotic party at all the familiar faces, it’s plain to see nobody’s noticed our arrival yet. If they had, we’d surely be mobbed by now, since half the people here are our closest friends. If not for the guest list, I doubt we would have made the trip—frankly because, no offense, but why would we fly to Prairie Springs, Montana for a lakeside Fourth of July party, when we could conveniently party at our friends’ beachside house in our hometown? Especially with my morning sickness lately, traveling feels like a very big deal. Now that we’re here, however, I can easily see the trip was well worth it.
Although, come to think of it, Savage and Laila are here, too, so I guess we would have needed another beachside house to party at in my hypothetical scenario. Indeed, it was Savage and Laila who invited us to fly with them on their private jet, along with their sassy, almost-five-year-old, Valentina. So, it was a no-brainer for us to join them—even to Prairie Springs, Montana.
“Looks like we’re the last ones to arrive,” Kendrick murmurs, scanning all the familiar faces whooping it up in the summer sun.
“Sorry about that.” We’re late because of me. Because the little girl in my belly demanded an epic barf-o-rama in her honor, much like pagan gods might demand a nice smattering of goat blood, right before we were supposed to leave our room at the tiny hotel in town. After that, I had to lie down and nibble on crackers for a bit before I felt human enough to face the sunshine, let alone a loud party filled with all my favorite people.
“No need to apologize for cooking our baby, baby. You know that.”
Kyrie gasps and points. “Look!” he shouts. “My fwends!”
We follow his gesture and discover three kids Kyrie knows and loves, hunkered down and playing with sand toys together right at the edge of the lake: Valentina, who dotes on our boy like a big sister; three-year-old, Winston “Wi-Fi” Fishberger, Fish and Ally’s sweet little cutie, and Rocco Beretta, Colin and Amy’s four-year-old Mack truck of a boy.
“See? I told you there’d be lots of friends and fun stuff for you to do here, buddy,” Kendrick says. “Looks like they’re having lots and lots of fun.”
“And there are lots of other new friends around here for you to meet, too,” I add. Not that Kyrie cares about that. Our son doesn’t love meeting new people, for some reason. He does fine, once he’s gotten comfortable. Once he’s acclimated. But he’s the kid who sits to the side at birthday parties, feeling shy, while everyone else screams out their demands to the balloon animal clown without hesitation. The kid who’s too scared to ask if he can have a piece of candy from the bowl after he sat through his entire haircut crying his eyes out because the lady looked him in the eyes.
“Can I play with dem?” Kyrie asks, his cherubic face upturned excitedly toward his daddy and his blue eyes wide with excitement.
“Absolutely.”
“As long as you’re wearing sunscreen,” I quickly add.
“I already slathered him liked a greased pig at the hotel,” Kendrick says.
“Okay, but you still need to wait, Ky. I want you to wear a hat, too. It’s bright out here.” As Kyrie dances from foot to foot with eagerness and impatience—that’s new—I fish around in the large bag on my shoulder for his bright blue bucket hat with a dinosaur on it—the one that matches our son’s gorgeous blue eyes. Lucky boy, Kyrie inherited Kendrick’s everything, basically, in the DNA lottery. In fact, the second that kid popped out of me and the nurse laid him onto my sobbing chest, I could instantly surmise the person Kendrick and I had created from scratch together, supposedly, bore zero resemblance to me. On the contrary, even from minute one, I knew our baby was Kendrick’s cookie cutter. His mini-me. Which is why, in my hospital room a minute later, I suggested we carry on the Cook family tradition of giving boys a name that starts with K, rather than the one we’d originally picked out.
Thankfully, Kendrick loved the name idea. Apparently, there’s some famous basketball player named Kyrie. Who knew? Not me. I’d only heard the name in connection with a Canadian singer-songwriter. But, whatever, Kendrick was sold on it, and so was I, so our baby officially became Kyrie Adrian Cook.
I find the hat and place it onto Kyrie’s blonde head. His hair is platinum blonde for now, just like Kendrick’s was at his age. “Now, listen,” I say to my son, who’s looking up at me like I walk on water. “You’re not allowed to take that hat off, no matter what, okay?”
“Okay, Mommy. I go now?”