Chapter 24 Scott - Home Alone #2
Roger scanned my application like he was reading a grocery list. “Surf Instructor. Lifeguard. Valet. Bus boy. Ah, here we go: delivery driver. Pizza? Flowers?”
“Uh, no. Mostly alcohol. For a distribution center.”
“And you’re currently employed there?”
“Yes,” I said, leaving out the part where my job performance was less than stellar.
“There you go. Full time?”
“Yes… Sir.” I pulled on my collar.
Roger rubbed his temple as he jotted down my answer. “Maybe try listing that first next time.”
Oh, yeah. He hated me.
“Says here you’re applying for a carrier position. Do you have any walking experience?”
“Walking?” I quirked my brows. “Like going from here to there?”
He nodded; his face neutral. Okay, then. This was an actual fucking question… that I had to answer.
“Um, yes. When I was a kid and would skin my knee or something, my mom would tell me to walk it off. Said life can’t hit a moving target. I guess I took that to heart. Been walking ever since.”
“Ah, great. Excellent. It’s just you have no other discernible job experience, so I wanted to make sure your legs worked properly.”
I almost laughed, thinking he was joking, but with Roger’s dry delivery, it could go either way.
Scanning my application again, Roger asked, “Why the Postal Service?”
“Honestly?” I shrugged. “It’s steady work. Good benefits. I have a wife and kids. Trying to do right by them, you know? And, uh… people actually need their mail. Feels nice to do something useful.”
He nodded slowly, tapping his pen. “That’s a good answer. You’d be surprised how many people say, ‘Because my parole officer said I needed a job.’ You’re not fresh out of the slammer, are you?”
“No. I’m not.”
He scribbled a note on my application while speaking it aloud. “Not… a… felon.”
I wasn’t feeling confident in the direction this interview was going. My eyes wandered, and I spotted a Lynyrd Skynyrd magnet on his filing cabinet.
“You a Lynyrd Skynyrd fan?” I asked, nodding toward it.
Roger’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about Skynyrd, pretty boy? You were probably still swimming in your dad’s sack when ‘Free Bird’ came out.”
“‘Free Bird’ released in ’74,” I corrected. “By then, I’d already made it through the reproductive tract.”
He actually laughed, prompting me to try my luck. “Hate to break it to you, Roger, but ‘Free Bird’ isn’t their best track.”
He tilted his head, studying me. “Oh, yeah? Then what is, hotshot?”
“‘The Ballad of Curtis Loew’,” I said without hesitation.
“All right,” he said, giving me a slow, impressed nod. “More of a deep-cut guy. I respect that.”
Silence ensued as Roger scribbled notes and mumbled under his breath. I waited, making a list of other government jobs in my head because I was definitely not getting this one.
And then Roger stood up and extended his hand. “Welcome to the United States Postal Service.”
I left the post office grinning like an idiot.
The sky looked bluer, the air felt lighter—hell, even the pigeons seemed to respect me.
I had a job. A real one. Benefits, pension, the whole damn package.
Roger had shaken my hand like a man welcoming me into a brotherhood, and for the first time in months, I felt like maybe I wasn’t screwing up my whole life.
All I wanted was to tell Michelle.
I rehearsed it on the drive home: “Guess who’s finally legit?” or “You’re looking at the newest mailman in town.” Something stupid that’d make her roll her eyes and smile.
But when I opened the door, the house was quiet. Same as it had been all week. The kids’ toys still sat where they’d left them. The faint smell of Michelle’s Jergen’s cherry almond lotion still hung in the air. But the silence had weight now.
I dropped my keys on the counter and stood there for a long minute, staring at the phone like it might ring if I waited hard enough.
Then an idea came to me: Michelle’s address book.
She’d left in a hurry, and there was a chance she hadn’t taken it with her.
If I could find it, maybe I could track down her sister and figure out where she and the kids had gone.
I searched every cluttered surface before moving to the drawers.
One on her vanity held hair clips and lipstick—nothing useful—until my fingers hit something solid in the back.
I pulled out a case. Inside was the necklace from the first night we’d met, the one I’d joked about being fake.
God, she’d looked incredible that night, standing under the streetlight.
I’d known even then I didn’t deserve her.
But I wanted her. I still wanted her. Now, more than ever.
The weight of the necklace alone told me it was worth serious cash. I could take this to a pawn shop and walk out with enough money to fix everything. I wouldn’t even have to sell my truck.
The thought was tempting. She’d left me.
Hadn’t even called to say the kids were fine.
What did she need the necklace for now? But I couldn’t do it.
Michelle had kept it for a reason, and pawning it would end whatever chance we had left.
I put the necklace back in its case and returned it to the drawer.
The next one I opened held her address book, like the universe was rewarding me for my honesty. Her handwriting was neat, with the names and numbers carefully aligned. Melanie Blackburn’s New York number was there.
I dialed.
A man answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Uh—hi. Is Melanie there?”
“Who’s calling?”
I hesitated, knowing my name was blacklisted in the Carver bubble. “Scott.”
There was a pause. Then a knowing exhalation. “McKallister?”
“Please don’t hang up.” I rushed the words out. “I’m trying to find Michelle and my kids. Can you just tell me—is she still here in Los Angeles?”
Another pause.
“Dude, please. Man to man. I need to know if they’re okay.”
“They’re fine. Melanie is with her.”
I exhaled audibly. “Are they in LA?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where?”
“One of her father’s properties. That’s all I’m going to say.” His voice was smooth and practiced, but there was a hesitancy to it. “I’m already on thin ice with my wicked witch of a mother-in-law. I can’t risk getting involved. You hear me, Scott? Man to man.”
“I hear you. It’s James, right?”
“Yes. Your much older and wiser brother-in-law. And as such, I feel it is my duty to give you a valuable piece of advice.”
“Okay,” I said, wary.
“Find your wife. Find your kids. And get them the hell away from the Carver family.” His tone hardened. “They’re poison. I wish I’d never crossed paths with them.”
The line went dead.