Chapter 28 Scott Jagged Little Pill #2
“It was a meeting. To get to know each other.”
I dropped her hand. Pissed. “It was a date.”
“Fine. It was a date, if that makes you feel better.”
“Actually, no. That makes me feel worse. So what—he wins because he’s rich?”
“No,” she whispered, taking my hand back in hers. “It doesn’t matter what he can offer me because… he’s not you.”
“Wait, so…”
“I’m not picking the rich dude.”
“Oh, well, fuck.” I grabbed my chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“But…” That one word was loaded, and I knew I wouldn’t like what followed. “I’m not picking you either, Scott. Not unless changes are made. I’m willing to overlook a lot, but not our kids’ safety. I need you to fix this.”
I had to pivot. Shake off the image of her on a date and focus on what I could control. The plan.
“Actually, I’m glad you mentioned that,” I said. “Let me introduce you to my three-step ‘get my family back’ strategy.”
“You have a strategy?”
“Yes. A three-step one. See, Michelle, I’ve also been going to”—I used finger-quotes for effect—“meetings. I had a job interview a few days ago, and you, Mrs. McKallister, are married to the newest mail carrier for the United States Postal Service.”
Michelle blinked, slow-processing.
“You got a—”
“Government job, baby.” I opened my arms triumphantly. “Steady pay. Benefits. Home by five. Let’s see your Wall Street boyfriend top that.”
“Again, not my boyfriend,” she said, eyes never leaving mine. “I don’t understand. How did this happen?”
“You weren’t the only one soul searching, Michelle. Although… you were the only one going on dates.”
“It was a meeting.” She smiled.
“Whatever you say. Anyway, there’s more.”
“I’m not sure my heart can handle more.”
“This is a good ‘more.’ We’re moving to Ventura.”
“Moving?” The word didn’t immediately compute. “Wait—we’re moving?”
“Yes. North. Next county over. About an hour’s drive. Close to the beach for me, far enough from the worry for you.”
“I’m… stunned.”
“But are you happy?”
“I… yes. I think it would be great for our family. But Scott, you love Venice Beach. You’d really leave everything behind?”
“I would do anything for you and the kids. Anything.”
That landed. I could see it in her eyes.
“What about Mitchell?”
I winced. Couldn’t help it. Not being a five-minute drive to my son pained me. “April and I are figuring it out. We’ll have him on weekends. Drive down for his baseball games then bring him back to Ventura with us. She’s agreed to meet me halfway when needed.”
“You talked to April about this before me?”
“I had to. I couldn’t accept the Ventura job without a plan for MGM.”
She gave a tiny nod.
“So that was step one,” I said. “Step two involves the cases of alcohol I pilfered. I’m buying units back and slipping them onto the shelves, so when they do inventory, they’ll have no idea anything was ever missing.
Step three is getting rid of Marty. Because once those cases aren’t ‘missing,’ he’s got zero leverage.
No evidence, no blackmail. End of Marty. ”
Michelle stared at me, like she couldn’t decide whether to kiss me or turn me in.
“Scott,” she whispered, grabbing my face. “That’s… actually brilliant.” Then her brows knit as the flaws in my plan appeared. “Where are you getting the money to buy the cases?”
“That’s the part where I stop sounding brilliant,” I said. “I lost the truck.”
She dropped her hands. “How do you lose the Shaggin’ Wagon? It only goes ten miles an hour.”
I unloaded the whole humiliating saga. By the time I finished, Michelle was less than thrilled.
“I had such high hopes for a moment.”
“Believe me, I know.” I took a breath. “So far, I’ve replaced about sixty percent of the cases with the nine hundred I did get. To cover the rest… I’m considering selling my ass on Sunset Strip.”
“You’d do that—for me?”
“Anything for you, Babe. Bet your rich pal wouldn’t prostitute himself for you.”
“No,” she said. “No, I don’t imagine he would.”
We laughed together, a brief, needed release. But a question still hung between us.
“Michelle?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but… is your family gonna be a part of our lives going forward?
” I asked. Melanie’s cool stare still bothering me.
“I’m fine with the occasional dinner, maybe a holiday, whatever.
But inserting themselves into our everyday life?
They don’t have our best interests at heart.
And your sister—she wants us apart. You feel that too, right? ”
There was a long pause. “Yes. I know.”
I held my breath, waiting for the but.
“Since I’ve been here… I can feel myself slipping. Not just into who I used to be—but away from us.” Her voice cracked. “Away from the kids. From you. With my family, it’s never balanced. It’s never some. It’s all or nothing.”
“So do we give them all or nothing?”
She looked at me, tears welling.
“Scott,” she whispered, “if I give them all… that means erasing you.”
I nodded once. I knew that. I’d always known that.
“So I’ll ask again, Michelle. Do we give them all or nothing?”
Her answer came quiet but certain. “We give them nothing.”
Tucking Michelle in like she was one of the kids, I narrated a bedtime story of the Shaggin’ Wagon reinventing herself as the Back Nine Banger before kissing my wife goodnight. She fell asleep peaceful, safe, and smiling.
I was still too wired to sleep, so I wandered the suite, getting acquainted with luxury. It was a trip. The place even came with a Pillow Menu. Soft. Firm. Hypoallergenic. Lavender-scented. And buckwheat, because apparently, rich people liked to lay their heads on birdseed.
Leaving the pillow menu behind, I played with the electric drapes for a while, opening and closing them until the novelty wore off.
Then I retreated to the bathroom and watched a full episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air on the TV mounted across from the toilet.
Now that was a luxury I could get behind.
On my way back to the couch, I grabbed Michelle’s purse, digging for gum. My fingers caught on a slip of paper. I unfolded it to reveal a name, number, date, and time.
Today’s date.
I stared, trying to make sense of it. The appointment was right around the time of the accident. They must have been headed there when it happened. But for what? PP. What did that stand for? Pediatrician? No, the kids weren’t with her. Personal… something?
Curiosity got the better of me. I slipped into the bathroom and shut the door, staring at the slip again. PP. The number. The time. I picked up the cordless phone mounted to the wall, because of course there was a phone in there, and punched in the number.
The line clicked.
“You’ve reached Planned Parenthood after hours. If this is an emergency, call…”
I hung up instantly, the phone clattering back into its cradle as the words echoed in my head.
I stood there, frozen, staring at the tiled floor as the pieces snapped together one by one.
She’d known. Michelle hadn’t written “PP” to save herself the extra letters.
She wrote it so no one, especially me, would understand.
I stepped back into the bedroom and looked at her—my wife, the mother of my children—peaceful in the soft hotel glow, and I realized she’d lied in the hospital.
Michelle had known she was pregnant.
She’d known…
And had been on her way to end it.