Chapter 30 Scott Kalifornia
SCOTT: KALIFORNIA
April and Tony had been planning the Arizona move long before Mitchell overheard them and spilled it to me.
Six weeks after the wedding, my son was gone.
My heart was still struggling to catch up.
The thought of MGM so far away—of Tony taking over as his full-time dad, of my other kids growing up without their big brother—still burned every time I let myself think about it.
Which was all the time. Another man raising my son felt like failure, like I was abandoning him, even though the whole situation had been wrested out of my hands the moment April said she would take me to court.
From the beginning, our arrangement had been informal, with April acting as MGM’s primary caregiver.
A judge would never rule in my favor. But letting them take my son without a fight felt wrong too.
Would Mitchell think I’d abandoned him the way my own father had abandoned me?
Busywork was my lifeline. I spent my free time tinkering around the house. Even things that didn’t need fixing got an extra twist of the screw. Anything to keep my hands moving and my mind from picturing Mitchell’s devastated face as they drove away.
When I came in from the garage, covered in sawdust from sanding a storage bench Michelle had scored at a yard sale, I found her cross-legged on the couch, phone pressed to her ear and notepad balanced on her very pregnant belly.
“Who’s on the phone?” I asked.
“On hold with a golf course in Glendale,” she whispered, cupping the receiver.
I bent to kiss her temple. “Look at you rescuing the Shaggin’ Wagon!”
“I’m trying,” she said. “This is the seventh course I’ve called.”
“Any leads?”
“Not yet. It doesn’t help that I call myself his ‘niece’ but don’t know his last name.”
She lifted a finger: hold that thought.
“Hi, I wonder if you can help me,” she said sweetly into the receiver, laying it on thick.
“I’m looking for my Uncle Tom. He moved recently and I don’t have his new number.
Unfortunately, a close relative died, and I wanted to give him the sad news in person.
I think he’s a member of your course. Bright red nose. Balding. Wears a visor.”
Michelle looked my way and rolled her eyes. I smiled in encouragement, loving that she was taking this on. We’d made a plan on the beach, but then the whole Arizona thing happened, and I’d forgotten all about it. But right about now, I really needed a win.
“What’s that? Oh, that describes every middle-aged member at your course? I see,” she said, the saccharine edge slipping from her voice as hope faded. “If it helps, this one drives a rusty pickup that backfires like a cannon.”
Suddenly she shot upright, eyes wide. “Tom Reeves. Yes, that’s him!”
She covered the receiver and mouthed, Got him.
“He’s playing in the tournament?” Michelle scribbled furiously on her notepad. “This weekend?”
I shook my head. No way was this plan actually working.
“No. Don’t tell him I’m coming. I’d love to surprise him.” The employee on the other end made some more noises. “Okay, I’ll be there. You’re a lifesaver.”
She hung up, threw her arms skyward, and danced. “He’s signed up for their golf tournament this weekend.”
“How do you know it’s him for sure?” I asked.
“Because when I mentioned the backfiring, the lady at the pro shop said, ‘Oh, I know exactly who you mean. His truck leaves an oil breadcrumb trail all over our parking lot.’”
I pumped my fist. “That’s our girl.”
On Saturday, Michelle sat shotgun, a map spread over her lap like we’d time-traveled back to the 80s. Her hair was in a messy knot, and her sunglasses had slid down her nose. She looked… happy. Like the girl I’d taken to ride her first roller coaster.
I drummed my fingers on the wheel. “If we pull this off, I’m going to buy you a pack of Red Vines.”
“Twizzlers,” she corrected.
“You know, Michelle, if you really loved me, you’d convert.”
“I will never choose love over Twizzlers.”
We traded amused glances.
“Even if we don’t come home with the truck,” she said, “at least we get a day off from the kids.”
Fair point. The neighbor’s teenage daughter was booked until bedtime. Today it was just Michelle and me… and our tiny, low-stakes crime spree.
She pointed ahead, rubbing her belly. “Exit’s coming up.”
With one hand on the wheel, I slid the other one over hers. “Is he kicking?”
“No,” she said. “Jake only kicks for music he likes. He’s a classical fan.”
“Only because he’s trapped in your stomach. Once he’s out, that’s when I shine. I’ll make a rockstar out of him yet.”
We pulled into my brother Paul’s place in Burbank to ditch Michelle’s car. He’d agreed to drive us to the golf course and drop us off.
Paul looked at Michelle, then at me, shaking his head. “You’re taking your pregnant wife on this grand theft auto field trip. Real nice, Scott.”
“The baby wanted to come,” Michelle said, patting her stomach. “He’s already got a taste for justice.”
“It’s not grand theft auto if it’s my truck,” I said. “It’s more like… aggressive repossession.”
Paul stared at us like he was calculating the exact dollar amount of our bail. “Whatever. But if you get arrested, I’m not your one phone call.”
We piled into his sensible sedan. Michelle stretched out in the back, and I rode in the co-pilot seat, feeling like a teenager being driven to the mall by his dad.
“So, what’s the plan once you’re in?” Paul asked, keeping his eyes on the road.
I glanced back at Michelle. Neither of us had anything resembling a plan. We were parents. Planning was something we used to do.
“We were, you know… thinking of winging it,” I said.
“You’re winging it?” Paul’s brows shot up. “Michelle, you can’t tell me you haven’t meticulously thought this through.”
“Normally, I would have,” she replied. “But I have baby brain, and I’m not operating at full capacity.”
“Wow, okay. This is going to go worse than I thought.” He sighed. “What if Tom spots you? Are you going to run? Michelle’s not lookin’ real athletic at the moment. And, I mean, if I were Tom, the first thing I’d have done is change the locks.”
Michelle and I exchanged a look.
“I didn’t know you could change the lock on a car,” she said.
“Yeah,” Paul said. “I know a guy.”
“We don’t need a lock guy,” I said, puffing up. “If it comes down to it, I’ll break a window and hotwire it.”
Michelle sat up straighter. “You can hotwire cars? How did I not know that about you?”
“I mean, I don’t want to brag, but I’ve been known to steal a car or two in my day.”
“Oh, my god, honey.” She patted my shoulder. “I’m so impressed.”
“Don’t be,” Paul grumbled. “He stole our dad’s car. Doesn’t count.”
“It does count.” I looked back at Michelle. “Doesn’t it, honey?”
“That’s right. What matters is you did it,” she said, beaming at me. God—she hadn’t looked that happy in a long time. It felt like our six wild weeks all over again.
“Jesus,” Paul muttered. “Do you two need a room?”
The drive took another twenty minutes, weaving through pristine suburban streets until we reached the iron gates of Valley Crest Golf Club. Exactly the type of place I hated on principle with its manicured lawns, hushed tones, and the faint smell of inherited wealth.
“Okay, circle the lot,” I instructed, scanning the perimeter.
Paul crept along the rows.
“I don’t see it,” Michelle said, disappointment creeping in. “Maybe he parked somewhere else.”
“Keep going,” I urged, skimming the far end near a row of overgrown hedges. And then I saw her. Tucked away at the very back like a dirty little secret the other cars were pretending not to know. Faded paint, a mismatched fender, and a dramatic lean to the driver’s side.
A beautiful, glorious piece of junk.
“There,” I breathed, pointing. “That’s her.”
Michelle leaned forward, following my finger. When she spotted the truck, a grin split across her face. “Oh wow. She has not improved with age.”
“Nope.” I beamed. “Holding together out of pure spite.”
Paul looked between us, unimpressed, pulling alongside the hedges before putting the car in park. “I just have to ask—are we sure this thing is worth stealing? I could find you a nicer one at the junkyard for twelve bucks.”
“Paul, mind your mouth,” Michelle scolded, all faux innocence. “Scott lost his virginity in that thing. Of course it’s worth it.”
I glanced at her—her eyes were sparkling with that familiar, reckless friskiness I’d fallen for on day one.
“Yeah, Paul,” I said. “Show some respect. I became a man in that truck.”
Paul laughed. “All right, Bonnie and Clyde. Get out. I’m doing one loop. If you’re not gone when I get back, I’m leaving you to your fate.”
We got out cautiously, Michelle needing a little extra help from me. Paul didn’t wait for a reply or even look back. He just shifted into drive and drove off.
“He loves us,” Michelle said, linking her arm through mine.
“Who doesn’t? We’re awesome.”
We followed the thin trail of oil, trying to look casual, like we were here for a leisurely round of golf. Though that might be hard to sell when I was wearing boardshorts and flip-flops, and Michelle looked like a pressure cooker with legs.
The Shaggin’ Wagon appeared even more tragic up close.
A fine layer of dust coated the hood, and a bird had left something that could be displayed in a modern art museum across the windshield.
Tom had even slapped on a bumper sticker: I’D RATHER BE GOLFING.
I made a mental note to scrape that off with a razor blade the second we got home.
“Hello again, beautiful,” I said, running a hand over the dented driver’s side door. “Michelle, say something nice.”
“Scott, I’m eight months pregnant and have to pee. The nicest thing I can say is that it’s not currently on fire.”
“For god’s sake, Michelle, have some sympathy,” I said, grinning as I slid the key into the lock. It stuck. My heart hammered against my ribs. I jiggled it, pushing harder.
Nothing.