Chapter 43 Michelle - Love ItList It
MICHELLE: LOVE IT OR LIST IT
“And the gate is fully automated,” the real estate agent said, gesturing toward the long drive we’d just come up. “Privacy and security are a big selling point here.”
The woman kept talking, her voice bright and practiced, pointing out sightlines, security features, and high-end finishes Jake didn’t seem the least bit interested in, but then maybe he was just used to it now.
When he wasn’t on a tour bus, he lived in luxury hotels, slipping easily into a life that still surprised me when I stopped to think about it.
But now he was looking to set down roots, and he’d turned to us for guidance.
“It feels safe,” I said without thinking.
The agent smiled. “Very.”
I felt Jake glance at me.
“And you have plenty of space while still getting that neighborhood feel,” she continued.
“Ah, yes. Nothing says ‘neighborhood’ like never seeing another human being.” Scott smacked Jake on the shoulder, smirking.
“You know, Dad, we can’t all have a Malcolm to play Turf Olympics with,” Jake replied.
“Please. That’s serious competition. I’d like to see you drag a hose around a yard without getting it caught on something.”
We followed the agent through the house room by room. It was enormous, and it was beautiful, with tall ceilings, clean lines, and sunlight everywhere. The kind of place you bought when money stopped meaning what it used to.
That was where Jake was now: nineteen, and already looking to buy his first multimillion-dollar home.
I’d grown up in houses like this, where space and opulence came standard, and walking through it felt familiar in a way I hadn’t expected.
Not wrong—just different. It reminded me how much my idea of home had changed over the years, and how little it had to do with size or price.
“Mom,” Jake said. “This would make a great music room, don’t you think?”
The space was large but tucked away from the rest of the house, with solid walls and just enough light to feel calm without being distracting. It felt quiet, even with the door open.
“Yes. I can picture the piano over here and a few guitars on stands instead of shoved into cases. And maybe a couch along that wall. Somewhere people could sit and stay awhile,” I said, dreaming.
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“If you like this,” the agent said, “wait until you see the backyard.”
We stepped through the back doors, and that was when the place really revealed itself. A massive pool stretched out in front of us, the water impossibly blue. A two-bedroom pool house sat off to the side. Beyond that lay a basketball court, pristine and empty, waiting for some noisy dribbling.
“Well?” Jake asked once the agent had stepped away to give us some privacy. “What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “And… big.”
Scott nodded slowly. “This is not a single-guy backyard.”
Jake shrugged. “I like space.”
“Then you’ve got it,” I said with a soft laugh.
He hesitated. “You don’t like it?”
That made me look at him closer—not at the rock star everyone else saw, but my son, watching our reactions carefully. Wanting us to love it.
“What’s not to like?” I said. “It’s incredible. I just meant it feels more like a family place. Kids running around. Barbecues.”
He paused a moment. “Then maybe we put the family in it.”
It wasn’t until Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys that it clicked. He wasn’t buying the house for himself.
He was buying it for us.
I stared at him. “Jake—”
He shook his head, cutting me off before I could protest. “I need a place to come to when I’m not on tour. Somewhere close to L.A. And I don’t want it to feel empty.”
I didn’t have any words. It was a gift too big to even process.
“And Dad,” he added, “I made sure it’s close enough to the ocean for a morning dip. Mom, it’s still about halfway to Grace’s school—just in the opposite direction.”
Neither of us spoke. We were still catching up to the moment.
Jake raised his brows, waiting.
“You’ve already done more than enough,” Scott said. “Paying off our house. Giving Mom an emergency fund. But this…” He paused. “This is too much. We can’t accept it.”
“Well, that’s awkward,” Jake said, “because I already bought it.”
My eyes widened. “You already bought it? For us?”
He nodded.
“Honey…” I tried again, choosing my words carefully. “We don’t want you spending that kind of money on us.”
“Dad wants it,” Jake said. “Look at him. He’s practically salivating.”
“I am not,” Scott protested, swiping at his chin. “That’s condensation.”
Jake got down to business. “It’s my money. I can spend it however I want, and I want to spend it on you. No—on all of us.” He paused. “Think of it as a fresh start.”
Then I understood why he rarely came to visit. Our house and our town held too many bad memories for him. This place was a clean slate.
“You know what?” I stepped forward and pulled him into a hug, holding on longer than I meant to. “You’re right. This is exactly what we need. A fresh start. We’ll take it.”
“We will?” Scott brightened.
I nodded, smiling.
“Well, hell,” he said, doing a celebratory shuffle. “I didn’t think we were voting tonight.”
“So you like it too?” Jake asked Scott.
“Um… did you see the garage?”
“Which one?”
“Exactly.”
We took another walk through the house, but this time I saw it differently. I saw it filled with our family, with all the new memories waiting to be made. Scott, meanwhile, had already shifted to logistics.
“I’ll need a riding mower.”
“Noted,” Jake replied.
“And an irrigation system I won’t pretend to understand.”
“Sure.”
“And maybe you should throw in a guy to deal with it.”
“Yes,” I said to Jake. “He’ll absolutely need one of those.”
Jake glanced at me. “What about you, Mom? Is there anything you need?”
I met his eyes and smiled.
“Right now, I can’t think of a single thing I’m missing.”
I dipped the brush into the paint tray and stared at the wall, half expecting it to stop me.
Pencil lines climbed up in uneven increments, with names written beside them in handwriting that had changed over the years.
This was our cherished measuring wall. Dates, heights, question marks where we’d forgotten the exact month but not the moment.
Grace at two, when she barely reached my knee, insisting on measuring herself.
Kyle just before his growth spurt—short enough to be angry about it.
Emma at eleven, in tears when she realized that at five foot six, she was already taller than every boy in her class.
The brush hovered. I hesitated, then dragged white paint over the first mark. It vanished faster than I’d expected.
The young couple moving in would never know any of this. They’d never see the faint outline where Jake had once measured himself with the divot of a butter knife, or where Quinn had tried to cheat by standing on his toes. And that was the point.
They had two kids already and one more on the way. When they stood here months from now, tape measure in hand, this wall needed to belong to them.
We’d had offers well above asking, some laughably high, from people who wanted the house because of Jake’s name or the story attached to it or the novelty of living where he’d grown up. Scott had let me decide. He always did when something mattered to me this much. So I’d chosen the family.
I didn’t want it turned into a spectacle. I wanted it to remain a house. Loved. Lived in. The start of someone else’s story. Yes, terrible memories had been made here, ones that Jake couldn’t bear coming home to, but this wall was proof that beautiful ones had too.
Scott stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching me paint over our past with his own nostalgia. “We can’t take the wall with us.”
“I know,” I said. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”
“To the wall?”
“To what it held,” I said. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
He smiled.
I dipped the brush again and painted over another name and another year. The ache was still there, but it didn’t take my breath anymore.
Scott reached for a second brush. “Scoot.”
We painted side by side, the wall slowly going blank. I imagined new pencil marks someday—new names, new dates, a different mother standing right here, measuring time in inches and wondering how it moved so fast.
The wall would hold their story next.
And that felt right.
We were loading the last of our things into the back of the Shaggin’ Wagon when Malcolm and Deana wandered over.
Yes, that truck. Scott’s old beater. It had spent its golden years as Keith’s surf mobile before finally showing its age.
We didn’t drive the truck much anymore, but we weren’t about to leave it behind.
So, once she made the drive to the new house, Scott planned to retire her in one of the garages he was so excited about.
A proper full-circle moment for the old girl.
Malcolm held a folded lawn chair under one arm, still wrapped in plastic. Deana cradled an aluminum pan as if it were going to fold over on her.
“For the new place,” Malcolm said, clearing his throat as he handed the chair to Scott. “Figured you shouldn’t have to break in a new neighborhood without proper seating.”
Scott laughed, but there was something caught in it. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, well,” Malcolm shrugged. “Hard to imagine you not sitting outside pretending to work on your yard.”
“Hold on there,” Deana said. “You two have just been messing around for all these years?”
“Why did you think the lawn always looked so bad?” I asked, amused.
“We’ll miss you.” Deana pressed the pan into my hands and gave me a quick hug. “Baked ziti. You’ll be tired tonight.”
“I already am,” I admitted. “Thank you.”
We stood there a moment, awkward in that way goodbyes always are when no one wants to make them heavy.
More neighbors wandered over with offerings: a bag of lemons from someone’s tree, a plant, a loaf of bread wrapped in a towel that had seen better days.
People we hadn’t known well but had known a long time.
This street had seen us at our worst, with police cars lining the curb, news vans clogging the cul-de-sac, and strangers trampling over their grass.
Later had come a different kind of invasion—fans hoping for a glimpse of Jake.
It had been a lot for one street to handle.
Scott moved easily among them, trading handshakes and half-hugs, remembering names and kids and dogs.
He’d known them better than I had. I’d waved from the porch, smiled at block parties, and even taught a few of their kids piano when schedules overlapped and money was tight.
But we’d shared something bigger than friendship: time.
“Take care of each other,” someone said.
“We always do,” Scott replied, slipping an arm around my shoulders.
I leaned in, my fingers threaded through his, and kissed him. I’d never been one for public displays of affection, but some moments earned them.
Before leaving for our new home, I took a final pass through the old one, walking into each room to make sure nothing had been left.
Flicking the light on in Grace’s room, I took a look around, smiling.
She’d lived her whole life in this room, first bunking with Quinn in a room divided in half and then on her own once Keith and Emma left and freed up extra rooms.
When I slid open the closet door, a sheet of paper fluttered.
It was a drawing, unmistakably Grace’s. She’d never been much of an artist, and this was no exception.
Something resembling reindeer antlers jutted out of a rounded shape, and beneath it, in careful block letters, she’d misspelled: RanDeer Man.
I’d almost forgotten her obsession with him around the time Jake went missing. How insistent she’d been. Scared, even.
And then—nothing.
“You ready?” Scott popped his head in.
“Yeah,” I said, carrying the drawing with me into the hall. Scott leaned over my shoulder as we walked.
“The Reindeer Man?” he said with a soft laugh. “That’s a blast from the past.”
“I know. It was taped to the inside of her closet. Looks like Santa was at the North Pole. She drew an igloo.”
Scott took the paper from my hands.
“That’s not an igloo,” he said, tracing the shape with his finger. “It’s a baseball cap.”
I frowned.
“And those aren’t just antlers,” he went on. “They’re part of a logo.”
The image tugged at something in me—familiar, but just out of reach.
“What?” Scott asked.
I shook my head, folding the paper a little too quickly. “It’s nothing,” I said, though the feeling lingered.
Scott grabbed my shoulders from behind and steered me toward the door.
“C’mon. My garages are waiting.”