“I know where to send your mail, kid. But that ain’t home. You weren’t meant to be where you are right now.”
“Are you trying to recruit me to church or an MLM or something?”
Pops sits back and laughs. “No, kid. I think I’ve taken an interest because you remind me of my oldest son. He was a lotlike you. Quiet. Hard worker. Had a lot of walls. Not a lot of friends.”
I noticed the verb tense. “He…wasa lot like me?”
“Sadly, John passed about ten years ago. He was a good kid, but deeply troubled, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.”
I understand the meaning. “God, I’m so sorry, sir.”
He nods. “Thank you. So, I’m asking you, what do you want to do with the rest of your life? Where is your true home? Your true north, in your heart of hearts, because I want to help you get there.”
Is this a therapy session now? But I can see that he’s not having it with my bullshit.
The word home, the way Pops says it, the way it appears in my mind, is only one thing. And it can only ever be one thing.
Home is long, dark waves, slipping through my fingers. Sea-green eyes. Freckled shoulders. Nimble fingers from playing the violin and piano for hours on end.
The fiery spirit and determination, bursting with ideas.
Maddie. Maddie is home.
Pops has a trustworthy way about him. That’s one reason I’ve stayed at this job since my active duty ended. “Songbird Ridge. That’s my home.”
Pops smiles. “I didn’t know you were from there. I bought a cabin out that way as a central gathering place for everyone in my family. It’s beautiful out there.”
As I understand it, this man owns cabins all over the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Smokies, and properties in the Outer Banks, but now’s not a time to point that out.
I nod my head. “I haven’t been back in a while.”
“You should take a long vacation and go back there.”
I scoff. “I don’t need a vacation. There’s no one there who needs me.”
Pops looks at me for a long moment and says, “Surely someone there misses you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He stares at me for a long time. I swear to god, if he makes a “tough nut to crack” comment, a phrase I’ve heard more than a hundred times in my life, I’m gonna set this whole factory on fire.
“You have never taken a sick day in 11 years. You pick up every minute of overtime you can. You work every holiday, and I mean every Christmas, New Year, Fourth of July. You don’t participate in any of the company picnics or family days. You don’t use any of the perks offered, like box seats at sporting events. You don’t socialize with anybody.”
Pops employs 800 people, and somehow I keep standing out. This is the opposite of my plan to lay low and keep grinding.
“I always order Girl Scout cookies from Dan’s kids,” I say.
“Kudos to you. You can pick up your boxes of thin mints on the way out the door for your mandatory one-month vacation.”
I stare at him. “But I don’t need a vacation.”
“And I don’t need a man on my floor collapsing from a heart attack at 32 because all he does is work. Go to Bermuda for all I care. Go home to Songbird Ridge. Do something. I don’t want to see you back here for one month.”
Have I done something wrong by working my ass off every day for seven years?
“Why do I feel like I’m being fired?”
Pops reaches into his desk and pulls out an envelope. He opens a second drawer and slips something else inside the envelope, all the while muttering to himself. Finally, he turns to me and slides the envelope across the desk, and I pick it up and open it. Inside is a set of keys and a lot of cash.
