by Elle Kennedy
Shelley looks offended that I would dare ask her that question.
Evan shoots me a dark look. “Dude. Chill. She just got here.”
Yes, and I want to know when she’s leaving, I want to snap. It takes superhuman effort to keep my mouth shut.
“So, Mackenzie,” Shelley says after the strained, prolonged silence that falls over the dinner table. “How did you end up dating my son? How did you two meet? Tell me everything.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Mac dodges dozens of prying questions where she can and spits some Grade-A bullshit for the rest.
I get a surreptitious what the fuck glance from Evan, who manages to keep his damn mouth shut and go with it. My brother might be a pushover where Shelley’s concerned, but he’s not an idiot. For my part, I speak as little as possible. Afraid at any moment my filter will malfunction, and I’ll be unable to stop the tirade that will inevitably follow. Few people get me worked up like Shelley Hartley.
After dinner, I’m at the sink rinsing plates when she corners me alone.
“You were awfully quiet,” she says, taking a plate from me to put in the dishwasher.
“Tired,” I grunt.
“Oh, my sweet boy. You work too hard. You need to get more rest.”
I make a noncommittal noise. My skin crawls every time she tries playing the maternal role. It doesn’t suit her.
“Mackenzie seems sweet.” There are all sorts of euphemisms in that statement, none of them nice.
I do my best to ignore her as I rinse and pass, keeping my head down. “Yeah. She’s cool.”
“Noticed that bracelet. And the purse in the living room.”
My shoulders tense.
“Very pricey. Nice job, baby.”
I taste blood from the inside of my cheek when she flashes a knowing smile. It’s blatantly obvious what she thinks—that I’ve found myself a meal ticket. She’s been running the same con so long, I’m not sure she remembers any other way to live.
“So, listen, baby …”
Here it comes. Of fucking course. There’s always an ask. An angle.
“You know, I almost didn’t make it here in one piece,” she continues, oblivious to the anger bubbling up in my gut. “That old car of mine started spewing smoke on the highway. Had to get it towed from a truck stop. Turns out some little plastic box in the engine went and blew up.” She laughs sheepishly. “Now I talked the guy down, but I’m gonna come up a little short on the repair cost.”
“What’s up?” Evan enters the kitchen in time to overhear the end of her bullshit story. Fucking perfect. “Your car broke down?”
“It’s always something with that piece of junk, wouldn’t you know?” she says, playing the damsel because Evan can never resist a chance to be a hero. “Anyway, I was working this job, but I got laid off after the holidays. It’s been tough finding something new. This’ll wipe out everything I had saved up.”
“We’re tapped out,” I inform her, glancing at Evan. “We’ve been putting everything into fixing the house.”
“And the place looks great.” She won’t meet my eyes. Not when she’s got such an easy target with Evan. “I need a couple hundred to get the car back. Then I can get around to look for a new job around here. I’ll pay you back.”
“You’re staying?” Evan says.
Poor, dumb bastard. The hopefulness in his voice is pitiful. I want to slap him upside the head.
Shelley goes to him, hugging his side as she buries her head under his chin. “If you’ll let me. I miss my boys.”
Evan reaches right into his pocket and pulls out several twenties. Probably everything that was left from his last paycheck. “Here’s one-fifty.” He shrugs. “I’ll hit up the ATM for the rest.” Meaning his savings account.
“Thanks, baby.” She kisses his cheek and immediately extricates herself from his arms. “Who wants milkshakes? Like we used to get from the boardwalk? I’m gonna run out real quick for smokes and I’ll bring some milkshakes back for us.”
I’ll be shocked if she’s back before sunrise.
Later in bed, I can’t sleep. I’m racked with tension, still stewing about Shelley. I didn’t bother waiting around to see if she’d materialize with the milkshakes. As soon as she left, Mac and I went to hide in my room. Or rather, I did, and she came to keep me company. Now, she rolls over, and flicks on the bedside lamp.
“I can feel you thinking,” she murmurs, finding me staring at the ceiling fan.
“Yeah. I just … I’m sorry I asked you to do that earlier. My mother took one look at you, your bracelet, your purse, and figured you were loaded.” Resentment tightens my throat. “Shelley never met anyone she couldn’t use. I didn’t want her to know your family has money because, sure as shit, she’d find a way to help herself to some of it.”
“Okay, but that has nothing to do with us.” Mac runs her hand over my chest and rests her head on my arm. “I wouldn’t want you to judge me by my parents, either.”
“She thinks I’m only with you because you’re rich.”
“Yeah? Well, she’s wrong. I know that isn’t true. I mean, hell, you should probably be referring me to collections for that furniture I keep forgetting to pay you for.”
“I’ll put the interest on your bill.” I kiss the top of her head and pull her closer. Having her in my arms does take the edge off. “Seriously, though. I’d never use you that way. I’m nothing like that woman.”
“Cooper.” Her voice is gentle, reassuring. “You don’t have to convince me.”
Maybe. Seems I’ve never stopped having to convince myself.
Mac snuggles closer to me. “How long do you think she’ll stick around for?”
“I give it twenty-four hours. Maybe forty-eight.”
“That’s really sad.”
I chuckle softly. “It’s really not. Maybe it was sad, once upon a time, but these days I wish she’d just stay away for good. Every time she comes back, she toys with Evan’s emotions. She stresses me out, and I end up snapping at everyone around me. I spend the entire time holding my breath, waiting for her to leave, praying that this time it’ll be forever.”
“But she keeps coming back. That has to mean something, right?” Mac, bless her heart, is clearly trying to equate Shelley’s visits with some sort of loving, maternal need to reunite with her sons.
“It means her latest relationship blew up in her face, or she’s broke, or both,” I say simply. “Trust me, princess. We’ve done this same old song and dance since I was fourteen years old. Shelley isn’t here for us. She’s here for herself.”
I feel Mac’s warm breath on my collarbone as she rises on her elbow to kiss the side of my jaw. “I’m sorry, Cooper. You don’t deserve that.”
“It is what it is.”
“Stop,” she chides. “Just accept my sorry and now let me help you forget for a little while.” She kisses her way down my body, reaching inside my boxers.
I close my eyes, moan quietly, and let myself forget.
Forty-eight hours.
I would’ve wagered on twenty-four, but hey, I still called it. Exactly two days after her sudden arrival, I catch Shelley making for the back door with a duffel bag over her shoulder.
It’s barely seven a.m. and I’m the first one up. I’d just put on a pot of coffee after letting Daisy out when Shelley came creeping into the kitchen.
“Sneaking off already?” I inquire from the counter.
She turns around, startled, but covers it with a laugh. “Baby. You scared me. I was trying not to wake anybody.”
“Weren’t even going to say goodbye?” Personally, I don’t give a damn. But taking off on Evan is a heartbreak he doesn’t deserve.
“Why don’t I throw on some pancakes?” She drops her bag by the door and prances over with her typical misdirecting smile. “We can enjoy a nice breakfast together.”
Fine. Guess we’re doing one last song and dance. I can play along if it means her departure is the end result.
/> Mac and Evan are up shortly after, entering the kitchen in time for Shelley to serve them breakfast. I shove some pancake in my mouth and chew slowly, then lean back in my chair, waiting for the bullshit to start spewing. But Shelley is studiously avoiding my expectant gaze, regaling Mackenzie with some dumb story about our childhood. We’re almost done eating when it becomes clear that Shelley won’t get on with it without a little prodding.
“So where you off to now?” I ask dead-faced, interrupting yet another story of Evan and me growing up, which I’m sure is entirely fabricated to make her out to be less of a bad mom.
Shelley pulls up short and barely covers the glare of annoyance. She wipes her mouth then drains the last of her orange juice. “It’s been so good seeing you boys,” she says to Evan, putting on a sad voice. “I really wish I could stay longer, but I’m afraid I’m heading out this morning.”
A frown mars his lips. “Why?”
“Thing is, you know, there ain’t any jobs around here for me right now. I know this fella, though. Met him back in Baton Rouge. He’s got some work. I mean he practically begged me to come back and run the place.” Her bottom lip sticks out. “You know I don’t want to leave my boys, but I gotta make some money. I want to help you two fix this place up.”
She goes on like that for a bit longer. Blowing smoke. Convincing herself there’s some noble end to her perpetual abandonment and broken promises. She’s full of shit—yesterday I saw at least five HELP WANTED signs around the Bay. And I’m pretty sure this fella is her ex, who she probably sweet-talked into a second chance. Or maybe it’s just been long enough that she could hit him up for round two. Doesn’t matter. If it wasn’t one excuse, it’d be another. She’d leave us for a bologna sandwich as long as it was away from here.
“Once I get settled in, you should come visit me,” Shelley says fifteen minutes later when she’s hugging Evan goodbye. “I’m gonna have to get a new phone. Last one got shut off. I’ll call you soon as I have it.”
She won’t. There won’t be any calls or texts. No family vacations. It’s routine at this point, the bullshit farewells and insincere placations. It doesn’t faze me anymore, but fuck her for putting Evan through this again.
“Yeah, make sure you give us the new number when you get it,” Evan says, nodding seriously. “We need to have a way to contact you.”
Why? I almost ask, but tamp down the urge. If Evan wants to live in some delusional world where his mother loves him, who am I to judge?
“Bye, baby.” Shelley pulls me in for a hug despite my visible reluctance. She even plants a kiss on my cheek. Someone give her a Mom of the Year award, quick. “See you soon, I promise.”
And then, as quickly as she blew in, Shelley’s gone. Inflicting minimum damage, fortunately.
Or so I think.
It isn’t until about a week later, one evening after work, when I discover the true extent of the damage done by my mother’s visit. Mac’s birthday is coming up—turns out it’s the day before mine—and although she told me not to get her anything, I’m determined to buy her something awesome. Mac gives me so few chances to spoil her, I made the executive decision to ignore her and do whatever the hell I want instead.
In my room, beneath a loose floorboard under my dresser, I pull out the old toffee tin where I’ve kept my cash and contraband since I was eleven years old. I open the lid, expecting to find the money I’ve stashed there, all the under-the-table cash I’d earned from side gigs, kept hidden from the bank and tax authorities’ grubby hands. Twelve grand held together by two rubber bands. The if all else fails fund.
But the money’s not there.
Every last dime.
Gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
MACKENZIE
From the living room, I hear a commotion in Cooper’s bedroom. A sharp snap off the wall and something clattering to the wooden floor. Suddenly, Cooper barrels down the hall.
Daisy, barking her head off because she gets rambunctious about an hour before it’s time to feed her, chases after him as he tramples through the living room.
“Hey, you okay?” I jump up from the couch.
“Fine,” he says, growling the words through gritted teeth. He doesn’t pause to even look at me.
“What’s wrong?”
Rather than get a reply, I watch him fling open the sliding glass door and stomp outside. He slams the door shut in Daisy’s face, barely missing her, though she seems only disappointed that he’s going outside without her.
To appease her, I put out her food, then grab my shoes to go hunting for Cooper. I find him a hundred yards down the beach throwing small pieces of driftwood at the waves. By the time I reach him, I’m regretting not grabbing a sweater first or at least putting on some long pants, rather than running out in shorts and a T-shirt. It’s nearly dark and a steady breeze turns my skin bumpy in minutes.
“What happened?” I ask him.
“Go home.” His voice is eerily flat, a stark contradiction of his angry, violent movements.
“Okay, no. So let’s move on to the part where you just tell me.”
“Damn it, Mac, not now, alright? Let it be.” He kicks up sand, searching for something else to throw and growing more frustrated at the lack of options.
“I want to. I would, if I thought it would help. But I don’t think it will, so …”
He drags his hands through his hair. He’d throw his own head at the tide if he could get it off his neck. “Why do you have to be so damn …” The rest comes out only as grunts.
“Born this way, I guess.” Disregarding his frustration, I sit and invite him to join me.
Several seconds of silence eventually break his will and he plops down on the sand.
“What’s up?” I ask quietly.
“She stole it.”
“What?”
Cooper refuses to look at me, his gaze glued to the water. “My emergency fund. Every last dollar.”
“Wait, your mom?” Dismay ripples through me. “You’re sure?”
He huffs out a humorless laugh. “Positive. Not even Evan knows where I keep my stash.”
Damn. That’s harsh.
“I should have hidden it the second she showed up,” he says, groaning. “She found my pot when I was thirteen and smoked it all when I was at school. I forgot about that until tonight, forgot she knew about the hiding spot. Or maybe I just gave her too much credit not to steal from her own kids.”
“I’m sorry.” It sounds inadequate under the circumstances. How do I apologize to someone for a lifetime of pain? “How much did she take?”
“Twelve grand,” he mutters.
Jeez. Okay. My brain kicks into solution mode, because that’s how I operate. Whenever there’s a problem with one of my websites, an unwelcome snag in the hotel renos, I become analytical. I assess the problem and try to find a way to fix it.
“That sucks, it really does. I know you’re pissed off and feel betrayed, and you have every right to feel that way.” I link my arm through his and lean my head on his shoulder. For support. And because I’m freezing. Cooper always runs warm, a perpetual source of heat. “But at least it’s only money, right? I can help you. I can replace it.”
“Seriously?” He rips his arm from me. “Why would you—” Cooper can’t finish the sentence. He jumps to his feet. “What the fuck, Mac? Why is that always where your head goes? Throw money at the problem.”
“I thought money was the problem,” I protest.
The thunderous look on his face pricks my nerves. Why is it every time I offer to do something nice for him, I get sand kicked in my eye?
“How many different ways do I have to say it?” he shouts at me. “I don’t want your goddamn money. Do you even grasp how infantilizing it is to have your girlfriend constantly following you around with her purse open?”
“That’s not what I do,” I answer, my jaw tight. This guy is pushing the limits of my patience. He wants to be mad at his mom, fine. He wants
to vent, good. But I’m not the bad guy here. “I’m only trying to help. You need money, I have more than enough. Why is that wrong? The money doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“We know.” The words come out as a long, sullen sigh. “That’s the whole fucking point. You clones throw it around like party favors and expect the rest of us to be grateful for the invitation. I’m not another servant groveling at your feet for tips, goddamn it.”
So it’s like that. I’m back to being a “clone.” Fine.
“You know what, Coop? How about you deal with your own hang-ups instead of heaving all your insecurities on me? I’m getting real fucking sick of withstanding the worst of everyone’s little townie microaggressions. Get over it. Because let me tell you something from experience: Rich or poor, bad parents are just bad parents. Your mom sucks. Welcome to the club. Having money wouldn’t have made her stay.”
I regret the words the second they fly out of my mouth.
Both of us stand there astonished at what we’ve witnessed. How quickly we went for blood. Every pent-up feeling I’ve had since my parents cut me off came rushing back to the surface, and I threw it all in Cooper’s face as if it were his fault—exactly what I accused him of doing seconds ago.
Overwrought with remorse, I scramble to apologize. But he’s already storming off, shouting over his shoulder not to follow him unless this is the last conversation we ever want to have. This time, I take his word for it.
Hours later, though, when he hasn’t returned and Evan asks if I know why Cooper’s phone is going straight to voicemail, I start to worry. If he were only mad at me, fine, I’d accept that. But the way he tore out of here … the rage in his eyes … There are a thousand ways a guy like Cooper can get himself into trouble.
It only takes one.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
COOPER
There’s a dive about an hour west of Avalon Bay. A shack, if you can even call it that, off a two-lane county road that cuts through nothing but empty swamps and small farms. You can usually hear the rumble of motorcycle engines idling in the dirt parking lot from half a mile away. I pull my truck in and cut the engine, then duck inside to find the place is dead, save for a few mean-looking bikers by the pool table and some old guys spread out at the bar. I take a seat on a stool and order a couple fingers of Jack. By the second glass, a guy a couple seats down starts jawing at no one in particular. He’s going on about football, responding to everything the ESPN talking heads are saying on the lone television above us. I try to ignore him until he leans toward me, smacking the bar with his flat palm. I get flashbacks to being a bartender and have to restrain myself from snapping at him.