Good Girl Complex: An Avalon Bay Novel

I freeze at the sound of that voice behind me. My blood stings ice cold. I hope as I grudgingly turn around that the sound was a vivid hallucination.

No such luck.

At the entrance, Shelley Hartley stands waving at me.

Goddamn it.

I don’t how long it’s been since the last time she blew into town. Months. A year, maybe. The image of her in my mind is distorted and constantly shifting. She looks the same, I guess. Bad blonde dye job. Too much makeup. Dressed like a woman half her age who wandered into a Jimmy Buffet concert and never left. It’s the smile, though, as she waltzes into the workshop, that gets my back up. She hasn’t earned it.

My brain is reeling. Someone’s pulled the pin and handed me a live grenade, and I’ve got seconds to figure out how not to let it blow up in my face.

“Hey, baby,” she says, throwing her arms around me. The stench of gin, cigarettes, and lilac-scented perfume brings hot bile rising to the back of my throat. Few smells send me so violently back to childhood. “Momma missed you.”

Yeah, I bet.

It takes her about six seconds to catch her eyes on Mac and the diamond bracelet she wears that belonged to her great-grandmother. Shelley all but shoves me out of the way to grab Mac’s wrist under the pretense of a handshake.

“Who’s this pretty girl?” she asks me, beaming.

“Mackenzie. My girlfriend,” I tell her flatly. Mac flicks her eyes to me in confusion. “Mac, this is Shelley. My mom.”

“Oh.” Mac blinks, recovering quickly. “It’s, ah, nice to meet you.”

“Well, come on and help me inside,” Shelley says, still holding onto Mac. “I’ve got groceries for dinner. Hope everyone’s hungry.”

There’s no car in the driveway. Just a bunch of paper bags sitting on the front porch steps. No telling how she got here or what dreadful wind blew her back into town. She was probably kicked out by another pathetic sap who she drained for every last dime. Or she ran out on him in the middle of the night before he discovered she’d robbed him blind. I know this for certain: It won’t end well. Shelley is a walking catastrophe. She leaves only ruin in her wake, most of it laid at the feet of her sons. I learned a long time ago that nothing with her is ever as it seems. If she’s breathing, she’s lying. If she’s smiling at you, guard your wallet.

“Evan, baby, Momma’s home,” she calls when we get inside.

He comes out of the kitchen at the sound of her voice. His face blanches at realizing, as I did, it isn’t a trick of his imagination. He stands dead still, almost as if expecting her to evaporate. Indecision plays behind his eyes, wondering if it’s safe, or if he’ll get bitten.

Story of our lives.

“Come here.” Shelley coaxes him with open arms. “Gimme a hug.”

Tentative at first, keeping one eye on me for an explanation I don’t have, he embraces her. Unlike me, he actually returns the hug.

Disapproval flares inside me. Evan’s got an endless supply of forgiveness for this woman that I will never understand. He’s never wanted to see the truth. He expects that every time our mom walks back through our door, she’s here to stay, that this time we’ll be a family, despite the years of disappointment and hurt she’s put us through.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Dinner.” She picks up a couple of the grocery bags and hands them off to him. “Lasagna. Your favorite.”

Mac offers to help because she’s too polite for her own damn good. I want to tell her not to bother. She doesn’t have to impress anyone. Instead, I bite my tongue and stick close by, because there’s no way I’m leaving Mac alone with that woman. Shelley’d probably shave Mac’s head for the price her hair would fetch with a black-market wig maker.

Later, when Shelley and Evan are in the kitchen, I take the opportunity to pull Mac aside under the pretense of setting the table.

“Do me a favor,” I say. “Don’t talk about your family when she asks.”

Her forehead wrinkles. “What do you mean? Why not?”

“Please.” My voice is low. Urgent. “Don’t mention money or what your dad does. Anything that suggests they’re well off. Or you, for that matter.”

“I’d never try to make your mom uncomfortable, if that’s what you mean.”

Mac’s good about not rubbing her fortune in everyone’s face, but that’s not what I’m getting at.

“It’s not that, babe. I don’t care what you have to say. Lie. Trust me on this.” Then, remembering her bracelet, I hold her wrist and undo the latch, sticking it in the pocket of her jeans.

“What are you doing?” She looks alarmed.

“Please. Until she’s gone. Don’t wear it in front of her.”

I have no idea how long Shelley’s planning to stick around or where she intends to stay. Her room is exactly how she left it. We don’t go in there. If past experience is any indication, however, she’ll be out trawling for a new man before midnight.

We’re all painfully well-behaved during dinner. Evan, poor guy, even seems happy to have Shelley home. They chat about what she’s been up to. Turns out she’s living in Atlanta with some guy she met at a casino.

“We fought over a slot machine,” she gushes with a giggle, “and ended up falling right in love!”

Uh-huh. I’m sure they’ll live happily ever after. Given that she’s here, they’ve probably already broken up.

“How long are you staying?” I interrupt her love story, my brusque tone causing Mac to find my hand under the table. She gives it a comforting squeeze.

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.