Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
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.