Good Girl Complex: a heartwarming modern romance from the TikTok sensation

by Elle Kennedy

  I’ve absolutely lost my head over this chick.

  “What?” she asks, lingering at the foot of the bed and wrapping her hair in a knot atop her head.

  “Nothing.” All I can do is smile at her and hope I don’t screw this up. “I think I’m happy, is all.”

  Mac comes over and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Me too.”

  “Yeah? Even with, you know, your parents basically disowning you?”

  Shrugging, she walks into the bathroom. I get dressed and watch her in the mirror as she puts on her makeup.

  “I don’t love not being on speaking terms with them,” she admits. “But they’re the ones being stubborn. Choosing to live my own life is hardly grounds for excommunication.”

  I’ve been worried that the longer this dispute with her parents rages on in silent conflict, the more she’ll come to regret her decision to leave school. To buy the hotel. To be with me. But so far, there’s been no sign of remorse on her part.

  “They’re going to have to get over it eventually,” she says, turning to look at me. “I’m not stressing over it, you know? Rather not give them the satisfaction.”

  I search her face for any traces of dishonesty and find none. As far as I can tell, she is happy. I’m trying not to let myself sink into that paranoid place. I have a way of spiraling with anticipation of catastrophe. But that’s always been the rhythm of my life. Things start looking too good and a house falls out of the sky.

  This time, I’m hoping she’s broken the curse.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  MACKENZIE

  Well, it’s not winter in Jackson Hole or Aspen—the weather’s been in the seventies all weekend like Carolina’s stuck in autumn—but shopping for a Christmas tree with Cooper and Evan has thus far been an adventure. Already we’ve been chased out of three tree lots because these ruffians are incapable of behaving themselves in public. Between challenging each other to see who can bench press the biggest tree and holding a jousting contest in the middle of a grocery store parking lot, we’re running out of options to find a tree without crossing state lines.

  “What about this one?” Evan says from somewhere in the artificial forest.

  To be fair, one of the lots we got kicked out of was for Cooper and I getting caught making out behind the Douglas firs. Proving he hasn’t learned his lesson, Cooper sneaks up on me and smacks my ass while I try to navigate my way toward his brother.

  “Looks like your eighth-grade girlfriend,” Cooper remarks when we find Evan standing next to a round spruce that’s big on the top and bottom but noticeably naked in the middle.

  Evan smirks. “Jealous.”

  “This one’s nice.” I point to another tree. It’s full and fluffy, with plenty of evenly spaced branches for ornaments. No gaping holes or apparent brown spots.

  Cooper sizes up the tree. “Think we can get it through the door?”

  “Can bring it in through the back,” Evan answers. “Pretty tall, though. We might have to poke a hole in the ceiling.”

  I grin. “Worth it.”

  I’ve always been a big-tree girl, though I was never allowed to pick out my own. My parents had people for that. Every December a box truck would show up and unload a mall’s worth of decorations. A huge, perfect tree for the living room, and smaller ones for nearly every other living area in the house. Garlands, lights, candles, and the whole lot. Then an interior decorator and a small army of help would transform the house. Not once did my family get together to decorate the trees; we never looked for the perfect branch for each keepsake ornament like other families seemed to do. All we had was a bunch of expensive, rented junk to accomplish whatever motif my mother was interested in that year. Another set dressing for their life of parties and entertaining influential people or campaign donors. A completely sterile holiday season.

  And yet despite that, I find myself a bit emotional at the idea of not seeing my parents for the holidays. We’re still barely speaking, although my father did courier over a stack of Christmas cards and order me to sign my name under his and my mother’s. Apparently the cards are being delivered to hospitals and charities in my father’s congressional district, courtesy of the perfect Cabot family who cares so much about humanity.

  That evening after dinner, the three of us scrounge for decorations and lights in the attic, buried under years of dust.

  “I don’t think we’ve decorated for Christmas in, what?” Cooper questions his brother as we carry the boxes to the living room. “Three, four years?”

  “Seriously?” I set my box on the hardwood floor and sit in front of the tree.

  Evan opens a box of tangled lights. “Something like that. Not since high school, at least.”

  “That’s so sad.” Even a plastic Christmas is better than nothing.

  “We’ve never been big on holidays in this family.” Cooper shrugs. “Sometimes we do stuff at Levi’s house. Usually Thanksgivings, because every other year for Christmas they go see Tim’s family in Maine.”

  “Tim?” I ask blankly.

  “Levi’s husband,” Evan supplies.

  “Partner,” Cooper corrects. “I don’t think they’re actually married.”

  “Levi’s gay? How come this is the first I’m hearing of it?”

  The twins give identical shrugs, and for a second I understand why their teachers had a tough time telling them apart. “It’s not really something he talks about,” Cooper says. “They’ve been together for, like, twenty years or something, but they don’t flaunt their relationship. They’re both really private people.”

  “Most folks in town know,” Evan adds. “Or suspect. Everyone else just assumes they’re roommates.”

  “We should’ve had a dinner here and invited them.” I feel glum at the lost opportunity. If I’m going to be living in Avalon Bay and staying with the twins, it might be nice to form deeper connections.

  It’s strange. Although we grew up in two opposite worlds, Cooper and I aren’t that different. In many ways, we’ve had parallel experiences. The more I come to understand him, the more I realize that our shared language is deeply influenced by the ways we’ve felt neglected.

  “Dude, I think some of these ornaments are from Grandma and Grandpop.” Evan drags a box closer to the tree. The guys dig into it, pulling out little, handmade ornaments with photos inside. Dates from ’53, ’61. Souvenirs from trips all over the country. Evan holds up a little cradle that must have belonged to a manger set at one point. “What the ever-loving fuck is this?”

  He shows us a swaddled baby Jesus that more closely resembles a little baked potato in tinfoil with two black dots for eyes and a pink line for a mouth.

  I blanch. “That’s disturbing.”

  “Didn’t even know these were here.” Cooper admires a picture I can only guess is his dad as a boy. Then he tucks it back in the bottom of the box.

  Once again, a lump of emotion clogs my throat. “I wish I had boxes like these at home, full of old pictures and knickknacks, with interesting stories behind them that my parents could tell me about.”

  Cooper gets up to heave one of the larger boxes back to the hallway. “I don’t know … Having a bunch of servants to do the heavy lifting can’t have been all that bad,” he calls over his shoulder.

  “Not to mention waking up to a ton of presents,” Evan pipes up.

  “Sure,” I say, picking out the ornaments that are still in good shape and appear the least emotionally detrimental. “It sounds great. It was like waking up in Santa’s workshop. Until you get old enough to realize all the cards on your presents aren’t written in your parents’ handwriting. And instead of elves, they’re actually people your parents pay to keep as much distance as possible between them and anything approaching sentimentality.”

  “Bet they were sick presents, though,” Evan says with a wink. We’ve moved well past the how many ponies did you get for your birthday jokes, but he can’t always resist getting in a jab.

  I shrug sadly. �
��I’d give them all back if it meant my parents would want to spend time together, even just once. To act like we were a family rather than a business venture. My dad was always working, and Mom was more worried about her charity functions—which, yeah, I know, she wasn’t boiling puppies or something. There are worse things than raising money for a children’s hospital. But I was a child too. Couldn’t I have gotten some of that holiday spirit?”

  “Aww, come here, you little shit.” Evan throws his arm around my neck and kisses the top of my head. “I’m messing with you. Parents fucking blow. Even rich ones. We’re all screwed up, one way or another.”

  “All I mean is, doing this, the three of us, means a lot to me,” I tell them, surprised at myself when my eyes start stinging. If I cried in front of these guys, I’d never hear the end of it. “It’s my first real Christmas.”

  Cooper pulls me on his lap and wraps his arms around me. “We’re glad you’re here.”

  Evan disappears for second, then returns with a small box. “Okay. So I was going to sneak this in your stocking later, but I think you should have it now.”

  I stare at the box. He’s done an absolutely awful job of wrapping it, the corners all uneven and held down with way more tape than anything the size of my palm should require.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, “it’s not stolen.”

  I crack a smile as I tear into the present with all the grace of a petulant preschooler. Inside, I find a plastic figure of a girl in a pink dress. Her hair is colored black with a permanent marker and a tiny, yellow crown cut from paper is glued to her head.

  “I swear I looked in six different stores for a princess ornament. You have no idea how fucking hard it is to find one.” He grins. “So I made my own.”

  My eyes water. Another lump lodges in my throat.

  “I wanted to get you something. To celebrate.”

  My hands shake.

  “I mean, it’s supposed to be funny. I promise I wasn’t trying to be a dick or anything.”

  Doubling over, I start laughing hysterically. So hard my ribs hurt. Cooper can’t hold me, and I tumble to the floor.

  “Is she laughing or crying?” Evan asks his twin.

  It’s honestly the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me. All the more meaningful that Evan put so much effort into the perfect gift. His brother’s going to have to step up his game if he wants to compete.

  Once I’ve collected myself, I get up and hug Evan, who seems relieved that I’m not kicking his ass. I guess there was always the chance the gift would backfire, but I think Evan and I have reached an understanding.

  “If you two are done, can we get this damn tree finished?” Apparently feeling left out, Cooper pouts behind us.

  “Keep that attitude up and you’re not getting your present tonight,” I warn him.

  “Please,” Evan says, hushing us with his finger over his mouth. “Baby Potato Jesus can hear you.”

  A few days later, after the most low-key—and best—holiday I’ve ever had, I’m with Cooper in his workshop, helping him dust, polish, and wrap some furniture. I think watching me manage the hotel renovation gave him a kick in the butt to push himself harder with his own business venture. He’s been pounding the pavement and making inquiries, and this week, he received a couple calls from boutique stores that want to sell a few of his pieces. This morning, we sent off new photographs for their websites, and now we’re getting everything ready for transport.

  “You’re not selling my set, right?” I ask anxiously.

  “The one you never paid for?” He winks, coming up to me covered in the sawdust that clings to everything in here.

  “Things got a little hectic. But you’re right, I owe you a check.”

  “Forget it. I can’t take your money.” He shrugs adorably. “Those pieces were always yours whether you bought them or not. Once you laid hands on them, it would have felt wrong to let them go anywhere else.”

  My heart somersaults in my chest. “First of all, that’s one of the sweetest things you’ve ever said. And second of all, you can totally take my money. That’s the thing about money. It works everywhere.”

  “Spoken like a true clone.”

  For that, I smack him with my polishing rag.

  “Hands, Cabot.”

  “Yeah, I’ll show you hands, Hartley.”

  “Oh yeah?” With a smirk, he tugs me toward him, his mouth covering mine in a possessive kiss.

  His tongue is just slicking over mine when an unfamiliar female voice chirps from the open garage door.

  “Knock, knock!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  COOPER

  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 gro
cery 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.