Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

“You want anything to eat?” asks the waitress, a middle-aged woman with overgrown roots and too many bracelets.

“No, thanks.”

“The pie came in fresh this morning.”

Enough with the damn pies. “Nope. I’m good.”

Thirty minutes. This is why I didn’t tell anyone, least of all Cooper. He would’ve told me this would happen. After he kicked my ass and took my keys to spare me one more humiliation.

I have no idea when I became the trusting one. The dupe.

I’m about to throw a few bucks on the table just as Shelley drops into the booth and settles across the table from me. Blown in like a gust of wind.

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry.” She pulls her purse off her shoulder and picks up a laminated menu to fan the heat-and-asphalt smell out of her dyed blonde hair. Her energy is hectic and frazzled, always in motion. “One of the girls was late coming back from lunch because she had to pick her kid up, and I couldn’t leave on my break until she got back.”

“You’re late.”

She stills. Presses her lips together with a contrite tilt of her head. “I’m sorry. But I’m here now.”

Now. This impermanent state between wasn’t and won’t be.

“What’ll you have?” The waitress is back, this time with an accusatory curtness to her tone. This woman’s growing on me.

“Coffee, please,” Shelley tells her.

The woman walks off with a grimace.

“I’m glad you called me back,” Shelley tells me as she keeps fanning herself with the menu. I’ve never been able to put my finger on it before, but I just figured it out. Her frenetic nature gives me anxiety. Always has. The perpetual motion is so chaotic. Like bees in a glass box. “I’ve missed you.”

I purse my lips for a second. Then I let out a tired breath.

“Yeah, you know what, before we go another ten rounds on this, let me say: You’re a bad mom, Shelley. And it’s pretty shady how you’re pitting Cooper and I against each other.” She opens her mouth to object. I stop her with a look. “No, that’s exactly what you’re doing. You came to me with all your pleas and apologies because you know Cooper won’t hear it. You take advantage of the fact that I’m the soft one, but you don’t care what that does to your sons. If he knew I was here—I don’t know, he might change the locks on me. I’m not kidding.”

“That isn’t what I want.” Any pretense of a sunny disposition fades from her face. “Brothers shouldn’t fight.”

“No, they shouldn’t. And you shouldn’t be putting me in this position. And you know what else? Would it have killed you to bake a pie every now and then?”

She blinks. “Huh?”

“I’m just saying,” I mutter. “Other moms bake pies for their kids.”

She’s quiet for a while after the waitress brings her coffee. Staring at the table and folding her napkin into smaller and smaller shapes. She looks different, I can’t help but acknowledge. Her eyes are clear. Skin is healthy. Getting sober is a hell of a drug.

Leaning forward on her elbows, she begins in a subdued voice. “I know I’ve been awful to you boys. Trust me, kid, I know what rock bottom is now. Getting thrown in jail by my own son was kind of an eye-opener.”

“Stealing from your own son,” I pointedly remind her. “Anyway, he dropped the charges, which was probably more than you deserved.”

“I’m not arguing with you.” She drops her head, watching her fingers pick at the peeling nail polish on her thumb. “Sitting in that cell knowing that my own kid had me locked up, though … Yeah, that was a wake-up call.” Hesitant, she lifts her gaze to search mine, probably for some hint that her contrition is landing. “I’m trying here, baby. This is my new leaf. I got a job now. My own place.”

“That tree’s looking a little bare from where I’m sitting, Mom.”

“You’re right. We’ve been here before.”

She smiles, all heartsick and hopeful. It’s sad and pathetic, and I hate seeing my own mother so beaten. I don’t enjoy kicking her while she’s down. But what else is there when she’s been down so long, and she’s got both hands around my ankle?

“I promise, Evan. I’m ready to be better. I got my shit together. No more of that old stuff. I just want to have a relationship with my sons before I die.”

I hate that. It isn’t fair, playing the death card on a couple orphans who’ve already buried one parent in the ground and another in our minds. Still, something strikes a chord with me. Maybe because the two of us have found ourselves on entirely different yet similar journeys of self-improvement. Maybe I’m a sap who will never stop wanting his mother to love him and act like she does. Either way, I can’t help feeling she’s sincere this time.

“Here’s how it is,” I say slowly. “I’m not saying no.”

Her eyes, dark and daunting like mine, light with relief.

“I’m not saying yes, either. You’re gonna have to do more than make promises if you want to be part of my life. That means keeping a steady job and your own place. Sticking around town for a solid year. No running off to Atlantic City or Baton Rouge or wherever else. And I think we should do a monthly dinner.” I don’t even know why I say that. It just spills out of me. Then I realize I don’t hate the idea.