Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

“That man did it to himself.” Dad’s features are cold and unforgiving. Randall’s not going to want to bump into him in a dark alley anytime soon.

We ride in silence for a while. I don’t interrupt what feels like his attempt to process all the information I just gave him. At which point I realize we’re taking the long way home. My palms go damp. I guess this is the talk we’ve been putting off since I returned home.

“You’re the most like your mother,” he says suddenly. His eyes remain squarely on the road. “I know you two didn’t get along. But I swear you’re the spitting image of her when she was younger. She was a wild thing, back then.”

I settle back in my seat, staring out the window at the little passing houses. Flickering, blurry images of my mother come to mind. They get fuzzier with every passing day, the details fading.

“Having a family changed her. I think I changed her first, if I’m honest. I’ve been wondering a lot lately, you know, if I broke her spirit—wanting to have a big family.”

My gaze flies to his. “I don’t understand.”

“She was this energetic, lively woman when I met her. And little by little, she dimmed. I don’t even know how much she noticed until the light was all but gone.”

“I always figured it was us.” My voice cracks slightly. “I assumed she didn’t like us, that maybe we didn’t turn out the way she hoped.”

Dad takes a deep breath, which he expels in a gust. “Your mom suffered a rough bout of postpartum depression after Kellan. Then we found out she was pregnant with Shane, and that seemed to help some. For a little while. Truth is, I don’t know if she wanted so many kids because I did, or if she hoped the next one might snap her out of it. The next one would come along and fix her.” He glances at me, full of remorse and sadness. “When she had Craig, something changed. The depression didn’t come. Whatever hormones or chemicals are supposed to kick in that help women bond with the infant—well, it finally happened. And that only made her feel guiltier. She’d tried so damn hard to bond with the rest of you and was constantly fighting the depression, the dark thoughts, and then with Craig it was suddenly easy, and—”

He exhales a ragged breath, gaze still fixed on the road ahead. By the time he speaks again, I’m holding my breath. On pins and needles.

“Christ, Gen, you have no idea how much it ripped her apart, having that easy relationship with him when her relationships with the rest of you were so difficult. Her greatest fear was being a bad mom, and it crippled her. She couldn’t get past the idea she was screwing you kids up. I don’t know everything that went on in Laurie’s head, but you’ve got to understand it wasn’t her fault. Whatever it is, you know. The chemicals in her brain or whatever. She hated herself the most.”

My eyes feel hot, stinging. I never thought about it that way. It wasn’t something we talked about in our family. It felt like she hated us, so that was the truth we believed. Or I did, at least. Not once did it occur to me it was an illness, something she was incapable of controlling and even ashamed of. It must have felt so much easier for her to stop trying, to back away from the fear of breaking her kids. But, God, how much we all suffered for it.

Nothing changes our childhood, the years lost without a mother. The pain and torment of growing up believing that the act of being born, a decision we had no part in, was the reason she hated us. But Dad’s pained confession, this new, sad piece of knowledge, changes a lot of how I feel about her now. How I look back on her.

And how I look at myself.





CHAPTER 29

EVAN

There’s something in the air. I’ve got a crew at a storm-damaged house we’re renovating for a flipper, and since lunch, the guys have been acting weird. I keep catching furtive glances and whispered conversations. People going silent when I walk into a room, yet feeling their eyes, everywhere, watching me. It’s creepy is what it is. The scene before the pod people turn in unison and descend to assimilate their hapless target. Swear to God, if anything tries to probe me or vomit down my throat, I’m swinging a sledgehammer and aiming for nut sacks.

In the second-floor master bath, I catch my shift chief, Alex, hunched over a phone with the guy who’s supposed to be installing the new tub.

“Grady, I’m pretty sure you billed us for something like thirty hours of overtime on that Poppy Hill job,” I say loudly, and the tub guy startles and drops his phone into his pocket. “How do you figure Levi’s gonna react when I tell him you’re up here standing around on your phone with your dick in your hand?”

“I got you, boss. No problems. Gonna have all this …” Grady gestures at the tub, sink, and toilet left to install. “Gonna get it wrapped by today. Don’t worry.”

Amazing how agreeable people become when your name is on their paychecks.

To my shift chief, a young guy I vouched for to get this job, I give a nod to follow me down the hall. Alex and I step into one of the empty bedrooms, where I narrow my eyes. “What the hell is going on with everyone today?”

He hesitates to answer, taking off his baseball cap to scratch his head and then adjust and readjust it, hoping perhaps I might forget my question in the meantime. It sets my teeth on edge.

“What is it, for chrissake?” I demand.