Good Girl Complex(Avalon Bay #1)(77)

Steph and Alana exchange a look, silently debating how to respond.

I offer a shrug. “It’s fine. I get it, she’s your best friend.”

“They didn’t date or anything,” Steph says as a consolation. “It was, you know, friends with benefits.”

For Cooper, maybe. But when it comes to those types of arrangements, I know that one person, without fail, is always more invested than the other.

“Heidi’s still got a thing,” Alana adds flatly, never one to mince words.

I’d already suspected that unrequited feelings or maybe a breakup was the source of Heidi’s irrational hatred of me. My instincts are rarely wrong about these things, so Alana’s confirmation is almost vindicating.

“I figured,” I tell them. “But maybe she’ll be ready to move on one of these days. Cooper said there’s some guy interested in her? Jay something?”

That earns me two groans.

“Don’t get me started on that one,” Alana gripes. “Yeah, I want her to get over this Coop thing so life can go back to normal—but Genevieve’s brother, of all people?”

“Who’s Genevieve?”

“Evan’s ex,” Steph answers. “Gen lives in Charleston now.”

“I miss her,” Alana says, visibly glum.

Steph snorts. “So does Evan. Otherwise he wouldn’t be trying to bang her out of his system. Or rather, bang everyone else.” She flips her ponytail over one shoulder and turns to grin at me. “It’s all super incestuous here in the Bay. Evan and Genevieve. Heidi and Cooper—although thank God that’s over. Friends shouldn’t hook up, it’s just asking for trouble.” Her gaze pointedly shifts to Alana. “And then we’ve got this bitch here who keeps going back for seconds with Tate? Or are we on thirds now? Fourths?”

“Tate?” I echo with a grin. “Oh, he’s hot.”

Alana waves her hand. “Nah, that’s done now. I don’t like the friends with bennies thing either.”

“I’ve never done it.” I give a self-deprecating shrug. “My hookup history consists of Cooper, and a four-year relationship with a guy who was apparently sleeping with anything that moves.”

Steph grimaces. “Honestly, I can’t even believe you were dating that creep.”

I feel a groove dig into my forehead. “Do you know Preston?” There’d been a troubling sense of familiarity in her statement.

“What? Oh, no, I don’t. I mean, I know of him. Cooper told us he was cheating on you—I just assume all cheaters are creeps.” Steph reaches for her coffee, sips it, turning her face away from me for a second before glancing over with a reassuring smile. “And look, don’t worry about Heidi. Cooper’s crazy about you.”

“And Heidi’s been sufficiently threatened to behave herself,” Alana finishes, then reacts with a knitted brow when Steph gives her the facial equivalent of a kick under the table. They’re about as subtle as a jackhammer.

It’s not the first time I’ve caught a similar exchange between the two of them, as if they’re having an entire unspoken conversation I’m not a part of. My relationship with Steph and Alana has warmed significantly—and I have no doubts about Cooper’s sincerity where the two of us are concerned—but I get the distinct impression there’s a lot more I don’t know about this tight-knit group. Obviously, I can’t expect to fully penetrate the circle of trust so quickly.

But why does it feel like their secrets are at my expense?

I don’t get the chance to ponder that question, as my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s my mother. Again. I woke up this morning to several missed text messages from her, picking up mid-rant from the several missed text messages from the night before. I’ve taken to periodically blocking her number just to get some peace from her blowing up my phone. It’s one tirade after another over my breakup with Preston. There’s nothing left to say on the subject. For me, anyway.

But it seems my mother is determined to force me to talk about it. I glance at my phone to find she’s abandoned texting and is now calling me. I send the call to voicemail just as a 911 text from Bonnie pops up to alert me that judgment day has arrived.

“What’s wrong?” Steph leans over my shoulder, apparently alarmed at the blood draining from my face.

“My parents are here.”

Well, not here. At my dorm. Poor Bonnie’s in lockdown mode awaiting further instructions.

Bonnie: What do I do with them?

Me: Send them to the coffee shop. I’ll meet them there.



I knew this was coming. I’ve been dodging calls and texts, making myself scarce. But it was only a matter of time before they came for my reckoning.

No one walks out on my father.

I bail on lunch with an apology and haul ass back to campus with my blood pressure spiking. After a short phone call, the best I could do was lure them to a public venue. My parents wouldn’t dare make a scene. Here, I have the strategic advantage—and an escape route.

Still, when I walk in the café to see them seated by the window, awaiting their rogue daughter, I struggle to put one foot in front of the other. No matter how old I get, I’m still six years old, standing in our living room as my father berates me for spilling fruit punch on my dress before the Christmas card photo shoot, after he specifically told me I could only have water, while my mother stands fraught in the corner by the bar cart.